The next words I type will feel like the most cliche phrase ever to be uttered. That said...

I am an emotional eater.

Food is my comfort. It's my punishment to me and others when I'm upset. It's my reward when I've met an accomplishment. It's my companion at the end of a long day, or in the middle of an uneventful day. Food never forsakes me, never refuses to be consumed by me, never rejects my advances, never prefers anyone else over me. It's available in endless supply if I have the cash.

It's easy to figure out that I am an emotional eater, but the deeper issue is why. As a woman in love with Jesus Christ, I can admit that the deepest issue is loving food more than God, and raising it up as my idol. That, though, is still too simple. The easy answer to that would be, "Love God most!". The problem there is that something is causing me to love food more. There's a reason why food became my idol, my object of affection and even worship.

There were a few days between this and the last entry because I did some deep soul searching as to the why. The answer was so clear, just staring me in the face, and I couldn't believe I never realized it before. Before you read the first sentence of the next paragraph and jump to conclusions, read the entire passage. You simply wouldn't get the full flavor if you made presumptions.

I was sexually abused by my biological father at such a young age that incest is the first memory I have of existence. Tragically, after that, I have very few memories of my childhood- it all comes in bits and pieces. My solitary sibling was also abused, and while my reaction was to press myself on toward the attempt for perfection, his was quite the opposite. Thus, I tended toward requiring less and less attention while he demanded more and more.

As a child, as stated in my first post, I was never grossly obese, but I also was never stick thin. So, I was always "chubby". My family didn't count calories or fat grams; we just ate until the plate was clean or we weren't allowed to leave the table. So, I always saved the best for last-- this is a problem today, because it lends to overeating. Anyway, my family didn't have the best eating habits, not to mention the fact that my family was extremely impoverished and everyone knew I was poor, too. Poor and fat... tough combo. This led to teasing and at times ridicule by my peers at school, and I was so desperate for unconditional love that I often gossiped, backstabbed, and lied about the kids who were my friends. I think of this as being mainly when I was around 4th or 5th grade, but honestly, it lasted all the way until Christ grabbed hold of me in high school.

Sadly, people claiming to be in Christ played a role in my emotional issues as well. I don't pretend to be perfect, not for a second. Nor do I think I am better than anyone else, save for times when I am being downright sinful, and I can in confidence say that the Lord always leads me to repentance (that, my friends, is grace... but that's for another day). That said, I have always had a sense of confidence in who I am and what I am capable of that sets certain kinds of people at unease. So, as a child I found myself the object of ministry aimed for poor kids by certain churches who dropped me as soon as it became clear that I wasn't going to speak in tongues anytime soon. Then, in high school, an extremely emotionally deranged girl spread vicious lies about me-- tragically, she just happened to be the temporary adopted daughter of my youth pastor and his wife, and they believed her and told everyone but me that I was not to be trusted. In college, a silly crush on a pastor's son became an excuse for the leadership of that church to consistently deny me the opportunities to work where the Lord was calling me to join Him.

Time after time I faced rejection. Friends embarrassed to be seen in public with someone like me. Kids at school who had zero tolerance for anyone poor, or anyone fat- and I was both. Consistent rejection from the spiritual leaders I trusted most. Parents who spent their energy on my brother, or on arguing with each other about all of the attention being focused on my brother. Friends sensed my deep craving for unconditional love, and always possessed a barrier that they didn't keep with other friends, which secretly devastated me. And let's not even pretend that I had any romantic anything going on in my life, though I craved to know what it was like to be in love (or even just in like!) with a guy.

Add up all of these factors- abuse, poverty, desperation for love met with consistent rejection... these all left a gaping hole in my heart. That hole needed something to fill it, and I chose food as the best option. Food never stops existing, it's more readily available than most other vices, and you already are supposed to consume it three times a day.

Food became my idol so early on that I couldn't recognize it, but that is why I find myself going to the kitchen as soon as I get home when I'm not hungry, not upset, not anything. I allowed it to have such a dominant place in my life that it became my security blanket even as it evolved into my nemesis.

The reason I struggle to remove food as my idol is that I have come to depend on it- not just for the "companionship" it provides, but because deep, deep, DEEEEEEEEP down I have to admit that I am terrified of losing weight. All of my problems can be blamed on being fat.

If I know I need a friend more than she needs me, it's because my fat makes her uncomfortable.

If my husband and I argue, it's because our sex life isn't as good as it could be because my fat makes it tough to be spontaneous and creative.

If I hate my job, my fat holds me back from looking for a new one, because who would hire me?

I can refuse to serve, refusing to seek to join the worship ministry at church despite being blessed with a beautiful singing voice, because everyone else up there is really skinny and they don't want to give the appearance of promoting sin by putting a fat chick on stage.

I can't go to that _________ because I'll be the fattest person in the room (ok, often that's true) and everyone will stare at me (usually not true).

The list of excuses are endless. ENDLESS. The truth, down there hidden beneath the calcified lies, is that I'm terrified of losing weight, of at long last conquering the battle that I have allowed to define me, and of then having to admit that I'm still not perfect and that life is still messy and requisite of a hell of a lot of work.

That said, here I am, ready to conquer my demons.

I've lost 15 pounds since mid-January.

I'm not 15 pounds more perfect, and that's ok.