Memoir By

Sandra Leigh-Vaughan

 

Chapter 1

In the beginning God created the perfect women—

Then what the hell happened?

 

 

The nightmare started when I was thirteen and alone; I was fat and I was afraid I would never fit in. I was destined to be a fat chick and to prove it, all I had to do was look at my mom, my aunts and my grandmothers. If the women around me were any indication of my life, I was doomed. By sixth grade I had already failed at Weight Watchers once and by fourteen twice. I already knew how to weigh and measure my food and myself.  It was all about the numbers back then. At thirteen I was 5 foot 9 inches tall and one hundred and ninety eight pounds. Something had gone terribly wrong. The more the women who loved me tried to help and save me from their monsters in the mirror, the fatter I got. By seventh grade I was living proof that nightmares really do come true.

I was a teenager locked away, holding onto my stuffed unicorn, sitting alone in my bedroom listening to “Stairway to Heaven,” wondering where that stairway really went. What made things worse for me was my sister, Shelly, who was twelve years old and petite. The expectation of becoming a woman left me confused. How would I ever compete in the real world of women? My sister’s tiny ditto-pants and little tank top’s teased me; they lay all over the room giggling at my fat sweaty clothes trapped in the hamper. Everything was a constant reminder that becoming a woman was just around the corner.

It was right about that this time that I met the Trickster. The Trickster first appeared in my bathroom mirror one morning when I was fifteen. I was holding on to the sink, looking hard at myself. I could feel anger leaking out of my pores. My hands gripped the cold porcelain sink as I tried to face my own reflection.

There he was staring back at me: The Trickster.  At first he was my friend; he just gave small suggestions about how to improve myself and how to try harder. It hurt of course, but I thought it was constructive criticism and I thought I needed it. Who knew how strong the voice would eventually become and how dependent I would become on its approval. 

By sixteen I had learned how to stay away from the mirror.  I did my make-up one eye at a time, sitting on my bed, with a tiny mirror that prevented me from seeing my whole face at once.  This helped me get my make-up on without breaking into tears.

The Trickster’s voice had grown beyond constructive criticism and insults, into a habit, and then into a belief. “If you would just lose more weight you wouldn’t be so ugly. You should take better care of yourself.” I had to fix myself and that meant I had to diet, damn-it, diet!  So I did.

After graduating from high school thin, I was damned if I was ever going to be fat again. Twenty pounds gone just like that, tuna and spinach were my fix. I knew what I had to do; I had to diet my ass off in order not to ever become a Fat Chick again.  I moved out of the house and was on my own, working two jobs to pay the rent and put gas in the car. It was long before the annoying grown up questions like, who am I or what do I want do when I grow up, were introduced into my life.  I was just a young chick running around chasing boys, drinking beer, and dieting, always dieting.

I was doing exactly what all uncomfortable twenty year olds do: dieting myself to happiness. I held on to my figure and stayed focused; determined and dedicated to making it. I knew one thing; I would rather die than be a Fat Chick and I would do whatever it took to be thin and happy. I knew I could be smarter and tougher than the women in my family, those mothers and grandmothers who came before me. It would be different for me, I had willpower and I was going to use it!

I had a figure and I had it all figured out!  I was convinced I was unique and there was no way anyone could relate to me. The secret real me, the one who didn’t fit in, the one who was different, like a mermaid swimming all alone in the ocean.  

 

At twenty-five I moved to LA to begin my career in the film business and on to the little pink pills that a doctor at the local strip mall prescribed for me. All I had to do was give him thirty bucks once a week. The twenty pounds I’d lost from eating tuna and spinach had come back. I swallowed the pink pills three times a day and lost those twenty pounds again just like that.  Everybody took notice and liked me instantly in Hollywood.  I was making new friends, finding my way around the city, but damn-it, I was getting fat again. The pounds I had fought with the pink pills came right back.  Only by now, two years later, it had doubled, turning my twenty regained pounds into forty. 

I couldn’t accept this so I welcomed a new fad diet into my life, Medi-Fast. Oprah and I were kicking fat’s ass. She was shrinking and so was I. It was gorgeous in a glass. There were only a few problems; the dizziness, black circles under my eyes and long periods of confusion, but hell, I didn’t mind. I was drowning in the compliments and glory of “How did you do it?” Even though my body was literally starving, my craving for acceptance was being fed daily.

Now in my kitchen I shut off the water and stared at the tempting glass full of Medi-Fast. I was stuck between the trap of staying skinny and the trap of making another promise--this time to start eating... Carefully.

While I stirred the powder I exhaled remembering the exact day I hit my perfect number on the perfect scale and was my perfect self. I had gone to the doctor’s office in West Hills. She had been careful about monitoring my progress for the past three months. Every day on Medi-Fast you count! You count everything; each day you make it, each package you stir and drink down, and each time you pee. Counting on freedom, freedom from being fat, freedom from hating yourself and freedom from confusion. You hold that small package of magic and rip it open with the promise of a new life., the one where you are a princess with infinite beauty that makes all the monsters of your mind disappear.

I sat there in the doctor’s office, not fat any more, when the fat nurse called my name. It occurred to me, if this is so good, why don’t you lose fifty pounds, but who cared, I was skinny! I followed her down the hall to my room where my throne awaited. The giant white scale sitting in the corner reached out to me with love and acceptance; I couldn’t wait to weigh in. It was so important to know the number. Judgment Day.  I stripped down to my underwear and slipped on the paper robe, wishing I could take it off too. As I stepped onto the scale, I could feel it. The nurse slid the bar down and down but I already knew it in my gut, my flat gut-- I was free.

One hundred and fifty on the nose, perfect! “I did it!” I squealed. The nurse reached for my arm. “We need to check your blood count. Go sit over there.”

I hopped up there happy to give.  I would have given a foot if it would get more weight off.  She poked the hell out my arm and drew three ampoules. I had to lay back. I felt woozy. “What in the hell?”

She applied more pressure. “Sometimes our patients will do this after losing a lot of weight, it’s normal.”

“Normal,”… I swallowed hard. “I don’t like this dizzy thing.”

“It probably means you need to start eating again.”  She put the cotton ball and tape on my arm.  “The doctor will be in a moment to talk with you.” She wrapped my arm up so nothing else could spill out and then left me alone.

The doctor, a striking woman of about forty wearing make-up and high heels came in clicking. “So I hear it’s the big day for you.” She read the chart and nodded to herself, as if she was saying, I did it, another fat chick off the streets. “Now it’s time for maintenance.”

I felt the cold steel of the table against my ass as I moved around and the robe didn’t. My arm was throbbing under the tight bandage.

“So when reintroducing food into your diet, you’re going to have to take it really slowly. I mean it, if you go straight to solids you could get sick”.  She handed me a pamphlet. “For the first few weeks that means juice, soup, and vegetables steamed soft.”

I pictured me in a baby bib with mush all over my face. I nodded as she went on and on. “and it is important to drink lots of water. It will help balance the food back into your system.” My mind rolled away, introduce food, hell I know food. “Now listen to me, this is important, your body is going to need time to readjust itself. If you’re constipated more than three days, take these.” She shoved a bottle my way. 

I’m thinking burger and fries as I read the bottle, Stool Softener. “Okay, that sounds great,” I wanted off the hard table and out of the office. I wanted to go running down the beach naked, proving once and for all I was free.

But sitting on the kitchen counter in my underwear staring out the picture window into the garden, my stomach growling, I didn’t feel close to perfect or free.  I was twenty-six and sick and I was lost. There was nothing in my refrigerator; I mean nothing, except for one package of soda crackers. I shuffled into the kitchen like a robot on autopilot ready to rip them open. Instead I found myself being ripped apart: the empty glass sitting on the counter next to the box of Medi-Fast demanded I not eat the crackers. I stumbled around searching for something, not food, but something. I had trained myself to not eat no matter what; You can’t eat food was what I told myself over and over again and that was the magic of Medi-fast and my new mantra. I pulled myself up onto the counter, thinking how proud I should be of the new discipline in my life. I was unstoppable, as long as I didn’t eat.

I could feel the cold counter under my ass as I leaned back against the cabinets remembering what it was like to be a “Fat Chick,” where I had come from and what I had learned so far. Everyone was so happy for me, but even with all the compliments and congratulations pouring over me, I was sinking. Of course I smiled and acted like I finally had this thing in the bag.   But alone, in the kitchen, in my bra and underwear, I was mad. I was lying to them and to myself. I didn’t have this thing in the bag. After losing forty-five pounds I was sinking into a deep dark place. How was this possible, how did this happen?  I thought I was smarter than this… I was in hell as I poured myself a glass of water, and the old familiar dread was there; ‘What’s wrong with me?’

I had learned by an early age that all the women of my time were damned in the strangest way. In order to survive life as a Fat Chick, we had to act like it was okay, pretending, by lying our way through it. With the lies we also formed a bond; we all hated Skinny Chicks.  Even though being a Skinny Chick was always our secret goal. But I wasn’t a kid anymore and strangely enough I soon learned that all the skinny chicks thought they were fat chicks too.

Fat or Skinny we all shared the same ritual, The Dieting Dance. It went something like this: good girl by day and liar by night. Cheating seemed to be the rhythm of the music, dancing with the lie, sweating through the nightmares of who we wanted to be and who we were not. At night voices tricked us into trying harder, stealing our smiles, and by morning the pillow was stained with fresh tears of shame. Hating ourselves as we tried like hell to act happy.

There seemed to be a secret club for fat chicks and everyone belonged, skinny, fat, tall, short, beautiful and ugly, it didn’t matter. All you had to do was hate yourself in the morning and swear to God at night you’d try harder tomorrow. The constant need to change was like an addiction. “What’s the matter with you?” was always right there, pounding away.

Loser if you weren’t on a diet and loser if you had to diet. Either way we couldn’t stop the compulsion to do something about ourselves. Beating on ourselves was all we knew and we believed it would make us stronger. A fat chick never denies another one access back into the club; in fact we encourage it, that’s the game. Never being satisfied with yourself is how we all earn lifetime membership in the club, and where all Fat Chicks go-crazy. This is where the merry-go-round spins faster and faster as we drag ourselves around; dieting, wishing, wanting, and waiting for our lives to finally begin. 

 I thought it was just a part of being a woman, part of the rules.

I filled the glass with tap water watching myself rip open the package of magic white powder while promising I would change tomorrow: I will start eating again, I promise. 

I just wanted to be left alone and to fill the glass with magic potion that would keep me skinny. I didn’t want to think, I wanted to be thin so I could be free.

What was wrong with that? The water was still pouring into the sink as I sat on the counter trying to drown out the nightmare of me.

 

Throwing up after I ate was just a way to help myself. The food was too much; I could feel it making me fat. I couldn’t digest a thing, not food or reality.  It was like making a deal with the devil every time I threw up.  I promised myself I would stop.

The last thing I wanted was a membership in the bulimic and anorexic club; that was the worst club of them all. People die in that club. And now I was barefoot and sitting in my underwear, lost in my own kitchen, half dressed and half crazy. My hair was dull and not brushed. Brushing my hair didn’t feel the same; it was thinner and falling out. My breath stank and my bra was empty.  I stirred the powder around and around in the glass, smelling the sickening sweet chemical concoction as I put it to my lips.  I drank every last drop and slammed the glass down on the counter.

That’s right, tomorrow you can eat. It was my old friend from the dirty laundry hamper whispering sweet nothings in my ear. The Trickster jumped out of nowhere and plopped next to me on the kitchen counter like we were best friends. I had no idea where to go from here. I had to keep it together, and keep the pounds off. I promised myself I would finally get it right this time. But the dull headache saying stop it and the Trickster pounding back harder, You’ve done it, made it impossible to choose. I said nothing while he applauded my insanity. I dangled my feet over the edge, kicking the cabinet door with both heels. 

Back and forth I had struggled for a month, eat or not eat, throw up or not throw up. I would have a couple of good days and then feel bloated and fat. I’d freak out, rip open my stash of Medi-Fast and take five long gulps slamming down the empty glass. My intake mostly consisted of soup, chicken, apples and Wasa crackers with tuna. Sadly, it all felt like cheating.  But I kept trying over and over again to stop depending on the packages and eat food. 

That’s right, don’t eat. You’re looking so good. What are you thinking?  It spoke again. I was scared to be alone with that voice. It just would not shut up.  

The Trickster usually only came around when I was fat. I wasn’t fat anymore.  But lately, he’d been coming around again. The voice was strong, commanding, and perfect; part shape- shifter and part bully. It was like little pieces of debris flying around in my mind that formed a funnel like-tornado, full of hate, doubt, and fear. Why was it here now, rattling me? I thought being skinny would finally kill the The Trickster…

I stopped kicking my heels and waited, watching the second hand tick, my toes playing with the cabinet handles.  Will this be the day you pull it together or not? Are you going to eat like a normal person? Sanity showed up for a brief moment, I’ll eat. I promise. I didn’t mean it.

I’m insecure about everything, because…I’m never going to look in the mirror and see the blond, blue-eyed girl. That is my idea of what I’d like to look like.

Cher

Chapter 2

No Fat Chicks?

I jumped off the counter and into some clothes. I had to quit thinking and do something. I had to get out and go over to Portia’s. I could learn from her, she was a real woman. She was my next-door neighbor, older, forty-something and she was built like a brick house. Her air of confidence was extreme, cartoonish sometimes.

“Girl, you look great.” She patted my ass as I came in the door. “You go girl.” She sat down finishing her workout curling a twenty-pound weight, her arm muscles bulging. The glass of blue-green algae was close by and she sipped it hard in between sets.  Tight black bike shorts hugged her thick hips and a matching sleeveless shirt told me she was the shit. Even her pure white cockatiel agreed sitting in his cage, and squawked out loud.

I sat at the kitchen table in awe of her physical strength. She inhaled and exhaled discipline, effortlessly committing to her perfect figure.  All I wanted was to figure out how to get out of the mental fat trap: eat or don’t eat, which one was it, good-girl or bad girl. I couldn’t tell anymore. 

“Sandra, what are you doing tonight?”  Portia huffed, dropping the heavy weight.

Night? I don’t want to talk about night, I hate nights. Nights were the worst, there was no distraction; at least during the day there was sunshine and work to keep my mind busy. Nights were where the ping-pong match started. The Trickster would serve: loser if I ate. I would volley back, but I’m hungry, then the smashing point was made, but you’re so fat.  I tried to eat and I tried to not eat, but it didn’t matter, time after time it was a losing match with the Trickster.

Portia was an editor on feature films and editors are like bats, they work nights.  “Don’t tell me you’re staying home.” She picked up her nasty blue green algae drink and shoved it my way. “Want some?”

“No I don’t want any, and yes I’ll just probably stay home.” I uncrossed my legs and re-crossed them.

“Girl, you need to take yourself out and find you a man. You look great and all you do is mope around… If I were single you wouldn’t see me sitting around on a Saturday night alone, hell no. I’d be out there shaking what I got.”

A stranger named Steve would show up at Portia’s door with flowers on Sunday; she called him her man--but then so did his wife. We both pretended that it took her all Saturday night and Sunday morning to get ready for her date with her boyfriend on Sunday afternoon. She let it slip one Sunday when he didn’t show up. “That son-of–a-bitch, his son has a church recital my ass.”  I pretended I never heard that.  We both tip-toed around on the surface, being very cautious not to break through the thin ice of who we really were. I stayed home because I was single. Portia stayed home because she didn’t want to admit she was single. Little did she know that I wasn’t alone, the Trickster was spending the night.

“Yeah you’re probably right, that’s what I need, to get out there and wiggle my ass.”

She nodded and cocked her head my way. “Damn straight.” Portia loved to be right. Although I never asked Portia the real question on my mind, Can you help me eat again?

“Now you listen to me, you need to go treat yourself, get a facial or something. You need to go get those claws of yours painted and have your feet pampered a little. Do something girly.” She picked up a strand of my hair and let it fall back down. “Damn girl, you got the prettiest hair. Shit, look at mine, not a damn thing I can do with it. Nappy old shit.” Portia’s hair was not nappy; it was smooth and always perfect. Every week she had a new hairstyle right out of Vogue.

She dragged me into her bathroom. So many jars- scrubs, soaps, creams. “Now this will take away all those wrinkles.”

We both peered at my round face and brown eyes in the mirror, looking for wrinkles. There were no wrinkles. I turned back to her and wrinkled my nose, “I don’t like lotion. It makes my skin feel too icky…”

 “Girl, this is not lotion, lotion comes from a grocery store.”  By the time I got out of her house I had a small carrying case filled with tiny samples of girly stuff that she had out-grown. Not because I wanted them, but because I was Portia’s project to fix and we both knew it.

I was heading out for my three mile power walk when Portia met me on the sidewalk, “Here, you can have this.” She shoved a picture at me. I took it and then the world stopped turning. It was a picture of me that Portia had taken for fun last month, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Tears welled slowly and I fought hard to swallow them back. I was so skinny it was sick. I was sick!

“Jesus, what’s the matter with you? I know it’s a great shot, but damn girl you don’t need to go all psycho and shit.”

Was she blind? I was beyond skinny. I didn’t recognize a damn thing in that picture. Where was I? It was as if I had no spirit. I was just a shell, a skinny girl in a short skirt with big hair. What had I done…?  Was this what I wanted? It didn’t feel like happiness.  But it wasn’t just Portia, everyone thought I looked great. These days I could get laid at the drop of a hat. I slept with guys who had no last names just because I could. I was getting lavished with compliments from friends and strangers and wearing my high heels every Saturday night. Dancing with one eye in the mirror, it felt like everyone was watching me. I even heard guys in the background: “Jesus, now that’s a ten.”

 

Later that night sitting in my sexy camisole alone in my bedroom I was still sweating. After seeing the photo it became obvious--I wasn’t filled with happiness.  I was still empty and bitter and mad at myself, but not for eating or being fat.  Now I was skinny. So skinny I had crossed the line. In no time I would be anorexic, skin hanging on bones. I had to face the truth. I was getting sicker and starving for some other reason.  Something inside me was missing! I heard a distant cry for help, but I had no idea where it was coming from.

 

I got up the next morning and decided enough was enough! I didn’t want to go crazy and die, not at twenty-seven.  I ate my corn flakes, one spoonful at a time, waiting one minute in between each bite, making myself swallow and not freak out.  When I finished breakfast I immediately had to get out of the house before I changed my mind.  I grabbed my purse and threw in an orange that landed on top of two packs of Medi-Fast-- part of my old stash. I grabbed the two Medi-Fast packs and threw them on the living room floor, and raced out, slamming the door behind me.

Outside, I looked over at Portia’s apartment and saw the pink notice taped to her door. She was late on her rent again.  I heard her door open and then slam shut.

 

Month after month the pink notices continued to appear on Portia’s door, and I continued to eat. I had to prove that I wasn’t crazy and that I was in control. No more starving; in fact I had decided that Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream was my way of winning; I’ll show you, was my new mantra. I was back on the other side of skinny and planned to stay there for good.  No more starving for me.

I held the small paper bag close to my side, hoping like hell Portia wouldn’t be awake when I walked past her place after work. She had been sleeping more and dancing less. Al Jarreau’s music wasn’t pounding through her open windows like it used to. Just then she stepped outside in her robe, “Girl, what the hell you doin’?” She stomped right up to me. “Give it here.” I thought she was kidding. 

“Portia, knock it off, I can have a little ice cream once in a while.”

“You don’t need that.” I hadn’t seen that look on her face before. I wanted to argue, kid back with her, but she wasn’t kidding. 

“All right, all right, here…it’s just ice cream.” I handed it over.

“No it’s not, it’s weakness. And you’re better than that, you should be ashamed, all that hard work... why don’t you do yourself a favor and get a facial instead of eating this crap”.  She opened her robe wide and folded it back together like bat wings. “Girl”, she hurried back into her apartment, as if being outside in the sunlight hurt her. “You crazy”.

I walked away trying to feel ashamed and guilty. She was probably right. I should be ashamed but I wasn’t. I was just so happy to be off the kitchen counter. The Trickster couldn’t get to me; I wasn’t listening. I was too happy to hear it right then.

 

The next morning I wanted to tell Portia that I was finally going to get that facial, but at ten a.m. her windows were closed, and the curtains drawn.  I decided I’d show her when I got home. I grabbed my bag off the couch. When I got out of the house I saw Portia’s garbage sitting out on her little porch. She must have put it out last night and forgot to walk it to the alley. I couldn’t believe it, the Ben and Jerry’s container that she had snatched from me last night was lying on top of her garbage, empty. She had eaten it. If she knew I’d seen it she would have died.

That following month on a Sunday evening I found Portia sitting alone in her living room. Steve’s son had another one of those damn recitals, and she didn’t have much to say. I wanted her to yell at me and tell me I looked like shit, something. But she was slumped over on the couch, her legs stretched out. She didn’t move them for me sit next to her. She had changed out of her tights and into sweat pants. I had gone up five pounds but still looked okay.  Portia didn’t. Her twenty pounds were more like thirty and her weights sat in the corner, dusty. Her favorite blue green algae drink had turned into Pepsi, and there were more Ben and Jerry containers topping her garbage can.

I didn’t say anything but I noticed.  Portia’s place was silent as I tiptoed down the walkway to go to work.  I said a silent goodbye to my beautiful friend who lay sleeping behind the screen door of her cage.

 

Now that I looked like a skinny chick the girls at work on the set were driving me nuts. They would chase me around with hot curling irons and plastic nails. Finally I gave in, and sat there while they put heavy mascara on my eyes and bright red on my lips, or plucked my eyebrows. I blew the new bangs they gave me out of my eyes and said “thanks” while they fluffed and fondled my hair.  “See,” they said,  “you’d look great.” 

I tried to see what they were seeing but all l I saw was a monster in the mirror.

They wanted me to wear shoes with laces and I wanted to keep my boots on. “What’s so wrong with boots?”

I was a production assistant; that meant that my job description was part pack mule and part gofer. I was loading coolers with drinks, moving heavy cable around the stage and holding ladders, but now I was doing my job with fancy Nine West shoes pinching my toes, red lips bleeding on my teeth, and Betty Davis eyes burning because mascara and sweat didn’t mix.

 

I had been at work for three hours when I went into my producer’s trailer. She sat, pen in mouth, staring at the budget, her cell phone glued to her ear.

“Hey, Jill do you mind…”

Just a minute she mouthed.

I nodded and waited my turn.

“What.” She popped the pen out of her mouth, slapped down some notes on her legal pad and snapped the flip phone shut.

“I had had a run in with one of the actors, he said some stuff and I said some stuff back.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“I was bent over filling up the coolers at the craft service table when he walked up behind me and he said he’d sure like a minute with me in his limo. He and the guys started laughing and reached for my arm like he was going to take me there. I knew he was just showing off for his buddies but I couldn’t help it and I told him I wasn’t into short guys and yanked my arm back.  I should probably get off the set for a while”.

 “Yeah, go over to Kodak and get us a couple of rolls of film. Tell the coordinator to call it in and you go pick it up”.  Jill was big on procedure. She ran a tight ship; she was like an eagle watching everything and everyone on the set. I was going to be just like her one day.

“You got it.” I dashed off with my orders and left the set.

By now I was bouncing down the freeway, full of myself, be-bopping to Annie Lennox’s, “Walking on Broken Glass.” I just blew that cute actor off; holy shit he wanted me. I flirted with the idea of him wanting me. It was fun. A bigger truck sitting up real high with the cutest damn guy driving started to pass me on the right. We glanced at each other, and he revved his engine loud. I flirted right back with a tiny nod and a giant smile. Barely holding at one hundred and sixty-five pounds, I was still close to the skinniest I’d ever been. My short jean skirt came just below my ass, my new cowboy boots, and tight titty-top were my new package. This was my day and I was in charge. I loved it! Guys wanting me, hell, I was the bomb. Get back life, I’m kicking ass and taking names.

The big truck stayed right next to my little truck and he smiled three times making sure I saw him. I stared at his muscles when he flicked his cigarette out the window. Right on…I was giddy. His blond hair was kicking around in the wind.

He sped by me and sharply cut back over in my lane. His bumper sticker clipped me right in the chin: “No Fat Chicks!” He hit me right in the face with a red circle with a diagonal slash going through it. I read it again out loud, “No Fat Chicks.” Is he laughing at me?

 “No Fat Chicks.” What in the hell? Does he mean me?  Is that why he just cut back over,  to show it to me?

“Fuck you.” I thought over and over, hoping he would crash, or get a flat tire, or something. I wasn’t a fat chick. And even if I was, how dare you… Then, The Trickster called out, “You can’t fool anyone, not even a stranger. Everyone knows you’re fat.” 

That was all it took to go crazy again, one silly thought and one bumper sticker. I checked the mirror to try to convince myself I was all right, but it was all gone, all of it, the power, confidence and happiness; gone. Somehow, someway that “No Fat Chick” bumper sticker was all it took to rock the high. I lost it. And the Trickster was back, more powerful than ever. I told you so. He snatched my good looks right off me and threw it out the window… I was right back where I started, at war with myself, confused, trapped, and once again incomplete.

The guy drove away, and so did my hundred and sixty-five pound body. I hit one hundred and seventy-five after just two months and a few too many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and several “poor me” nighttime binges. I didn’t know where the weight came from; it just came. It was okay because one seventy-five pounds was normal for me, according to all the body charts. At five foot nine and twenty-eight years old, I should be anywhere from one fifty five to one eighty. Besides, I didn’t give up. I just gave in a little. I’ll get it back, I’ll change, I promise… I bit my fingernails and tried to suck in my aching stomach.

 

I must have looked like a Cadillac some hillbilly fixed up with mud flaps and spinners and pimp wheels. In my own mind, I was dressed to kill or at least seriously injured. The self-image was deflated a little bit when I noticed a man sitting in a Mercedes convertible, laughing at me.

Dolly Parton

Chapter 3

Trust me, it was ghost

 

It had been a solid two years of me weighing one hundred and seventy pounds naturally, yet the nagging questions pounded, “What’s wrong with me? I should really try to lose weight.”  I didn’t feel that bad. But I wasn’t good-enough.  One hundred and fifty pounds was where I should be. So, I continued to fight to keep the weight down as I fought to climb up the ladder in the film business. I was now Jill’s production manager and she’d taken me under her wing. She was teaching me everything about the film business and I traveled to every job with her and Thomas, the director, and Brad, the assistant director.  She was hard on me, but what she didn’t know was I was harder on myself. I hung in there. I knew that one day she’d see that I was capable and strong like her.

I hardly ever saw Portia, I was either coming in after months of being on the road or she was going to work. Quick hello’s that didn’t mean much were our new form of friendship.   She only looked me in the eye once, and that was to tell me that she was back at the gym. I knew she thought she was fat and a failure and seeing me made her feel even worse about herself. Of course she never said that, but there is a look that women share with each other, we know the look, half smile and sad eyes on a pensive face.  I tried not to make her feel bad about the weight by kidding around and showing her how big my ass was getting but it was pointless— she was dealing with her own Trickster. 

 

That summer I took off with the crew to do a Ford Truck commercial in Montana. We were in Browning, Montana, a very remote and very poor part of the country. The town and the motel were depressing. We had no other choices. It was the only motel in town. It was a rule that we stayed at the best hotel no matter what, so Thomas the director could be comfortable. This was a horrible motel.    

“San, make sure I get a king size bed,” Brad yelled huffing and puffing as he unloaded the bags from his vehicle.  I wanted to knock him upside the head. After two years of being on the road with him, wouldn’t he think I’d know that by now? I knew everything about everyone, their special requests, their food preferences and even their birthdays. Hell I even gathered their dirty laundry on occasions. 

“No shit.” I rolled my eyes and swung open the dirty glass door leading into the musty lobby of the tattered Browning Motel. The rest of the crew, cars, and trucks were rolling in behind me to unload and rest after shooting that morning in Glacier National Park.   

“Hey there.” I eased the bags off my drooping shoulders and stood at the motel counter waiting for someone to check us in. A big Indian woman heaved herself up from the recliner and approached me with a fly swatter in hand.  All I saw at first was how big she was but as she lumbered over to the counter, I saw something more. Her soft, kind eyes had a knowing in them I couldn’t explain but I could see. Now, typically when I spotted a “Fat Chick” first, I didn’t make eye contact. I didn’t want to jinx myself. In “Fat Chick” code, really big fat chicks, make everyone squirm. Skinny “Fat Chicks” can’t look because that’s their biggest fear.

So when she walked up to the counter with her belly just hanging there, and her double chins out there for all to see, I wanted to run like hell. It’s like a game of tag and, if she touched me, I was going to be it. 

I’d never seen anything like it; she was so fat and yet so strong--a happy Fat Chick!  But that wasn’t right.  I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. More than anything she confused me. She was not supposed to look me in the eye. She should be trying to hide from me. But she wasn’t.

 “You must be Sandra…” She looked straight into my eyes.

“Yeah. Are you Betsy, the one I’ve been talking to?” I slid the card over to her, my eyes down.

“You bet.”

I noticed a necklace around her sweaty neck that read, “Freedom” in Black hills gold with fake feathers and leaves surrounding it.

Huhh, Freedom my ass… you’re fat! I rolled my eyes and shifted my focus away. “It’s nice to meet you.” I finally took my eyes off the counter and decided to look squarely at her.  “You’ve helped me so much over the phone this past week.” I smiled and handed her the list of crew names and she started checking in all twenty-five.

Crewmembers were naturally selfish and unruly during check-in. They couldn’t help it. They were thirsty, dirty, tired and just wanted us to hurry. They were crawling all over the tiny lobby, itching to get their keys and drop out for a while.

Betsy sat comfortably on an old bar stool, unmoved by anything; not me, not the heat, not the flies circling the counter, or the film crew demanding more from her. Betsy slapped the shit out of a fly with the green plastic fly swatter and didn’t say a word.

The director Thomas wasn’t saying much either. He stood next to Brad waiting politely for Betsy to get through the long task of registering. Thomas had a shy heart by nature and yet he was confident in his art. I had never met such an interesting and complex person in my life. We had a secret friendship. He winked once in a while from behind the camera and I smiled from afar, always making sure my friend was comfortable and happy in the confusion of the long days. 

Brad, the assistant director was simple and courageous. Brad was part ox and part Brave Heart; strong, brave, focused, all wrapped up into one.  We were best friends too; it was as if I’d known him my whole life. We didn’t need a lot of words; we were like brother and sister.  He bossed me around growling while I groaned.

“Here’s Thomas’s key,” Betsy handed it to me.

“Is it a king size?” I asked.

“Nope, all out.” Betsy didn’t look up as she kept passing out the keys.

It’s my job to make sure every single detail is in place and that the needs of the crew are met, that includes favorite foods, the right rental vehicle, all equipment, window and aisle seats in first class and the all important “king size” bed.

Betsy must have seen the horror in my eyes. With a soft look, she saved me by speaking up loudly for everyone to hear, “I had the two kings that Sandra requested, but the guys in those rooms are doing some construction around here and they had to stay another week. Nothin’ I could do about it”.  

It was bad, even the crew knew I was in trouble, no king size bed for Thomas, was simply unheard of. Brad said, “Okay, everyone take an two hour break. We’ll meet back here in the lobby at six o’clock and go scout the location at sunset”.

We were all road weary and suffering from long days and short nights. I humped, dragged and fought with my bags up the stairs to the second floor where number thirteen waited for me. There was no elevator. Sweat rolled from my forehead down my cheeks. I was just hoping for clean sheets at this point.

I reached my room and opened the door slowly. Yep, just what I thought, a tacky little room with a square bed and two thin limp pillows. I decided it was not worth unpacking, we’d be up at location all night. I had to hurry, Brad would be knocking any minute wanting tomorrow’s shooting schedule and the breakdown. I needed to make some calls to confirm that Jackie, the location scout, would have the extra guys at the gate in two hours.  I still needed at least two more local Indians to get us up to location and someone to cater a nice lunch for us tomorrow. I walked to the bathroom and then realized I should leave my room door open a crack, just in case the guys needed something.

The shower spat and spurted just like I knew it would as I got in to rinse off the heat, the day, and the stress. I stayed away from the mirror as I glanced down at my belly. Still there. The accomplishments of my Medi-Fast feat were diminishing and I was feeling pretty shaky without my scale to prove my goodness.  I noticed my shorts were a little snug this morning, but I told myself not to worry, probably just bloated.  I grabbed a hand full of fat from my side and the sharp pinch of reality spoke to me: “Don’t get too cocky, you know you’re going to gain it all back. It’s just a matter of time.”

“No I’m not!” I shut the shower curtain thinking about what a hard day it had been. The water truck had broken down and never showed up, the wind had blown so hard we had to wait inside the vehicles before we could shoot, and Brad and I had eaten three pounds of dust trying to help the guys hold the giant tent over the camera. It was a mess. Nothing went right. Mother Nature was not agreeable at all.

Worst of all had been the old woman at the country store where I’d gone to use the pay phone. She was sweet and chatty, talking about the land and her mountain life. Then she asked if I was pregnant. How in the world did she get from her vegetable garden to me being a fat cow? I’d said “no,” and tugged on my dress. She’d been embarrassed and I’d been humiliated!

I turned up the last of the hot water and looked down at my belly again, ‘stay down’ I talked to it like it was a dog.  What else could I do? Hell, I hadn’t had a cookie in over two months. What was happening? I was starting to feel fat-- stop it. You cant’ get all worked up right now. You have work to do. The water turned lukewarm and then went cold. I wiped off the mirror and started to brush my teeth. I had to look and see if it was true. I looked in the mirror and, surprisingly, I looked fine.

As soon as I stepped out of the bathroom, I sensed someone was in my room, probably Brad. I wrapped the towel around me a little tighter. He probably wanted me to go to location early so we could go over things on the drive.

“What?”  I looked around at the blank room. No one was there. How odd. I slapped my room door shut and began to dress.  I felt it again; someone was here. I turned around quickly, covering myself.

Standing in front of me was a girl. She stood there with no shoes on and her arms down at her sides. I blinked one time, trying to make her go away, I was tired I told myself. It had to be my imagination. I opened my eyes, hoping she’d be gone, but she wasn’t. A real ghost was standing in my room. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. I was intrigued.

“What do want?” I asked her without words.

Her sad lonely eyes looked up and locked on mine. “What do you want?”  Did she know me? Do I know her? The thoughts ran up and down my spine like tiny goose bumps. Was this some sort of past life? I’d heard of those. Maybe she was some old version of me. Maybe she had a message for me. Maybe the motel was sitting on some old burial site. Thoughts kept circling like buzzards.

I tried again to mentally connect to the ghost. This was insane I told myself, but I was looking right at her. I was still dripping wet from the shower as I searched her up and down for anything I might recognize. Her dress was plain and tan frayed at the ends and hung down to her knees. She looked like a poor prairie girl from the1800’s. Her long thick dusty brown hair was messy. She was alone, repeating this with her eyes, over and over. She was standing there with her feelings reaching out to me.

“What?” I asked, hoping if I said it out loud she’d answer me.

Nothing. She stood very still.

“What can I do? What do you need?”  The longer she stood there the more I could feel things, like lonely, sad, and lost. Very lost. I couldn’t explain it; I could just feel her. I wanted to help her. I had a strong sense she wanted me to help her… then poof she was gone.

I sat hard on the bed. She needed me to know she was there, like a lost sister who wanted me to see her. But why? This was fucking crazy. I stood up and tried to act normal as I started hooking my bra. No big deal, I put my arms through my bra and finished dressing. For God sakes, it’s an Indian reservation. Stuff like this probably happens around here all the time.

“Sandra”.  

The knocking turned into a pounding. It was Brad.

“Let’s go, we have to meet Jackie”.

 “Be right there”.  Brad says go, I go.

Before I got out of the lobby, I saw Betsy sitting at the counter, not looking at me. I couldn’t help it. I had to ask, “Hey, you ever heard of anyone seeing a ghost here”?

“Where? You mean here”? She lifted her eyes slowly. “Yeah, why? Did you see one”?

 “Yeah, she was in my room”

“Huh.”  She scratched her small nose and settled back in her chair. “Imagine that, you of all people”.

“What do you think she wanted”?  I turned my bracelet around and around on my wrist waiting for the explanation.

“Don’t know”.

“Who is she”?

“Nobody really knows”.

“You ever seen…” I fiddled with my lip, staring her straight in the eyes.

“Nope, just heard about her. Never seen her”.

Brad laid on the horn and we both jumped. “I got to go”.

“Yep.” Betsy swatted at another fly and missed.

 

Brad pushed on the gas pedal just like my Dad, too fast for no reason. I sat tight and waited for him to talk first, still pondering the meaning of the girl ghost.

 “San, make sure that Jackie gives you a copy of the permit. I don’t want the Rangers coming around and us not having our own copy”.  Jackie was the location scout, a Blackfeet Indian, and was like a great aunt, full of knowing.

I’d been to Montana a dozen times at the Blackfeet reservation and I always felt at home. I loved the people and I loved Jackie. This was my favorite part of Montana. She owned the art gallery outside of town and lived close to the reservation.  She didn’t have to live in this dusty dry country, she wanted to. She rode horses when she wasn’t in her 1988 Cadillac barreling down the dirt roads. I’ve seen her flip a u-turn at sixty miles per hour. She was round in the middle, with thin legs. A fireball with a golden heart, a wide grin and dark green eyes.

Brad skidded into the gallery parking lot.

“Jackie”, I hollered and jumped out of the Expedition before Brad finished sliding to a stop in the gravel.  She was just pulling up in her dusty Cadillac. I yelled out of the window like a little kid. “I missed you”! 

“Get over here, I haven’t seen you since last summer.”  Jackie gave me a great big bear hug. Her skin was soft and her body hard as she wrapped me up in her arms.  “What have you been doing? I see you finally put on some weight. That’s good.”

What zipped across my face, “No it’s not.”

“You were too skinny. You were starting to frighten me. I keep telling you, you’re not a skinny girl”.

“And I keep ignoring that, thank you very much…”

She took my hand and patted it twice. “You silly little girl, get in here.”

Brad and I clomped up her porch steps. The chimes rang when the heavy wooden door opened. We could never get down to business right away in the presence of her and her gallery. Brad went off to look at the Cowboy art as I just twirled around and around in the middle of the room, touching everything; feather headdresses, pottery, heritage pieces and sculptures.

“How’s the road?” Brad jumps right into business. 

“Well, it looks like a road, but it’s rough Brad, really rough. I just got back from Mr. Pranther’s ranch and I saw the bulldozers. They’re almost finished. You’re going to need at least two more four-wheelers. I saw the crane driver and we did a little test drive”

“Is he okay with us going up there?”  Brad was now pacing in front of her desk.

 “I told him we’d make it.”  Jackie sat back in her chair and rocked a little.

Jackie’s cool and carefree manner always calmed Brad down.

Brad jingled his keys in his front pocket, “San, you stay here and work with Jackie. I’m going to town to tell the crew to relax. We’re not going out tonight. And I’m sure you girls have a lot to catch up on.” Brad winked.

The next thing I heard was gravel spewing from Brad’s tires.

“So, what’s going on, how’s Jill?” Jackie leaned back and fanned herself.

I pulled up the stool and sat. “She hates me more this year than last.”

“Oh don’t be silly, she’s just a little tough on you that’s all. She’s probably tough on herself. Hell, if she hated you, you’d be doing Cheerio commercials on stage in LA.” She patted the table and motioned. “Sit down, you’ve been working too hard. Don’t worry about it; you’re doing a great job…” She offered me a Shasta cola.

 “Jackie,” I sat down at the table across from her. “Something happened. You know that motel we’re staying at? Well…” My mouth was dry and I sucked hard on my Grape Shasta, sugar free. “I was … I mean after my shower I was in my room…”

“What? Spit it out.”

“I saw a ghost.”

Jackie sat unmoved, “And what sort of ghost did you see?”

“I saw a girl, a young girl. It was like she knew me or something.”  I stood up and fidgeted with a vase on her desk. “She was real and she stayed a long time. I know it sounds stupid but she just wanted me to see her. She wanted me to see something about her or she wanted me to do something for her. I don’t know, but it was weird.”

“Well, did you see something about her?”

“Yeah, I saw or felt a lot. I could feel her emotions. Like she was showing me her feelings.”

 Jackie thought to herself and waited before she spoke up. “The elders say if a ghost shows itself to you, there is great magic behind it.”

“I’m not sure. Maybe it was just…”

“When you’re ready you’ll know what the message was.” Jackie reached for my hand, “It could just be your spirit trying to tell you something.”

“If that was my spirit telling me something, it wasn’t good. She was saying something about being lost.”

Jackie sat up, “That’s good. Trust your intuition… It’s the one power you have.”

“I don’t even trust myself half the time…”

“Maybe that’s it.” Jackie rocked back and gave me a hard look. “Maybe it’s time for you to be a woman. But I will tell you this, the medicine around here is good medicine. And that girl was a message for you.”

“My spirit can do that?  Bring messages?  I don’t understand.”

“According to the elders there were some tribal members who were known as the “Faith Keepers.”  Their only job in the tribe was to keep the faith, no matter what. And if a member of the tribe found himself in difficult times or lost he would go to the faith keeper.”  Jackie bowed her head. “I’ll keep the faith for you until you find it for yourself.”

“I’ll try but...”

“You don’t have to try. There’s something else going on here for you. You’ll find it, I’m sure of that.”

Jackie smiled with that same kind of knowing I saw behind Betsy’s eyes.

 

Several hours later, four-thirty a.m. to be exact, we started to caravan our way out of town to the furthest point north of the Continental Divide.  After three bumpy hours we were on location, at the top of the world looking down in the canyon at the snake like river below.  “God, that is beautiful.”  I was talking to myself and telling God how much I admired his work at the same time.

“San, where’s the extra gas for the geny?” Brad stomped up to the truck and pawed at the ground like one of those old grizzlies.

“It’s in the jockey box of the production truck.”  The noise of drills, hammers, and the humming of the generator were over-powering. The trucks gears were grinding back and forth as they parked. The lift gates were screeching and slamming down hard. The banging noise was just like my head. I needed some breakfast. Brad found me at the catering truck.

“Here’s where the crane should go.” Brad grabbed me to show me the spot.

“Looks great…”The background was a silhouette of soft gray mountains that stood tall, poking their heads out of the white clouds.  The river wound between them on the valley floor.

“Go get the crane guy!” Brad yelled over the noise. “He should be back at the gate waiting.

“Me?”  I stared at Brad.  The gate was forty-five miles back on the bumpy, empty, scary dirt road. Was he nuts? I wanted to kick him!

“Take my truck. Thomas wants to shoot tonight.” Brad saw the look on my face, I don’t wanna to.  Brad was fired up and ready to wrap this one,  “Come on San, let’s finish this in one day and get the hell back to LA.”

I grabbed three stale cookies for the bumpy drive back down the mountain.

 “Are you sure you need those?” Brad nodded at the flat round cookies in my hand.

The noisy camp went silent! I put the cookies back; my face was turning red.  “Hey, don’t worry about me, just make sure there’s somewhere to park the crane when I get back.”  I turned away with a fake smile.

“I didn’t mean it…” Brad saw the look on my face and tried to take back his cookie crack.

“Yeah, sure…” I opened the ice chest and grabbed a Diet Coke.

“I’m sorry.  I was just…”

“Forget it. You couldn’t possibly understand!”

As I began the slow drive back down the mountain to the ranch I should have been thinking about the job, the crew, and what I needed for the wrap but all I could think about was Brad’s wiseass cookie crack. Fuck you…

The Diet Coke bounced in the cup holder and spilled. I looked in the side mirror at my arm; it was huge. When did my arm get so big? I scanned my whole body and tugged on the waist of my size twelve shorts. I looked horrible.

Then the “what if” factor started spinning out of control: What if I do get fat? Then what? What if I can’t make it this time? What if he’s right?  What if I was kidding myself? The thoughts were like boulders breaking loose from the mountain rolling my way.

The Trickster popped up next to me laughing. What made you think this time would be any different?

“Get out of here. Just leave me alone…” I yelled at the Trickster and Brad and the nasty little “what if’s” stomping around in my mind.

After two miles, I looked around and saw that I was alone, really alone. No telephone wires, no conversations, no voices, and no other contact, not a soul in sight. I stopped the truck. I had to take a moment for me and just breathe.

I had no idea why it was so important for me to stop and get out of the truck but I had to. I opened the door and got out.  The sky was dipped in blues and the wind was singing long soothing notes brushing against the tall soft grasses, like it was singing to me, hush it’s all right.  I felt the emptiness, the vast openness, the power of the land and the nothingness all around me, I stretched my arms out and let the high wind blow through me. For that moment it felt like the beauty of the landscape had entered my body and I was alive. Completely wide open inside everything I was seeing merged inside me. I had never felt anything like it before. 

I stood still feeling that maybe it would be all right... Jackie seemed to think it would be. She said my spirit was involved somehow, sending me messages through the ghost girl.  I stood there not wanting to let go and not wanting to go back. I wanted to stand in that feeling forever, whatever it was.

 

That night, after we got the shot, the crew settled into camp and we started a campfire, fifteen men, four bottles of Tequila Gold, and me. I sipped the biting drink and sucked on lemons with the guys. They told stories I’d heard a million times and I laughed on cue. We all rested on sleeping bags with our backs propped up along fallen logs gazing into the fires eyes. Brad winked from across the flames stirring the fire, sparks flying in the wind.  The sparks felt like tiny pieces of me escaping into the darkness.

I sighed deeply as I looked around at the faces and the firelight snapping. Something in me was stirring.  Maybe it was the ghost, or the faith keeper, or the fresh air, or maybe it was just something inside me awake and restless… 

But I had a gnawing feeling Jackie was right. Something else was going on for me. Was it my spirit trying to get a message to me?  Or was the girl ghost showing me a mirror and I was the one lost? 

Him that I love, I wish to be free -- even from me.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh:

 

 

Chapter 4

Oh boy, and another diet!

 

After getting back to L.A,. I rushed into my house, trying to beat the clock ticking like a time bomb inside my head. I figured at some point if I got enough done in my life the ticking would eventually stop.  I threw down my bags, my purse, and kicked off my clogs that looked cool but hurt like hell.  It was almost ten p.m. and I was starving. I had to eat something, but what? Peanut butter and jelly on toast sounded good, but I really should have soup. Yes they were all still there, all my worries, and alone with all my worries, I had a new addiction; I called it my ‘To-do-list.’ It was more like a Do-or-die-list and it totally controlled me too. I was attached to my list, without my list I was lost. I had to accomplish the daily tasks, the weekly tasks, and the monthly tasks.  At first it was rather simple, like chores and errands and then it grew, weaving itself so tightly into my mind; it was like a constant tick tock.

I walked to my bedroom where three little lint balls giggled as they scurried past my bare feet on the hard wood floors running for cover under my bed. I put them on my list for tomorrow; ten a.m. kill dust bunnies.  I needed to sleep, go to the office, wrap the shoot, pay my bills, find more work, be good on my diet, work out, find a boyfriend, and live happily ever after. Sure, I thought about the magical moment on the mountain top standing on the ground with the wind blowing through me once in a while and tried to find that feeling again. But it was just that, a moment, not reality. This was reality.  Go-go-go…

 

That spring while channel surfing I bumped into Oprah. I hadn’t seen her all year, and there she was in her bulging pink pants suit stuffed in her chair. She was back to fat-ass and so was I. We were sisters… No doubt, if she couldn’t keep it off, then how the hell was I supposed to. Here’s a woman who has more resources than God and a billion reasons to keep it off and look at her. “Poor thing…”

I sat there with my In-and-Out burger, fries, and vanilla shake, shaking my head. I knew just how she felt. She was in front of millions live everyday just reeking of “Loser.” I prayed for her, wishing I could help her, and myself, and wishing I knew what was wrong with us.

The phone rang and my prayers were answered. It was Mom, the queen bee of the “Fat Chicks” club, “You won’t believe it,” Mom said, “You won’t. I saw your Aunt Carole and she’s lost eighty pounds!” Her whole life was a search to find the answer to the age-old question of how to lose weight.

“No way…” I sat down and listened.

“Yes she did. I saw her. She’s been doing it for six months and she looks great.”

“What did she do?” I could hardly wait to hear more about the miracle.

“It’s this thing called H.O.W. Overeater Anonymous.”

“Didn’t we do O.A. when I was about twelve?”

“Yeah, but it’s different now, they got a whole food plan and everything.”

My heart pounded! I would call my Aunt Carole immediately. I knew if she could do it, I could do it. After all we were both Scorpios. She was tougher than most women and I could identify with that kind of discipline. Just think! Skinny again! Oh yes, that was definitely what I needed in my life, a hit of skinny. Hell, if they told me to lay naked on the freeway eating dry salad all day, I would. I’d do anything to save myself and then I’d save poor Oprah.

A year and a half later I was still eating three normal meals a day. Doing the program one day at a time, and lose fifty pounds. I was now back in my size ten.  Then I quit O.A.

It wasn’t my fault. I was just sitting there minding my own business in my regular seat on Saturday morning, attentively waiting to learn and share and pray, when a new woman, we called them ‘first timers,’ sat next me. I’ll never forget her words—“My god, what are you doing here?” She slapped me lightly on my knee. I had on jeans shorts. “You’re not fat…” Is what she meant and I knew it. She had that distinct tone,  ‘you skinny bitch…’ I knew that tone because I had used it. “Fat Chicks” trump skinny chicks every time. Skinny chicks may think they have a problem, but not to a “Fat Chick.” A “Fat Chick” is mean underneath it all, because that’s what we know; being mean to ourselves is a big part of never fitting in. No way is a “Fat Chick” ever going to turn in her membership, fat or skinny, once they belong to “The Fat Chicks Club.”

So, I politely smiled and returned the slap, “Thank you.” I tilted my head with understanding and support for my new stupid fat sister. I sat there for the hour praying for serenity and trying not to kill the bitch that just called me skinny. How dare you! Don’t call me that. You don’t know me!

After the meeting I was driving through Topanga Canyon, vibrating to music, when I looked down at my new tan, thin, thigh, the same thigh she tapped, and thought to myself, my leg is firm, no cellulite, and these shorts are loose. I wanted to stop myself, I wanted to stop the words from forming but almost in slow motion like when you see a car wreck, I said it, damn, I do look good, maybe she’s right. After all, I was happy, I was eating, and I’d been skinny over a year.  Hell, I did all twelve steps. What am I doing there? I’m not fat anymore. Bam! Right then he jumped at the chance-- “You’re right! You’re not a “Fat Chick” any more! Just look at yourself, you don’t need those people.”

“Oh, shut up. I know this old trick--tell me I’m great and then wait until I gain it all back, and then we’ll have something to talk about again. No thanks! You haven’t said a word all year because I learned how to shut you up!”

The Trickster continued, You’re going to sit around with that bitch who obviously knows nothing about being a “Fat Chick” and be judged by her. Really?

Yeah, what am I doing? Hell, I’ve lost all the weight; I really get it this time. I do. Besides, I would never be fat again. It was impossible; it was a miracle, and this time it would stick.

“Of course it will, you got it this time. You’d have to be a fool to go back to fat.”

“You’re absolutely right… Not you, or the disease, or the food addiction could pull me off the wagon. I swear to God this time it’s different.”

I held on to skinny for as long as I could… 

 

That August I met a big boy in a purple shirt with a huge smile, and a beer. A giant sweetheart named Rob who wanted to play pool with me. I’d learned a lot about myself in O.A. I learned about boundaries and how to say no and stuff like that, but Rob would teach me a lot more. 

I waited for four whole weeks to fall in love. A year later I had to learn a nasty little thing called compromise. Rob and I both hated that word and, to this day, we’re still working out the details. I had given in on a few things, but mostly stood my ground when it came to my diet, my three-mile power walk and my dedication to my body. I did it all by myself for the rest of that year.

The following Christmas I heard Rob coming through the canyon on his Ninja motorcycle.  The engine squealed and growled as he down shifted. He was showing off; I loved that.  When he hit about a hundred miles per hour, he’d lock it up and skid about twenty feet into my driveway, as if he was there to whisk me away.

His six foot four inch body in his worn black leather jacket stood at the door. It still gave me chills to see him standing at my door. I knew I had earned every bit of his love. I worked my ass off to get skinny and I kissed a million frogs waiting for him.

He came into the house, reached for me, and kissed me. A long kiss that still made me melt after being together for two years was a little rare but I didn’t argue. I just kissed back as long as he’d let me. I felt his cold cheeks on my warm face; he rubbed his freezing cold hands up my shirt and across my breast. Oh my god, I loved that.

“God, you’re cold?” I twisted away.

“Yeah, do you want to warm me up?” Rob dragged me to the bedroom.

“Hey, wait a minute, you can’t just come over here and throw out a cheesy line and take me.”  Rob threw me down anyway. He knew he could.

I playfully kissed my big hunk over and over exaggerating my love for him. Rob played back and rolled on top of me.  He stopped fondling me and sat up, straddling me and his face went quiet.  “Hey, I want to know…”  I followed his eyes as they darted from me, to the floor, to the ceiling, and then back to me.

“What?  You’re freaking me out.” I grabbed his shoulders. It felt like a break up…

“Here, I got this for you.”

He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a small gold box.  He held it out with both hands and began to sweat.

“It’s not a Christmas…”

“What are you doing?” This wasn’t a part of the plan; we were supposed to have great sex and shoot some pool once in awhile and maybe get a dog one day.

“Here.” He handed me the tiny box and scooted over to sit by my side.

I opened the box with his eyes locked on my face.  Inside was a small, simple, single diamond ring.  I choked and caught myself starting to cry.  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to talk… Was he going to actually say it? 

“This is all I can afford right now. I know it’s kind of small but…” His mouth was dry as he licked his lips.

When he said ‘kind of small,’ I knew it, and, I knew he couldn’t afford even small. I cried… and grabbed him.

“Will you marry me?” He held me.

I couldn’t look at him; not yet. I just stayed buried in his chest. I stared over his shoulder at the tiny ring that meant the world to me.

“I don’t mean right now, but maybe later, you know sometime…”

“I know...” I held the ring between us and slipped it over my knuckle.

He touched the ring on my finger, “I love you San, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I use to sit on top of Topanga Canyon and wish for you.”

I couldn’t see a thing, not the tiny ring, not my big man, or my life changing.  It was all blurry as the tears rolled down my face. Rob just sat there watching me. 

 “Do you at least like it?” He tried to hide a single tear teetering on his lash before it spilled over.  I touched the tiny tear with my finger.

“ I love it.”  My spirit caught fire and that night we ignited.

Maybe it was going to be all right after all. Maybe I had come through the “Fat Chick” thing and things were going to be normal for me now.

 

 

If you don't know where you are going,

you'll end up some place else.

Yogi Berra

Chapter 5

The black hole

Two and a half years later I was getting fat, way fat… Fatter than fat! I had gained it all back; I put fifty pounds back on.  I didn’t know how the hell it happened; I just knew it was my fault.  However, I had managed to save enough money and buy a mountain home that I used as a retreat. A friend of mind in a little town called Dunsmuir told me that she had a vision that I was going to buy this house. I politely told her, bullshit… Later that year I found myself telling poor Rob, “I’m out of here. Are you coming or not?”  I bought the house she saw in her vision and without question, she was right. It was perfect for me.

I was very busy doing my life, jumping in and out of the country filming, staying far away from the edge, working until it hurt and somehow managing to stay with Rob through it all. He eventually quit fighting the move to the mountains.  He thought he was a city boy but found he was truly a mountain man. We rewarded ourselves by staying the summers at the retreat in Dunsmuir, where it was quieter, filled with nature and where we learned how to skinny-dip in the lakes together.

After so many years of running from being a “Fat Chick” and running in the film business, life wasn’t perfect. I just had to get away from it all. Besides now I was dealing with more than the Trickster yakking at me. Now the “To-do-list” became its own voice. The “To-do-list” felt so important, more important than anything. You Must Finish the List! That damn “To-do-list” snapped at me morning, noon, and night. Then a new character came on the scene. The all mighty powerful “Should” had shown up and reminded me that I should be doing this and I should be doing that.

I had learned that the more I tried, the more I failed and the stronger the voices blared. I had a new secret way of dealing with them, a way to stifle the annoying battle inside. I became my job. I was no longer Sandra, I was the production manager, working hard, making good money and proving myself by what I did for a living. I could stay far enough away from the insanity as long as I continued to accomplish things, anything; grocery shopping, chopping wood, saving the planet, building a fortune.  But did Rob know I was crazy?  No, he just thought I was very ambitious, confident, and a really cool chick.  The marriage thing went away, of course I still loved him but I just didn’t want to get dressed up and walk down an aisle pledging our union. I couldn’t get behind the whole two hearts meeting becoming one. I wanted two individuals holding their own space with the relationship in the middle, as it’s own energy. Well, that was it, for the rest of our lives they would pick and prod trying to find the hole in our relationship. Which only added another layer to me, making me his really cool chick.  

An obsessed really cool chick. At work I didn’t even bother using my name. I introduced myself as “Super woman, here to save the day,” period.

But I was still searching and self-helping, using all my tricks to do better, try harder, be more and playing the when and if game. But one thing was lacking--the truth. I had starved, failed, found, lost, controlled, let go and let God, dedicated, determined, shut down, opened up, dug deep, and jumped off hoping the safety net would appear. I turned page after page looking for me.

After so many years, I had pretty much quit fighting the voices; they had just blended in as part of me. It was easier to scurry around following their orders and secretly hating myself. The more I moved around, kept busy, the less jittery and afraid I was. Standing still felt like it might have killed me.

In my spare time I stayed busy playing around with a new idea: I was going to write. In less than two years I had two hundred pages of my first book, “Two Thousand Minnows.” I was getting some encouragement from my editor to keep going, so I did. It was my second summer in the mountains; I had traded working during the summers for finishing my book.  I dreamt of the day “Two Thousand Minnows” would get published, I knew it was a long shot, but it never stopped me from seeing it in my mind. My book in Barnes Nobles one day, imagine that, and that’s what I did for several more years.

Rob and I were in love and building a nice little nest full of dreams and ideas. Rob, thank god, loved me no matter what size. It didn’t matter to him, size ten was nice, but so was size eighteen. Actually he couldn’t see it. I asked him all the time if he thought I was getting fat-- he just shook his head and didn’t say a word. But Charles my boss, the executive producer, had no problem flapping his words of warning, telling me in one way or another I was gaining weight, “San, you’re starting to gain it back.” I wanted to scream, “No shit, but it’s not your problem, it’s mine.” He was such a fool, he had no idea who he was talking to, some chick that accidentally had gotten fat, no, in fact, I had been in this marathon my whole life. Thomas, the director I worked with was much kinder and less critical, and the fact that we had such a long history on the road made it a very simple friendship. I would do anything for him.

But Charles’s words of disapproval had nothing on all of the old tricky little voices that had quite a lot to say as well.  They eventually found their way to the mountains and moved in too. The quiet never lasted.  By now there were more of them stopping by for a visit, lonely, sad, angry, and frightened. My head was a very busy place by the time everyone moved in.

 

That summer at the end of August the phone rang in the middle of the afternoon. Rob was in LA working and would be home in a couple of days. I ran into the house, plopped on the couch and took off my floppy gardening hat. I’d been half expecting the office to call, but not this soon. Hell it was still summer, I wanted to hear from them in the fall.

I recognized Jill’s voice right away. She was the one who always called to update me on the latest projects and tell me when I’d need to start prepping the job. I was thirsty but that could wait--I wanted to hear the details of my next big adventure.

“ Hi, Sandra it’s Jill… are you okay?”

“Oh yeah, just a little out of breath.”

“I could call you back later.” She was extra polite.

“What are you talking about? I’m fine, just go ahead and tell me what we’re doing.” I tried to stop breathing so loud. My feet were filthy and I moved them off the couch.

“How was your summer?”  She said.

“It was good… I got a lot of writing done, swam, lost a few pounds.” 

She knew all this, we had talked about all that a few weeks ago. Why was she asking these silly little questions?  She paused. The silence was weird; she was never quiet like this. Usually it’s “Get me and Thomas a helicopter out of Santa Monica in a half hour, I’ll call you back…” 

“Well,” she started and then stopped. “Well, I just had a meeting with Charles and Thomas and they asked me to call you.”

Charles and Thomas asked her to call me… what foreign language was this? I’d been with these guys for ten years and they’d never asked Jill to call me. If they wanted to talk to me, they’d call me themselves. Hell, I knew when Thomas was hungry just by looking at him. I’d just talked to Thomas last week and he said he missed me. The whole tone of this conversation felt wrong.

“You doing okay?” Jill said it again.

 “Sure, I’m fine,” I was impatient to talk about the next project and what day I had to start.  I knew a big account had just booked in and all I needed was the details. Brad had said he thought we were going to Alaska again.

“You know those perky girls downstairs, I think the blond one has fake tits.  Charles really seems to like that new image.”  

Did she just say fake tits? What is she doing? I don’t give a shit about the girls downstairs. Her voice was getting more nervous and scratchy.  She babbled about this and that, chit-chat that didn’t belong here.

“You know the clients lately are getting younger and younger, Charles is getting nervous.  He wants a more contemporary look, you know like the heroin look of the girls downstairs with the wild purple hair and blacks lips.” I heard her gulping water. “Things are getting pretty crazy around here.” She trailed off.

“Yeah… what about?” My voice caught a bit.

“I don’t know how to say this…” she sighed.

“What?” My heart was starting to pound. “Jill, you’re scaring me, what’s going on?”

“Well, Charles and Thomas feel it’s better if…” She grabs fresh words. “You know business is kind of slow, and they had a meeting this morning. ”

Now my mouth was dry.

“Charles says that it’s a new time and things are different. The advertising agencies’ art directors are getting younger and younger and so he’s thinking maybe…”

I was thirty-three, I started out with these guys when I was twenty-three when I first moved to LA. They’re my family. I’ve spent all my birthdays with them. They can’t really be doing this.

I held on, staring straight out the window and wanting her to say “I need you here in a week and we’re going to Colorado to shoot Chevy.” But she wasn’t saying it. When I came back from wishing to the real conversation, Jill was saying, “Sandra, I have never lied to you and I won’t start now…”

Please just fucking lie to me, it would be so much easier than this. I squirmed as she slowly tore the Band-Aid off, ripping out one hair at a time. 

“…They want to hire someone else, a new production manager. I told them I won’t do it.” She defended herself and kept hitting me. “But they say that they need a new image, one that’s a little more hip that would fit better with the younger agency. Kind of like the girls downstairs, cute, skinny, sexy, with those short skirts and that crazy dreadlock hair…can you believe that?”

She waited for me to respond. I couldn’t breathe. Fuck, what are they doing?

 “Look I hate to say this, I asked Charles and Thomas if they wanted to talk to you, but they said no, and for me to do it.  Charles does not want you working here. He wants me to replace you.  I begged him not to, and even Thomas hesitated, but Sandra, Thomas agreed too.  You’re not on the next job.” 

In that split second my whole world was ripped away.  I held the phone tightly, hoping it was a nightmare and that I’d wake up, but the sun beating through the window told me, you are awake and this is your nightmare, a black hole. 

I screamed, “What are you saying, I’ve been fired? 

The voice on the line was empty.  It held its position as I lost mine. 

Finally, I pried my throat open and spit back.  “Are you fucking joking?  I’m waiting for you to tell me you’re joking, but you’re not going to, are you?”

She prattled on, sticking the knife in over and over, “He wants a new look. He doesn’t care about how talented you are, or how long you’ve been here.  I tried to tell him…” She began to cry.

“Stop it, just stop it! Don’t say another word.” I found my breath. I wanted to throw the phone across the room but if I did, she wouldn’t be able take back what she just said. Instead, I just sat there in the black hole, unable to speak.

“Are you okay, San?”

What do I do?  I was paralyzed and the only one who could fix it was her. The woman who fixes everything just broke me in two.

“No, I’m not okay! Fuck! You guys just fired me for being too ugly and too fat.”

“I know honey, what can I do? Charles just thinks…”

“You tell Charles what I think. Tell him I said he’s a fucking asshole! And tell Thomas the same. Tell them that you guys just broke my heart. You all were my friends first and always my friends…”

She was crying again and begging me not to be hurt. I didn’t care, I hated her and I hated them. “San, I didn’t want to call you, I told them they should call …”

“You listen to me now,” My voice was controlled. “I will never talk about this again, not with you or them.”

“I understand…” She was spared.

“And, don’t you ever call me again.” The last words barely had enough air for sound. “I mean it Jill, I don’t ever want to hear your voice again. This whole thing makes me sick.”

Rage and panic were gone and black sorrow filled the room when I set down the phone.

I wanted to hide. I wanted to run.  I went from one room to the next, unable to find something. I don’t know what I wanted to find, just something. I felt like screaming but nothing would come out. I wanted to cry—nothing, it was beyond tears.

My mind raced back and forth from how dare they, to see it’s your fault. I felt them staring and talking and laughing at me. Jill had done it, they wanted it, and they all talked about it… What did I do wrong? Kneeling, I hit the floor over and over again with my hands as hard as I could, begging for forgiveness.

It hurt more and more as the time passed. Oh shit what about Brad? Oh god, how could I have let this happen? Why didn’t I see it coming? But Brad is going to miss me so much… Thomas, how could he… he was my friend. And Charles I never did anything to him…

I had to get out.

The phone rang. I ran past it outside to the truck and drove the back roads to the lake. I had to wash this dirt off me.

My mind was blank and I heard and felt nothing for ten miles until an old pothole popped me back.

I parked next to the lake, held the steering wheel and just cried. I had nothing else to hold onto but the words that leached through my phone. “They think it would be better if…” Charles had said when I’d left for the summer that I could write my book as long as I didn’t work for anyone else. I thought I was a part of them… no one else was going to care if Thomas had milk with his lunch. Charles who hated anything mushy, hell he won’t miss me, but I’d miss him.   Then there was Jill, the mentor who was so riddled with insecurities herself it was as if she had been shot with a machine gun. Her holes were pouring out love me; just love me. And it was me that knew what was underneath her facade, and no matter how late it was or where we were I would be the one to say good-night, love ya.

The more I cried the worse my head was throbbing. I couldn’t get air. I had to get out of the truck. The lake was calling, “Come on, get in, I’ll take care of you.”  It was hard to walk, I felt dizzy and confused.

Fear grabbed me and for a second I wasn’t sure if I could swim. I might drown. I slipped off my skirt and stepped into the cold water. I had to get in before I exploded. I knew that the lake was my friend and I pushed through the thoughts, the shock, and sorrow as I stood there with the cold water splashing against my hips, tears spilling over my checks. I dove straight down into the cool, soothing, unconditional water.

I stayed under the water as long as I could, letting my long hair drag freely behind while my body danced weightless. I realized, you can’t cry and swim at the same time, it’s impossible, and then out of nowhere a tiny smile broke out across my face. I had never stopped long enough to appreciate a smile as much as I did right then. The thought that I actually had a smile left inside me soothed me further as I let myself submerge into quiet.

As the water filled my mind and the cold spots of the lake rubbed up against my legs, I realized I had no choice but to face it. My whole life was one big lie; I was always a “Fat Chick” deep down inside. I just never admitted it until now. I swam hard and fast across the lake, too pissed off to drown.

I treaded water lightly, tears spilling into the bottomless lake. I looked at the mountain for a sign. How do I live without my job? That’s who I am! The mountain just stood there watching, unmoved.

A flash crossed my mind and for a mere second I saw her, the girl ghost. Her feelings were there in my own emotional reflection. Lost, and sad, and alone…

I let it go and decided maybe I’d just live in the water; I’d never get out.  That would be cool… I could just turn myself into a seal or whale, God knows I was too fat to be a mermaid. Maybe a sea lion perhaps; that would work. I floated around on my back with the fantasy bubbling all around, not thinking, just wishing all the bad stuff away until I felt stronger and then the anger rose again. Fuck them! I don’t need them, how dare they. I’ll show them…     

I started swimming back to the shore. I didn’t need to catch my breath. I would show them. I’m Sandra; I’ll make it. When I looked up I saw the mountain again, but this time I noticed it reflecting its magnificent grace onto the water. I was inspired. The word reflection rolled over and over in my mind with each stroke.

Before I got to the shore I spotted two young girls fluffing themselves like chicks, getting ready to dip their new feathers into the lake. They were seventeen-ish and beautiful as they sat on a large boulder, giggling and taking off their shorts. It was as if they were learning how to expose their virgin skin and were becoming women for the first time. One of the girls was unsure of herself, tugging and pulling at her bathing suit as if she had too much body and not enough suit. The other one, reluctant to take off her top, made sure no one was looking. Both of them had the same awkward moves and uncomfortable style that was so familiar to me. I recognized that look on their faces. They both thought they were “Fat Chicks.”

I wanted to warn them. I wanted to kiss them on the forehead and protect them from the Trickster.  I wanted them to know that they were beautiful and strong and perfect; please don’t give that away. Mostly I just wanted to whisper to their spirits, “Don’t end up like me.”

I swam back to shore slowly and the closer I got the tighter my stomach ached. Oh my god. The pain grew as I pushed myself up and stood unstable on the rocks with the water up to my waist.  Each step was heavier than the last, like the struggle of lifting my legs through the water was my new life. Slowly and with each wide step pushing against the waves I knew I had to tell people… I had to tell Rob I just got fired for being a “Fat Chick.”  I stepped out of the water and stood there dripping… How could I tell him?  I stared into the blue, lost… My god, I don’t know how to say it…

I heard the happy young girls jump off the rock with delightful squeals.  And I knew right then, that I would never be them again; virgins, untouched by the years of listening to the “Trickster.”  I picked up the useless towel and walked back to the truck. My fantasy of being beautiful and skinny again had ended.  

I had been running my whole life and doing everything I could to quiet the Trickster only to find myself on the rocky shore of reality. I was a “Fat Chick.” The one thing that scared me the most in life was true and I really had thought I could escape, but somehow I had failed and now I would be like Betsy, the fly-killer, scaring people when they saw me.  And worse, I now had to go home, call Rob and tell what just happened.

 

Rob struggled to understand my words.

“What? I can’t understand you… San, calm down, they said what?”

“Jill said that they decided to go with a more…”

“More what?”

I tried to say the whole truth but my chest hurt and all I could manage to say was, “They fired me for being too fat and ugly.”

“I’m getting you a lawyer. I’ll be home in the morning.”

I said nothing...

“San, are you going to be all right? Look, don’t worry about the money. If you need me to take care of you, I will.”

Money, shit, that hadn’t even crossed my mind, but he was right. How would I make it?  It added one more layer to the madness. I now saw my future, a round woman with no legs, sitting at home watching Oprah, waiting for my husband to take care of me. I had to go to bed. I felt sick…

Rob tried to give me some of his goodness when he said good-night, “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.” But it wouldn’t. It would never be the same again. I knew I could get more work. I knew I wouldn’t die. But I was still afraid, of what, I didn’t know, yet.

Ignoring the phone that rang all night gave me some power to snub them and say ‘fuck you’ but the cold brisk air blowing in the bedroom window reminded me it wasn’t over.

A splash of sunrays woke me at dawn and I dragged myself out of bed and down the stairs to the overstuffed chair in my living room. The coffee was bitter as I reached for my journal. I could see the red light flashing on the answering machine warning me don’t listen. The answering machine voice announced ‘thirteen new messages,’ it was them. I knew it was. I turned away and held the pen in my hand and opened my pretty journal, ready to tell. I pointed the pen at the white blank page. Tell what?  There was nothing to tell.

I sipped the bitter coffee and wrote the date, August 9^th 1999, and then dropped it, letting the pen roll and hit the floor. I walked around the house trying to remember who I was.

“Oh God, please tell me it’s not true. Please, just tell me you love me and they’re wrong.”

I lumbered to the bathroom, like an old wounded bear. It was dim in the bathroom and safe from the sunshine. Today sunshine was my enemy. Portia crossed my mind briefly. I filled my cupped hands and sipped the cool water through my cracked lips, swallowing slowly. 

Splashing my face, I looked into the mirror and saw the damage. I stepped back and starred.

“I told you so.” A distinct voice sang.

 “Leave me alone, I’m not listening.” I turned away from my dim reflection.

“You thought you could hide behind your personality, career, and success. But I told you before they’d find you out.”  The voice mocked.

 “What do you want from me?” I screamed at the Trickster. “Look at me. I’m a mess. Are you happy now?  You’re right.  Okay, I said it.  Now just leave me alone.”

 

That week every one in L.A. heard. The calls poured in. No one could believe it; no one wanted to believe it.  I ignored all the calls that week except one, from Brad. He was the only one I needed to hear from.

“Hey you there?”  His voice rang out on the answering machine. “Pick up.”

I picked up, “Yeah, I’m here.”

“…You okay?”

“No.” I sat on the couch trying to be strong, but the feeling of him caring like my big brother overpowered me and I started to cry. He hated that they made me cry and I hated that he knew I was crying.

“Well if it makes you feel any better I wouldn’t worry too much. The whole town pissed and I canceled my self off the job.”

I laughed a little and wiped my nose, “Oh, well that’s good. Brad,” I whispered, “…what am I going to do?”

“ San, you just have to move on...”

“Yeah...” I couldn’t talk. I didn’t want to start sobbing. And what I really wanted to say to him, I couldn’t.  What’s going to happen now?

 “Chin up, okay?  I’ll see you soon…” Brad filled the silence.

“Yeah, see ya...”

 I collapsed. It seemed that all my support systems had disappeared. The very foundation of all my beliefs had been shaken. The dreamy little kid from the mountains had become a fat, disillusioned, hopeless woman.

Dolly Parton