Read Online Secrets of a Former Fat Girl by Lisa Delaney - Free Book Online Page B

Harry Potter and his pals throw on when they want to make themselves invisible. That is exactly how I began to feel, how I wanted to feel: invisible.
    I continued to pile on the pounds, stuffing myself as covertly as possible to avoid having to deal with my mother’s sympathy or my brothers’ ridicule (both were equally annoying). I became a master at hiding, sneaking, and stashing food. If there was a can of frosting in the fridge, my finger had been in it. Chocolate syrup? I’d take a swig from the can while no one was looking. Cookie crumbs in my pockets, candy wrappers in my closet—it’s a wonder we didn’t have a mouse problem. I was like one of those cartoonish portrayals of an alcoholic who has bottles stashed everywhere—in the toilet tank, under the piano lid, inside a hollowed-out book.
    I did all the family baking, not because I was “Mommy’s little helper” but because I knew that inevitably a smidgen of dough or a dribble of batter would find its way into my mouth. And once the goodies were out of the oven, I’d use my sneaky skills to nibble away at them without anyone noticing (or so I thought). A sheet cake with a couple of pieces missing was an easy target. I’d find my way into the kitchen while everyone else was occupied and start trimming away at it. I’d never cut myself an actual piece—just a sliver here, a sliver there to “even out the row.” In the process, I’d end up eating half the pan. It was kind of like when you start plucking your eyebrows just to clean them up, and by the time you’re finished, you look like one of those hairless cats fancied by people with allergies (and some New York socialites).
    With every covert kitchen operation, my stockpile of shame grew larger. I was so ashamed of what I was doing, but I couldn’t stop myself. You know how it is: You promise yourself never again. This is the last time, the last bite. And then your hand is back in the cookie jar again. Just one more. Shame is a powerful thing, but it’s no match for the appetite of a Fat Girl.
    Of course, everyone knew what I was doing. It was as obvious as my growing belly, butt, and thighs (not to mention the chocolate under my fingernails). I was the only one in the house who would even consider sneaking food. If my brothers wanted to eat something, they just went ahead and did it. They didn’t skulk around in shame, afraid to acknowledge their appetite, humiliated by their lack of self-control. I had the corner on that market.
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    Little did I know that all that secretiveness would become one of the keys to becoming a Former Fat Girl. Here’s how it happened.
    Every so often, starting probably around the fifth or sixth grade, I’d go on a diet. Maybe there was a boy who caught my eye, or maybe I caught sight of my increasingly chunky body at just the right (wrong?) angle in the mirror, or maybe it was getting to be more of a struggle than usual to button my pants. Whatever it was, something inspired me to stop the pounds from piling on.
    At that time, “going on a diet” to me meant skipping dessert or snacking on celery instead of chips or stopping just short of eating until it hurt on the rare occasions that the family went out to dinner. Back then, in the early 70s, ten-year-old girls simply weren’t sophisticated enough about the whole subject of dieting to know the ins and outs of plans like Atkins or Weight Watchers. Not like today when girls learn to live in fear of carbs and fat grams before they get their first training bra.
    Of course, our moms knew the score. That was when Atkins first hit the scene, when even the toniest restaurant offered the diet plate (a bunless hamburger patty, cottage cheese, and cling peaches), and amphetamines were the drugs of choice for weight-conscious models and suburban moms. Not my mom. Despite the fact that she and I shared the same pear shape, I don’t remember