As the miller told his tale

Once upon a time, I used to have an odd crush on Richard Simmons.

That's right. Richard Simmons. Not Russell Simmons. The man behind Sweatin' to the Oldies. Deal a Meal.

Crush might not be the right word. Obsession is definitely not.

All I know is that I used to watch his infomercials late at night. I would watch him embrace obese people and cry with them. I would notice that he did not judge them. He just showed them compassion.

As an overweight kid who blossomed into an overweight teen who exploded into an obese adult, someone who was bullied by a multitude of people, from family to strangers, the empathy that Richard showed was tantalizing to me.

I just wanted someone to hug me and tell me that everything was going to be okay. I wanted someone to help me. I needed compassion, not vitriol.

I didn't need to be told that I would be pretty if I just lost weight. That I would be likable if I stopped reading and writing. That I would be accepted if I made myself just like everyone else.

I tried to make myself conform. I quit activities that I loved. I never spoke what I was truly thinking. I never revealed my true self, as my true self wasn't good enough.

Even today, at nearly forty years old, I struggle.

Compliments are my nemesis.

I am not used to being told that there is anything good about me. I am so used to having my flaws pointed out.

Being told of my shortcomings is easier for me to swallow than any hint of praise.

For I am not used to being told that I possess anything worthy of praise.

It's humorous to me that I have begun dressing in clothing that does not allow me to fade into the woodwork. I have also embraced wearing high heels, which make me close to six feet tall.

The heels make me feel powerful. I make myself so tall that it is hard for others to look down on me.

I have ditched my black and drab wardrobe for one that is colorful. It's a rarity that I wear pants to work instead of dresses. I enjoy dressing myself, as I feel as though I'm putting on armor to go into battle.

I guess my rationale is that if I play the part of a powerful, confident woman, perhaps it will become reality.

I am not an ostrich hiding my head in the sand. I do know that I am my own worst enemy.

The one year anniversary of my gastric sleeve operation has come and gone. With the one year mark, along came a followup with my surgeon.

I cancelled the appointment I originally had scheduled, as I wanted to lose at least 5 more pounds before I saw him, as I didn't want to be lectured.

Logically, I know that losing 82 pounds in one year is an incredible feat.

My brain gremlins are telling that I've failed at the surgery, as I have yet to reach 100 pounds lost.

So, I postponed my appointment.

I finally had my appointment. My surgeon is happy with my progress. He told me that I am doing great.

I told him I was not happy.

He told me that I needed to be kinder to myself.

Instead, I left there with a box of optifast shakes, $100 poorer, planning to put myself back on my presurgery liquid diet, as I want those three numbers on the scale to go down further.

The irony that my solution to help me battle one eating disorder could easily lead me to another is not lost on me.

That's the risk I accepted when I chose to have weight loss surgery.

Risk. It's a such a little word. Only four letters. Rolls right off the tongue.

By taking a risk, you have the potential to gain more than you had before.

The reawakening and affirmation of my faith the the weight loss surgery led to is a such a tremendous gain.

Finding a church that fulfilled my spiritual needs was key.

Today, on Palm Sunday, I was curious to see what Mosaic did to celebrate. I had visions of palm fronds in my head, as that is what the church I grew up in did, hand out vegetation in celebration.

I now realize that the pageantry of the church I was raised in was more secular than celebrating the Lord.

And this realization may have been part of the rift I had with religion for years.

I also know that part of my rift with the Lord was doubt.

I didn't necessarily doubt his existence, I doubted his love.

Less than two weeks before my 21st birthday, I took the life of someone else.

I was driving to visit my grandmother in the hospital. I hit another car head on. One of the passengers in the other car died.

The following hours, days, months and years have been a jumble of emotions.

I have carried the guilt with me. It has been a passenger.

In the months immediately following the accident, I went to a very dark place.

I thought about killing myself as the burden of guilt was too much to bear. I questioned why I had not died in the accident. I questioned why it had happened. I questioned everything.

I felt abandoned in many ways. I felt ostracized. I was a killer. No one really understood what it was I was going through. I had some people make light of it, telling me I had done something stupid. I was told I needed to get over it.

I started drinking more. I ate more. I pursued men.

I needed something tactile in my life. Something I could look at, touch, taste. Food. Alcohol. Sex. False idols.

At a time when I needed the Lord more than anything, I let doubt rule me. I felt that seeking His love and approval would be akin to seeking love and approval from an imaginary friend.

I can't go back and relive that period. I can only come to terms with the knowledge that the lost sheep I was at that point has been returned to the flock. I beg Him for forgiveness for what I did.

Some days, being a Christian is so simple.

It's part of my marrow.

Some days, I struggle, with this idea in my head of what a Christian should be. On these days,  I get this idea in my head that in order to be a Christian, you must be perfect.

And I am far from perfect. I have severe road rage. I speak without a filter. I don't always feel love for all those around me. That's just the tip of the iceberg.

However, this is me.

I stretch out my hand. I find it grasped by those who truly want to know me.

I still doubt why people would want to get to know me, but that's why I partake in therapy and prayer.

And yes, I did doubt His love for me.

Now I know that God works on his terms, not mine.

This trust was at first alien to me.

Yet, I felt Him. I heard Him.

I let go my doubt. I let go my fear.

I now have this center of peace.

God's love, following Christ-I find it as hard to explain to those who don't walk my path as I would Einstein's theory of relativity. I find it as easy to accept as breathing.

I don't question why I follow Christ. All I know is that I can't imagine not following Him ever again.

I don't need Richard Simmons to come and embrace me anymore, for I am cradled in the arms of someone far greater and more compassionate than Richard could ever be.