over the holidays.

“I destroyed the Fat Girl Rules.”

I reach for a throw pillow.

Put it in front of my stomach.

Quickly put it back down.

Habits are hard to break.

“Fat Girl Rules—

that’s no way to live,” Doc says.

“Tell me about it.”

“So why did I hear a hint

of sadness in your voice

when you said you

destroyed them?”

As I think about Doc’s question,

a memory comes to mind,

and I tell her about it.

“One time, PugsFurever rescued a dog

who’d spent her entire life in

a cage at a puppy mill.

Even after I opened the door,

she stayed inside the kennel.

“Every now and again

she’d stick out one paw or her head.

But then she’d look at the kennel,

all sad and a little afraid,

and slink back in.

Caged was the only life

she’d ever known.

“One day, two other rescues

scampered in and out of her cage.

They showed her they were free

and she could be.

She ran out and joined them.

I realized sometimes you need

someone who understands

what it’s like to be bound

to show you how to be free.”

ERASING THE BAD RULES

Doc and I agree

I’m a lot like the rescued pug.

I need to take some steps

to live like I’m free

from the Fat Girl Rules.

One of the steps is breaking free

from Mom’s rules.

“Mom’s always had

all of these rules.

Carbs are bad.

Fat is bad.

Snacks are bad.

So I’ve always felt like

food is bad

and

I’m bad

for eating

or wanting

or enjoying

or needing it.”

Doc walks over and writes

Mom’s food rules on a whiteboard

before sitting down.

“Your turn.”

“All the rules are here.

What’s left to do?”

“Just think about it.

It’ll come to you.”

I stand in front of the board

and read Mom’s long list

of rules.

Then I grab the eraser

and get rid of

every

last

one.

FIX-HER-UPPER

Mom’s always finding new doctors

to take me to,

to fix me.

I’m Mom’s fix-her-upper.

When she picks me up from school,

it’s off to another appointment.

As she drives in the pouring rain,

I lean my head on the cool glass.

My puffs of breath fog up the window,

creating a writing surface.

Say you’re ashamed of me, I think.

Say you’re disgusted by me.

Say you’ll never love me until I’m thin.

When we arrive at the doctor’s office,

I slam the SUV door,

hoping she’ll read the message

I wrote with my finger

on the fogged-up glass:

Just. Say. It.

A BIG, FAT SURPRISE

We go to the doctor’s office,

and he motions for us to have a seat

across from him.

Without so much as a hello,

he says bariatric surgery

is a growing option