I'll begin with a bit of a backstory, if you will...
I came into this world on April 26th, 1982 weighing in at a whopping 6lbs 12 oz. My 19 year old mother's once flat belly seemed to grow exponentially in size during her pregnancy. When my tiny baby self emerged I can imagine how surprised she must have been...maybe secretly wondering "Did I really eat
that many pastrami sandwiches?!" Apparently she had - 'cause I constantly made her crave them :).
This was the first of only a couple of times in her life that my mother had been a "large individual" (to quote my curvy Tia Yvette, haha). My mom is about 5'4" with a naturally petite frame. If my birth weight was an early indication of inheriting those particular "small/skinny" genes then something certainly went amiss along the way. I wouldn't find out what that "something" was until I was 18 years old.
My still pudgy, toddler-like arms, legs and belly didn't melt away and stretch out like they did for the majority of my kindergarten peers. This disproportion remained the case all through elementary school. As I got older I came to accept the fact that I'd always be one of the bigger girls in class. It was still just baby fat...it was just the way I was, or so I was told. By the time 5th grade came around I'd say I was close to 5"7' and already snugly wearing a women's size 12. Puberty brought on a whole slew of new problems. I began developing stretchmarks on my stomach due to rapid weight gain, skin tags sprouted up around my neck, and excess hair became quite noticeable on my arms and face.
I remember faking sick to stay home from school one day. Must've been an award winning performance (or I got called out on my bluff) because my mom ended up taking me to the doctor. I was too old to still be seeing a pediatrician but my old physician, Dr. Renie, was the only available option on such short notice.
Upon examining me she began to ask very odd questions that had nothing to do with the cold I was faking and, quite honestly, it made me nervous. Why did she want to know about the stretchmarks tearing across my belly? Why was she looking so closely at my face and chin? Did she notice the hair I've been so desperately trying to hide? She unleashed a flood of questions on me which brought about a sense of embarrassment and shame. Don't get me wrong, she was a lovely lady. I just wasn't ready to face, or understand, whatever the hell was going on with my body. I did the only thing I could think of doing. I lied. I told her everything she would expect to hear from a regular, healthy teenager. Luckily my mom was there to chime in and provide a more accurate account of the changes that I'd be going through. I remember feeling so upset with her then. She wouldn't look at me as she discredited my statements with the truth - like she could sense the deepening shade of red in my face yet didn't have the heart to confirm with even the slightest glance. But the love of a mother is strong and always works towards the well being of her babies. Thank goodness she was there to let the doctor know what was really going on. I was referred to an endocrinologist that day.
Upon seeing the endocrinologist and cringing through the same flood of embarrassing questions from before I was told that I most likely had something called PCOS and Insulin Resistance. Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome? Why is she talking about my ovaries? What is wrong with them? What in the world does any of this have to do with being fat and hairy?! I was given 3 different types of medication to take and was told that I would most likely have to take them for life. It was something that took my teenage brain years to process, understand, and come to terms with. That particular doctor ended up leaving her practice and I was then referred to another, much older, male doctor at the UCLA medical center. He was very short when it came to conversation and explanations. I did what I was told once more and lost some weight with the help of medication (Metformin, Spironolactone, birth control), diet and exercise. It wasn't until I was well in to my 20's that it all truly clicked for me. I can honestly say I'm still working towards total fluency in the matter till this day.
Between the ages of 18 and 28 I reached both my heaviest and lowest weights - heaviest being about 270lbs in 2001-2 and lowest being about 195lbs in 2009. During this 10 year span I experienced both the best and worst times of my life.
At age 18/19 I was an absolute mess and continued to feel that way for a few years to come. I was beyond uncomfortably overweight (this would be the period where I reached my heaviest point) and experiencing the cruel effects of PCOS full force. My lackluster 20lb weight loss victory from a while before had turned into a 20lb+ gain. I remember feeling stripped of my womanhood. My long, beautiful hair began falling out, I put on weight extremely easily, and I continued to grow excess hair in the most embarrassing of places for a woman (face, chest, arms).
It was hell and it took all I had to keep from shutting down completely. I
never want to go back to that place and it pains me so deeply when I see other women suffering through similar situations.
During this crushing time something unexpectedly wonderful happened. I found a kindred spirit in a stone faced, secretly sweet and giggly girl who would happen to become my best friend (of almost 12 years now). She saw beyond what I looked like and never made mention of it. We couldn't have known it then but time would prove each of us to play an integral role in the other's life. Connections as deep and beautiful as ours rarely occur in one's lifetime and I often feel that I've hit the BFF MegaMillions. If I were a lesbian (which I can, with 100% certainty, say I am not, Grandma Connie ;) ) I would marry her. She's helped me to gain wisdom regarding independence, loyalty, compassion and strength in ways that no one else has managed to. She motivates me to be my best yet loves me just the same when I fall short. Our meeting was, without a doubt, one of the best things that has ever happened in my life.
I was excelling in college at this point and had decided to pursue an Associates Degree in Radio/TV broadcasting. I had so much fun exploring this field and found a deep sense of pride in the work I was able to produce and the sincere connections/friendships I was able to forge with my professor and classmates. My confidence began to build slowly but surely. It was around this time that I met another person who would come to change my life dramatically.
In 2002 I officially began working for this dude with sweet pipes and a guitar. In retrospect I feel we came in to each other's lives during a time of significant need. We both needed someone to trust in - someone supportive who was willing to go the distance and
believe as we reached for the next milestone on our own respective journeys. Man, did we end up finding that "someone" in each other.
Now, I could write paragraph upon paragraph about this stage in my life. It was intense, thrilling, wonderful and difficult all at once. This is when I started really understanding what it meant to LIVE. I will say this much: if it wasn't for this particular guy I'd be miles and miles away from where I stand today. He was the first man in my life (aside from my father/family) to make me feel worthy, precious, appreciated and beautiful. The acceptance, support and validation he's provided me with throughout our long friendship really helped me reach a place of internal peace and self love during the most trying times. In the land of Hollywood beauties I learned to hold my head high and take pride in the knowledge that I had my fair share of fierceness to bring to the table. He'd never let me believe otherwise and I am so grateful to him for that... among many other things.
Things rolled along considerably well for years - I ultimately found a true love in teaching/early childhood education and I even experienced a bit more success with some further weight loss.
Then a jolting series of events unfolded that really forced me to take a hard look at where I was, where I wanted to be and how I hadn't really given much thought/made any commitments towards getting there.
I believe I was simultaneously taking classes, working as a PT assitant toddler teacher and doing my best to keep up with whatever Luccamusic projects were going on at the time when it happened. My 2 year old goddaughter Miranda had a serious accident and I found myself jumping on a plane bound for Oakland within hours of hearing about it. She and another child had been climbing on a wrought iron roller gate when it derailed and fell on top of them. I had never felt such panic, helplessness and heartache as I did when I walked into the ICU and saw her little body propped up in a hospital bed, her neck bound in a brace. I still remember the smell of the dried blood in her hair and the sound of her wimpers. It never fails to make me well up. I remember bringing her a doll I had just made in one of my Child Development classes and singing some songs to her. I choked through tears for most of them but they seemed to help calm her. This experience took a such toll on my heart and the recovery that followed (full recovery, I'm so happy to say!) altered my perspective on many things. I realized the profound responsibility I owed to this child to be (and give her) my very best.
The next two blows felt like they struck back to back. I lost two women who were very significant in my life - one due to cancer and the other due to complications from alcoholism.
I was named after a woman with a beautiful soul. Throughout the family she was known as ChaCha or Chita and even when I was a child I could feel the love and admiration
everyone held for her. She was the leader of a generation - a queen in her own right - and touched the lives and hearts of so many during her time on this earth. It wasn't until I was older that I realized what a true honor it was to be her namesake. Though we shared the same name I sadly can't say that I got a chance to establish a very close bond with her. Her energy was so strong, loving and warm, though...I couldn't help but feel connected on some higher level (which I'm sure is a shared sentiment among many who had the pleasure of knowing her). There was one special thing in particular about her that brought me so much comfort when I was a young lady - she was "big", too. Here was this woman who was so kind, who glowed with love's radiance, who everyone adored, who was undeniably beautiful... and she looked like
me. By simply being herself she showed me it was possible to create my own unique definition of beauty. Her passing hit our extended family hard. I remember everyone being called to a meeting at my Tia Norma's house one afternoon and we all heard the news together. Late stage cancer - start preparing for a farewell. I remember going with my Mom to visit ChaCha after some time had passed. I entered the back bedroom of the house that I had visited since I was a kid and found her sleeping on what looked like a hospital bed. It was immediately obvious that this wasn't a peaceful sleep as her brow was furrowed and her breathing somewhat labored. I sat alone in silence on a nearby couch and admired her quietly from afar. To see the pale, ashen tone of her once warm, tan skin and the thin tufts of hair where her gorgeous thick, black locks cascaded from took the breath straight from my lungs leaving only a huge lump in my throat. Tears pooled in my eyes and just as I drew in a heavy breath her eyes fluttered open. She took only a second to focus and realize who sat before her. A expression I will never forget washed over her face through the veil of pain. It was a look of consolation, of helplessness, of empathy and I could feel her arms wrap so tightly around me even though there was 10 feet of space between us. She faintly called for help and I hurried to get her mom and sister. The next time I would see her would be the last, save her funeral. I remember her laying flat on her back in the bed. I held her hand and caressed it. Her eyelids fluttered as I leaned down and spoke softly near her ear, knowing this would be my last chance to do so. I held nothing back. I thanked her through a flood of emotion and told her how wonderful it was to have her in my life. I told her how much I loved her and how I would do my best to carry on the spirit of togetherness between our two families. The fluttering of her eyes seemed to accelerate and I can't help but believe that she heard every word. She passed within days of my birthday and her funeral was a bittersweet celebration of life and love. I carry Chacha's spirit deep within my heart. I've been likened to her by many over the years and my heart overflows with pride and appreciation each and every time.
A year or so after she passed her memory would
serve as a main inspiration for one of the most important and brave decisions I've ever made.
The last chapter in my darkest days is a hard one to recount. This will be the first time that I've written about it and I can feel the lump in my throat swelling already as I type.
When I was born I was immediately surrounded by love. I was the first grandchild on my father's side of the family and the first granddaughter on my mother's side of the family. There was never a lack of hugs and kisses... or aunts and uncles for that matter. There was one woman though, who much like my own mother, would look at me with such adoration in her eyes that I felt like a princess every time I caught her gaze. I was her first niece and she loved me so. My tia "Coca" as I called her (because I couldn't pronounce her name, Bertha) affectionately called me her Sweet Pea for as long as I can remember. We shared a very close bond and I always felt so special when I was around her. I can't remember her ever scolding me or speaking down to
me as a child. What I do remember is her singing sweetly to me when we shared quiet moments together and I especially remember the stories she used to tell me. I loved them. My favorite one in particular was a cautionary tale of sorts - a type of Mexican folklore - that, now looking back, was kind of on the morbid side. It was about a little girl who's jealous mother accidentally killed her and wound up burying her in the backyard. Flowers sprung from the little girls grave and every time the mother would pick a flower a beautifully haunting song would echo in her ears. It makes me sad to realize that I've forgotten the words to the song that my tia would sing so softly to me. As weird/inappropriate of a story that it may seem for a child to be told I absolutely loved it and would beg to hear it over and over. It didn't scare me at all - if anything it brought about my first feelings of empathy and compassion. I remember feeling sad for both the mom and the little girl. I also remember being angry when my own mother asked my aunt not to tell me that story anymore.
TBC...
Day 3 of Jillian Michael's 30 Day Shred DVD
