Sophia in Depth

“I have been through a lot: depression, single motherhood, emotional eating, obesity after having children, marriage, miscarriage, and so much more. Join me on my journey and discover how I overcame childhood insecurities, heartbreak and bad patterns. Most of all, witness how I learned to truly love myself and how you can do the same.” –Sophia

Sophia’s story contains 6 sections:

1. A Wolf in Pink Clothing

2. Heartbreak & Sheet Cake

3. “I’m blue, da ba dee da ba daa…”

4. The Ice Queen

5. Marriage & Miscarriage

6. “Not the Mama”

A Wolf in Pink Clothing

Once upon a dreamy, smog-filled night in Los Angeles, I was in my car minding my own business amid the typical 1 mph traffic. Suddenly, the red and white glow of CVS sign shone into my peripheral vision, sparking a sudden moment of bravery. I’d been pushing the thought of a possible pregnancy to the back of my mind for long enough: I made an abrupt turn into the parking lot, and ran inside before I had time to change my mind.

I remember thinking, “If I change my mind I can at least buy some Twinkies. Wait… why am I craving Twinkies? Ohhhh… ffffff---!”

I scanned the shelves near aisles filled with diapers for the cheapest pregnancy test CVS had to offer. Quickly grabbing a two-pack, (in case I didn’t trust the outcome), I headed to the register.

After I paid, I bee-lined my way to the restroom, determined to get an answer right then and there. I’ve always been the impulsive type - quick in emergencies, a high-energy go- getter - but as I pulled the test out of my bag, I decided to have a “Willy Wonka bar” moment this time. I began slowly and carefully peeling back the corner of the plastic layer around the box like there was a golden ticket inside. As my suddenly shaky, clammy hands started to go numb, I finally ripped off the plastic and shoved it into my glittery pink jacket pocket. What was the point in pretending to be patient?

I stared at the box, my own breathing and heartbeat growing louder in the silence. The voices in my head sounded like an audience before a play begins, suddenly growing hushed as the room darkens and the curtains begin to rise. I exhaled with a shaky breath, and decided it was time for the show to begin. So… I peed on the stick.

I flushed the toilet and stared at the swirling water, waiting for the test result. Naïve thoughts of motherhood danced around me like flirtatious fireflies, exciting me and then fading away. I closed my eyes, trying my best to create a picture from one simple thought, but all I could see were lines and dots flashing by like a flipbook with no clear storyline.

I listened to the flapping of the pages instead. The sound created a vision of a baby bird, fluttering her wings as she strengthened them for her first flight. I watched a sudden gust of wind begin to challenge her but she braced herself and stood her ground. She squinted as the wind fluffed up the feathers on her cheeks and neck, maturing her look.

The air calmed and a rising sun broke through, turning her black feathers gold. Then, without warning, she leaped fearlessly into the sky. I felt her body whip through my hair as she flew upward and onward. Her wings grew bigger and then smaller as rays of light consumed her. My dreamy eyes then opened, afraid of getting lost in total bliss.

My eyes darted around looking for distractions. When they found some old chewed-up gum amid patches of mold, I felt the corners of my mouth curl up like a cartoon villain. I was satisfied with how easily I could destroy my dream world before it could destroy me. I was back to reality now.

I allowed my eyes to move to the pregnancy test, balancing on the scratched-up metal of a toilet paper holder. It was almost time for the results to be displayed. Abruptly, my inner child took my hands and covered my face with them. I wanted to fight her but instead, I found myself closing my eyes as if that was extra protection. I stood breathing heavily through the space between my hands, my own breath comforting my face with its warmth.

Behind my eyelids, light was sneaking in through the cracks between my fingers. Its rich sepia tone melted smoothly into the skin of a little baby who was smiling at me. I focused on his face and the smile faded into a crescent moon just above a yard with a white picket fence. The fence turned to firewood burning below a mantel lined with Christmas stockings.

The twinkling lights on an evergreen tree reflected off of a silver ornament, creating the glimmer of a diamond ring on my hand. I was suddenly distracted by the weight and shimmer of a sparkling white wedding dress that was hugging my body. The same rising sun that encompassed the baby bird, was now beaming down to highlight every sequin on my dress. The rays then danced across my face, kissing my lips and causing my heart to flutter. My heavy eyes peeled open once again, and my hands slid down my face in slow motion. I looked at my ring finger and felt its bareness like a weight.

With an expression like a guilty dog being interrogated over spilled trash, I looked at the test sideways. Two positive pink lines begin to appear. As I watched them darken, my mouth fell open like I was watching the final scene of a Lifetime movie unfold…

The sexy nanny, long-accustomed to hiding her insanity, had finally revealed her true intentions. After she murdered the wife by cutting her car brakes, she consoled the husband and children who remained, quickly moving into the house. But a suspicious best friend kept coming around and soon discovered that the nanny was actually the husband’s ex- girlfriend from 10 years ago. By wearing a cheap wig and glasses, the nanny had changed her identity and was out for revenge.

Naturally, before the dopey husband could be alerted, the best friend was poisoned and buried in the woods - never to be seen again. Cue the plot twist: The wife, presumed to be burned alive in a fiery crash, was actually alive! Slowly emerging from the darkness as the nanny began to seduce her Husband, she delivers that well-known Lifetime Original cheesy one-liner: “Over my dead body…” (GASP!)

I grabbed the test in shock, and then clutched at the stall door lock to make sure it was secure. I had a new treasure in my hand, and I suddenly felt protective of it. I stared at the door in front of me, noticing the word, “BITCH” next to, “Lupe wuz here” scratched into the beige paint. I briefly wondered what happened to Lupe in that stall.

I looked at the test again, and with the sight of those bright bold lines I felt my entire life before me fade away like the end of a parade, music, bells and applause just a distant rhythmic sound. My face felt boiling hot, like some Looney Toons character who had just eaten a stick of dynamite. I suddenly doubled over with my hands on my knees in uncontrollable laughter.

I was so shocked by my reaction, that I put my hand over my mouth, the same way my Mom always did to quiet her own laughter. After a good five minutes of laughter had gone by, I tried to compose myself. I slide the lock across the latch, as I dabbed at my wet eyelashes with my sleeve. The warm air that had enveloped me now seemed to propel me out of the stall. I tucked the test back into its box, still trying to contain my nervous laughter as I walked out of the door.

I felt like a teenager again, with that same sneaky/excited feeling of shoplifting Wet n’ Wild make-up and press-on nails… only to get caught by the manager who tells you you’re banned for life as you hysterically laugh and run off with your friends. Or like that scary dine-and-dash feeling at your favorite local restaurant, when even the cooks, (who knew your best friend’s uncle), chase after you and your friends down the street, demanding payment.

Or, even like that feeling of successfully cheating on the 10th grade history test you didn’t study for by copying each bubble on Chen’s Scantron. That internal queasiness kind of feeling as you pretend to yawn or stretch as you peek at his test.

I mean, I can only imagine those feelings…it’s not like I experienced ANY of those first-hand... Ok, I’m lying, it was me. And I’d also like to admit to TP’ing houses, ding-dong-ditching, prank-calling and setting glass bottles in the street for cars to run over. I’m only human…

I stepped outside into the crisp night air, butterflies in my stomach flying up into my chest. Unzipping my jacket to relieve some of the pressure, I began searching through the files of my mental database for a coping mechanism to such a life-changing discovery. I touched my tightening chest and closed my eyes as the neurons in my brain fired back and forth searching for responses. The butterflies then fluttered up to my head and flew through my hair, giving me chills.

I burst into laughter again as my mind swirled, and then I bent over with weakening knees, like one of those tall inflatable air dancers promoting a sale outside of tire shops.

My body dipped along with the breeze, and my face froze into a tightened smile, like an overly botoxed soap star. I grabbed a nearby wall and slumped over like a rag doll against it. Tears of laughter fell to the cement below me. I watched the ground change color as they fell like rain, and as my laughter became a slight catch in my breath, I felt one last butterfly escape my hair. My mind was totally clear.

I slowly lowered myself to the ground, crouching in silence. I saw myself back in 1988, hunched over a pile of Barbie’s. I was a Tom Boy back then - my looks and silly behavior earned me the childhood nicknames of Mowgli (from The Jungle Book) and “burnt toast” because of my tan skin.

But looking back at my face framed by shiny black bowl-cut hair, holding Barbie in one hand and Ken in the other, I suddenly thought I looked like a girl. I watched my lips moving with dialogue in front of my gapped teeth as Barbie flirted with Ken.

Little me smiled and batted her eyes as she pretended to be flattered by something Ken had said.

I remembered role-playing many emotions through my dolls back then, especially the idea of love.

Love between Barbie and Ken just felt like a mystery wrapped in magic to me. I didn’t understand why they were so in love, but one day I noticed Ken had blue eyes and I remember liking that about him. When I developed my first crush at school, the magic was no longer a mystery.

I’d stare at Ryan’s bright red hair, his own blue eyes and his millions of freckles sprinkled like a galaxy of stars on his face. He was so different from me that I couldn’t stop staring at him. I think he began to notice, because one day at lunch, he pulled me aside, kicked me in my shins and told me I looked like an ugly boy. I can still see the back of his bowl cut hair bouncing away as he ran, and feel my heart break as I crouched down rubbing my ashy legs, trying to make the pain go away. I stopped staring at him after that, and as days passed I’d walk home every day fighting back tears, talking to myself and replaying his words. Eventually, I believed him.

I will never forget one cool night when we heard a knock at our door. We all ran and hid, and listened to my mom gasp and begin thanking someone. I creeped out and saw a white blonde woman standing in the doorway holding a platter of Thanksgiving food with bags of groceries surrounding her feet. My mom was struggling to carry the platter in, so I ran outside to pick up the rest of the bags. I started to gather them when I looked up and saw Ryan looking down at the hose, hands in his pockets, embarrassed to be there. I said hello to him, and even thought maybe he came over to be my friend, but he wouldn’t look at me. I felt this awful shame pour over my body, and I ran inside with the bags and hid again. We were poor, they were rich. We are on the list for families in need on Thanksgiving, and Ryan knew I was poor and was embarrassed to be there. It didn’t make sense to me until later in life, but that shame I felt, even when I didn’t understand it, stayed with me for decades.

As I developed a sense of self over the years, Barbie was by my side every step of the way. I tried out different reactions to sadness and embarrassment through her, releasing my pain, and (in a way) escaping reality. Barbie was like my diary, my therapy, my hopes and my dreams. She was brave, reckless and indestructible right along with me.

One minute I was an independent sassy red-headed Midge in a rock band (whose hair was eventually cut off), and the next, I was a beautiful queen with 100 boyfriends. Finally, Spectra, and her dog Spark made their debut one Christmas. When I unwrapped them, time stood still for me. Spectra had this amazing sparkly hair, and her body was an incredible metallic pink color unlike any doll I ever had. She even came from a whole different planet, called Shimmeron. She quickly became the alien of the group of dolls. I allowed her personality to be totally unpredictable.

There were so many nights I’d look out my window at the moon and pretend Shimmeron was a real place up there that I would one day run away to. Just the thought of that magical place would help me fall asleep every night and forget all my worries.

As I stood there outside CVS, I noticed I was still gravitating to the sky for a magical answer. A distant ambulance siren grew louder in my ears, causing chills and coldness to surround my face. I hadn’t noticed until then that hot tears of pain were falling down my cheeks, so I quickly wiped them and searched for anything visible in the sky to save me.

I found the yellow moon. As I stared at her beauty, the wailing of the ambulance nearby turned me into a wolf, howling on a mountain top. The song, “Return to Innocence” by Enigma began playing in my mind: “Oh aye hiiii, oh aye aye yaaaaa, (echo) aye yaaa, aye yaaa …”

I felt weight-less, like I was floating in space.

The few visible stars burning bright above sent sparkles into a river where a mama bear drank beside her cub. Over them, an eagle spread its wings and flew through the fog. My wolf’s howl faded off, and something made me inhale deeply and suddenly, filling my body with an animalistic power and pride. My Aztec Native American ancestors had risen up inside me like fire, causing my heart to beat like drums at a pow wow.

My soul filled with suffering, honor, and strength, and I clenched the pregnancy test wrapper in my pocket tight until it stopped crinkling. I felt myself growl a deep low rumble in my throat, and I knew in that moment, for the first time in my life, that I had been taken over by true love… completely.

Heartbreak and sheet cake

As Cinderella mopped the castle floors with beautiful bubbles all around her, she sang about a sweet nightingale - oblivious to the fact that Lucifer had put his dirty little paws all over the place. I woke up that next morning curled up inside my own bubble, staring through blurry iridescent colors at the existence I once knew.

Just one day prior, life had been like “a box of chocolates…” (Forest Gump voice). Bubbles popped out there in that world, dirty paws ran wild, and hearts eventually got broken. But that morning I had one purpose, and I was safe in my bubble from all harm. I had never felt more certain about my place in the world, and as my mind floated up, up, and away into the whipped cream clouds, I knew I was gone baby, gone.

Much like the emotions that come over you at Disneyland, a pregnant woman, gets bombarded by excitement, fear, magic and denial - all at once. As a child at Disneyland, I had a fear that those Haunted Mansion ghosts were going to follow me home from my, “Dooooooom Buggyyyyyy”, and it’s safe to say that every kid was scared of the witch from Snow White drawing open her curtains and staring down at them. I used to try to hide in the Peter Pan line, but her evil stare would always burn through my soul every time I glanced up. I’d finally get to the front of the line, and my fears would fade away while trying to guess what color pirate ship I’d get. As it whisked me off through the giant bedroom door of Wendy, Michael, and John, I’d shrink low and squeeze in closer to my sisters in excitement. We always gasped as we flew over the tiny city lights below us, and compare the glowing lint on our sweaters under the black lights to see who had the most (I used to tell myself it was Pixie Dust).

I also told myself that the echoing roar from the Matterhorn’s Abominable Snowman was real, and Thunder Mountain Railroad was definitely going to be “the wildest riiiiiide in the wilderness”. Pregnant women have similar thought processes. We tell ourselves it’s going to be ok, even though our emotions are turning and dipping like a roller coaster ride, laughing and peeing our pants when we least expect it.

Being pregnant is scary, because once you’re connected to that child emotionally, “there are no windows and no doors (haunted mansion voice) to find a way out! Muahuahuahua!” At Disneyland, I liked that I could escape into a world of magic just like everyone else. Even scared out of my mind, I was never alone. We were like a big team of strangers all working together to pretend, ducking from the cannons on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, and yelling in unison down the final Splash Mountain final drop. Magic became our reality.

I remember looking at strangers walking by, and when their eyes met mine, I’d notice the look of wild excitement mixed with panic on their faces as they rushed to the next ride. Everyone had those big souvenir sippers strapped to their bodies, clinking next to their fanny packs. I used to envy the kids who were draped in glowing necklaces and holding those expensive light-up toys. Sometimes my sisters and I would spot a glow stick on the ground and all crowd together around it like it was filled with this magical power. Then we’d fight over it until someone ended up in tears. Being pregnant reminded me so much of Disneyland: both had a way of making me feel scared, ecstatic, and jealous all at the same time. If I couldn’t decide what I felt, there was always the popcorn, churros and bread-bowl scents in the air to distract me - and make me feel hungry every single moment.

I stretched that morning in bed as I woke up, feeling a smile form on my face before I even had time to turn on my mind’s chatter. I stood up and felt light as a feather, filled with excitement and curiosity about this new me.

I made my way to the bathroom door, and little voices in my head began to clamor and whisper, telling me to face reality and to start thinking about everything that could go wrong. I ignored them and carried on with my feet in imaginary glass slippers, sparkling my way through my normal morning routine. Deep down, I knew time would run out. My world would in pieces around me like Cinderella’s shattered pumpkin carriage. My clothes would turn to rags, my feet would be bare, and I would have to face the truth.

It was like that dreadful feeling of having to leave Disneyland and then hearing a robotic voice over the loud speaker announcing the Electrical Light Parade. I’d watch the workers rope off areas in our path, forcing us to stop and wait, relieved to have another brief distraction. I’d stand on my tip toes to see the Cinderella float rolling my way, and catch a glimpse of the beautifully-lit pumpkin carriage in the distance, then look for Prince Charming himself. I used to always get so shy when he’d wave in my direction too, because c’mon, Prince Charming was a lot of people’s first crush, (and Aladdin too… but don’t even get me started on Eric from The Little Mermaid…hubba, hubba). Anyway, from a young age I had practiced holding onto magic in my heart as long I possibly could (“in thousands of sparkling lights and electro-synthe-magnetic musical sounds.”). So in my pregnancy, I decided that was exactly what I was going to do.

Can you even blame me? My sisters and I were raised on the magic of Disney (obviously), and Jem and the Holograms. We got our imagination from Mister Rogers Neighborhood, and Reading Rainbow, while living in constant excitement from thoughts of the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus. Our bellies would be sore and red from hundreds of Slip-n-Slide runs, and the chime of the ice-cream truck could always make us to drop what we were doing and sprint as fast as we could to wave it down. After a while, the truck would just drive directly to our curb, blasting music until we could steal enough change from our mom’s purse for our latest sugar rush. (We were grounded many times because of that damn truck, learning discipline and how to cry ourselves to sleep.)

We got our sarcasm and humor from, I Love Lucy and the crew from Married with Children. We saw romance for the first time in West Side Story, Gone with the Wind, and Oklahoma, and came to understand rock music with blues-inspired lyrics through Janis Joplin.

Dolly Parton put Jolene on blast and taught us that even adults are human - and can get heartbroken too. We learned “contro-ol!” from Janet Jackson, and all about addictions from Atari and Super Mario Bros. We even developed a little country twang in us from Dwight Yokum’s, “Guitars, Cadillacs”. We learned to see ourselves as women with the help of Mariah Carey and Paula Abdul videos. We’d apply our stick-on earrings, Elmer’s glue nails, and popsicle lipstick stains. Then we’d dance in our neon paint-splattered jackets and MC Hammer pants for hours on end, filling the karaoke machine with our obnoxious voices.

It was that kind of childhood foundation that had formed in me so many years ago, and that morning, it was lit up inside the new pregnant me like our living room T.V. on a Friday night in the 90’s. (That Nickelodeon line-up was everything).

So what I could have said a few paragraphs ago was that, “I had a vision of love,” and he was a “Dreamlover,” and as I got out of bed that morning, I felt like a child at Disneyland. My heart fluttered like Reading Rainbow’s “butterfly in the skyyyyy…” as I took in the new world of blinding lights and a blurred past. I was re-born.

I stood up and felt like Jem, being two people at once, and it was time to rock the new “truly outrageous” me. Like Paula Abdul, I too have been fooled before, and “wouldn’t like to get my love caught in the slammin’ door…” but instead of being negative, I waved “a b-b-b-bye, b-b-b-b-bye,” to reality as it rode off into the sunset without me.

I stood in the bathroom looking in the mirror at my skin, which looked shockingly bright and fresh. I smiled, and then shyly looked away from myself like we’d never met before. As I dressed for work and zipped on my pink jacket, I felt my body freeze. The little voices in my head were now so loud that I couldn’t avoid them. A feeling came over me like a dark raincloud, and I was in a sudden internal thunderstorm.

Booming thunder ripped through my soul, and lightning jolted my mind, giving me an instant headache. It almost took my breath away. I tried to ignore the voices again by reaching for the bathroom door handle, but I was now caught in an emotional downpour, drenched in guilt, fear and sadness.

I slowly looked into the mirror again. Staring back at me was a terrified woman, eyes wide, alarmed by something. I was being warned, and as my ears grew boiling hot from warnings, I touched them with my cold hands to quiet them down. My hands lingered on my ears, and I felt a deep rumbling in my chest, like thunder before you hear a crack of lightning. I forced myself out the door and to my car, but as I drove to work, I couldn’t shake the feeling.

All day in the gym, that little dark feeling kept following me around like Peter Pan’s shadow, nudging me, and then escaping every time a new client walked in to train. I tried to ignore it time and time again. I didn’t have time for it. I had clients to train.

I felt so bloated mentally and physically that I noticed myself in the gym mirror staring off in a trance at the wall in between clients. I wanted my dream world back, but had to keep forcing myself back into reality, client after client. Finally, my day was over, and I stared down at the ground outside feeling confused. I noticed my glass slippers were replaced by dirty ol’ running shoes with untied shoelaces.

As I crouched down to tie one, the shoelace broke and my chest rumbled again. I hated this reality, and to top it off, the rush I used to get when my Dreamlover would text me was now replaced by an uneasy vibration in my body. The voices were warning me about our relationship.

This continued on for weeks, until Valentine’s day came (otherwise known as, “the official day of heartbreak”). That vibration in my body then became a deep rumble… the rumble then become a loud cracking sound... and that sound became my “achy breaky heart.”

Heartbreak

The biggest fight we ever had was on February 14, 2010. I was crazy in love, and he had me lookin’ as crazy as Beyoncé, sitting in the backseat of that car while Jay-Z lit it on fire. It was that type of angry, stubborn love, where deep down you know it’s not right. The other person burns your soul to the ground, and you still manage to recover and come back dancing on the flames in a racy one-piece bikini, like my girl Beyoncé. I was no quitter, and I truly believed back then that arguing meant “passion.” In my naïve mind, I really did love him. I simply didn’t know any better.

It was that same Valentine’s day that I realized what the little dark feeling following me around meant. I knew what true love felt like now, and the relationship I was in… wasn’t quite right. Dun, dun duuuuuun! (Cue the dark rainclouds, low piano key sounds, and bellowing thunder.)

Three weeks later I remember throwing my purse as hard I could onto the ground in the underground parking lot at my mom’s (don’t worry, it was like $5 from TJ Maxx). I listened to it echo. He was randomly leaving town and I… was… pissed. Hormonally, emotionally and mentally fuming.

I was Roseanne Barr-angry (aka: Ruth Patchett in the movie She Devil, glaring through raging eyes as she plotted to burn the house down). I told him not to go, and that I needed him. I stood there crying as he turned away from me. I watched the back of his head leave in the same way I watched “shin-kicker” Ryan’s from grade-school. The fighter in me started to chase after him, but I heard a voice whispering my name like that woman with the tiny face at the end of “The Haunted Mansion” ride: “Come baaaa-ack…”

I don’t know if it was my guardian angel or what, but that voice stopped me, and I was suddenly awake, and ready to burn the relationship to the ground.

A scorned woman needs closure, dammit! So the day he left was when my closure project began. I did what women do when we feel disrespected: “we dig dig dig dig dig dig dig in our mine the whole day through, To dig dig dig dig dig dig dig is what we really like to do…Heigh-ho, Heigh-ho.”

I spent hours on end mulling over every detail I could find about him in great length, reading and re-reading anything and everything I could get my hands on. Papers were everywhere, and my printer was hot like a firecracker, spitting out more pages for me to highlight, underline, and circle. I dissected thousands of words, photos, and had piles and charts of organized evidence all around me. It was like one of those detective movies where they have a huge map on the wall with push pins in possible leads to the fugitive.

Let’s be honest: a woman scorned could solve the mystery of Jack the Ripper, or The Bermuda Triangle - if it meant she’d have proof of a man’s indiscretions. She WILL find Big Foot, if he has information on her boyfriend’s whereabouts. She’ll even find and interview the The Loch Ness Monster if she sees it in the background of one of her man’s social media photos in a place he shouldn’t be (screen-shot, zoom, screen-shot, zoom, zoom, zoom, got him)!

To gain access to more secrets about her man, she would discover why Stonehenge was created and have a full highlighted report in her hot little hand about it, blowing historians and archaeologists’ minds. She’d find, and even bring you an alien if it meant you’d be caught lying. Never underestimate a woman scorned, because she will relentlessly seek answers until you are lying in a pile of dust on the ground, defeated and swept away in the wind forever.

So basically, I realized my Dreamlover wasn’t ready to be a family man, or my Prince Charming. Not now, not ever, as far I could see. We just weren’t meant to be, but of course, my heart shattered into a million pieces. I watched each of those pieces, shaped like flaming hot Cheetos, fall onto my shirt and roll to the ground, leaving behind Cheetos dust (which by the way, is the adult version of pixie dust) …and, it was in that moment, that my emotional eating began.

Sheet-cake

I wiped my tears with my red-stained fingers, tilted my head up, and pushed my lips tightly together like a toddler refusing broccoli. The ultrasound photo in a metal frame on my computer desk caught the light and shined through my eyelids. I looked over, picked it up and began staring at it.

I was having a boy. Whenever I looked at the photo of his blurry little body, I would go back inside my Cinderella bubble and feel safe again. He was saving me from all my pain, and although he didn’t know it, I promised to be his protector for as long as I lived.

I plopped down in front of a giant sheet cake as I illegally downloaded my break up playlist to my iPod. Forkfuls of cake filled my cheeks as I selected Destiny’s Child Survivor, Beyoncé’s Irreplaceable, Linkin Park’s Numb, No Doubts Don’t Speak, Eminem ft. Rihanna Love the Way You Lie, Alanis Morissette’s You Oughta Know, and Christina Aguilera’s Fighter.

My Chinese food then arrived at the door and I placed it “to the left to the left,” where I could easily take bites as I downloaded more music. Thank the good Lawd that Adele was up and running by 2010, because I was “Rolling in the Deep.” I couldn’t even begin to count the amount of times I sang that song in my car at the top of my lungs with my voice crackin’, “We could have had it alllll-alllllllll!!!!!”

The next morning, I woke up and felt like a bus had hit me. I needed something, and wanted to stay away from caffeine so…I ate a sheet cake a day for the remainder of my pregnancy. After-all, it was my un-birthday everyday anyway, right? I was a single mom now, so sheet-caking was muh thang.

Days passed, and I felt more and more alone, so I created a nice fat layer on my body to keep me warm at night. I should have cared how I looked, but I didn’t. Sugar became a drug to me, and I loved how it made me feel, and that’s all that mattered. I soon became a full blown sugar junkie. If I felt sad, I’d eat and feel better. It was a no brainer.

I’ll never forget one of the days when I went to the grocery store and pointed out a sheet cake behind the glass to buy (ya know, the fancy-schmancy ones). The baker said, “Ok, what do you want me to write on it Miss?” (He assumed it was for a party). I was so embarrassed that I just mumbled, “Uh… err… Happy Birthday,” like Gus Gus in Cinderella, giant belly and all. It then dawned on me that I had gone from channeling my inner Cinderella to a damn overweight mouse wearing clothes that were too small.

Now, it wasn’t just sheet cake: it was Taco Bell, Mickey Dee’s, Burger King, Mongolian BBQ at the Mall, tubs of ice-cream, Chinese food, the big Papa (aka: Papa John’s cheese pizza with jalapeno’s, extra garlic dipping sauce, and crushed peppers, cause duh), Top Ramen (with an egg cracked in it and lots of Sriracha), and endless amounts of juice. Pineapple juice, orange juice, grape juice.

I…was…huge…

240 pounds to be exact. 100 pounds more than my starting weight. Yes, let me say that again: I had gained 100 pounds during pregnancy (and still had a month to go after that weigh in). *side note: my son is now 8 years old, loves sheet-cake, and is perfectly healthy.

I ate my feelings like it was a full time job. I’m tellin’ ya, I worked overtime, holidays, and weekends at this job. Sadness, chomp, depression, chomp-chomp, single motherhood, chomp-chomp-chomp. I was kicking ass at my “job,” but deep down, wayyyy deep down, was sadness, and whenever it tried to surface, I’d slap it down with, “hoagies and grinders, hoagies and grinders, navy beans, navy beans, navy beans, navy beans…” and more sheet cake.

The only thing that made me happy then was food, especially getting it delivered to me. I loved delivery because I felt like someone was bringing me food as a kind gesture, like they cared about me. Sure, I was paying them, but damn it felt good to live in a dream world again.

The doorbell would ring, and my delivery man would be standing there with a gleaming smile, holding a neatly wrapped package of delicious denial. The delivery men even knew me by name, and I knew them by name too,

“Daniel! Good to see you again! How are the wife and kids? Little Tommy finally lose that tooth?” We were friends, and they were helping me bury my sadness with every box, Styrofoam container, and paper bag. If you can picture yellow, blubbery fat being shoveled on top of a coffin with a woman inside crying, that was basically what was going on. The cries became more muffled the more fat I shoveled on top of that poor woman.

Emotional eating became my new identity. My doctor even recommended that I see a nutritionist, and was shocked that I didn’t develop gestational diabetes. She yelled at me every visit, but I couldn’t stop. Food was my drug. I definitely played with fire, and was criticized by many women for the amount of weight I gained. I was asked daily if I was having twins too. I tried to eat salads, broccoli and spinach everyday too, but the scale kept climbing. I even took my prenatal vitamins religiously, but I still heard a lot of comments, some serious and hurtful, and some funny.

My trainer friends would associate Taco Bell with me, the jokes would fly, and I would laugh hysterically. (Even in 2018 as I write this, my trainer friends still, to this day, send me photos of burritos or tacos with #thinkingofyou #tacobell #youoverdiditsophia #neverforget #jennyfromtheblock #youwerehuge). As time went on, ordering food, and eating large servings of food became the backbone of my happiness. I needed a full stomach to distract me from my vacant heart.

My heart was in fact broken, and day in and day out I destroyed my figure. (My favorite quote of my pregnancy came from my friend Kyle: “Geez Sophia, what’s your blender set on? DESTROY?” That one made me pee in my skin-tight, see-through, clinging-on-for-dear-life workout pants that I refused to upgrade to maternity pants). I was a walking cry for help but I hid it with laughter. No one knew that my love affair with sheet cakes and tacos went deeper, and I never wanted them to know. I’d joke around in a lumberjack voice, “Yep, I eat like I train,” or “Big mama in the house!” pretending to adjust my pants like Chris Farley in an SNL van down by the river skit. I figured if I made others laugh, they wouldn’t see any sadness… and it worked.

Sheet cake… now that’s who saw the real me. Her sweet frosting caught every tear and temporarily filled the cracks in my broken heart. She’d whisper that everything would be ok, and I believed her. (That lying bitch)! We’d sit and watch trash T.V. together, and talk all night, sometimes until the sun came up. She was my true friend and stuck with me, literally. To my love handles, my thighs, my arms, and my chinny-chin-chins…