When I was 15 years old, my father said, "It's too bad you couldn't be anorexic for a few weeks." The man was obsessed with my weight. He might still be, but I haven't had anything to do with him since I turned 18. To make it even worse, at that time, I wore tee shirts, untucked, that were large enough to drape rather than cling. With the way my chest sticks out, you couldn't see what belly fat I did have. I was 5' tall and weighed about 120 pounds. With my bone density and the physical muscle I did have, I wasn't anywhere near overweight. I was extremely healthy, physically.

When someone says the words "eating disorders," the first thing that usually comes to mind is anorexia and bulimia. Skeletal super models and the teenaged girls sticking their fingers down their throats. People forget about the other eating disorder: compulsive overeating or binge eating.

When I was a teenager, I didn't want to be thin and attractive. I wanted to be ugly and unnoticed. My father had me on a pretty strict weight loss plan when I spent the weekends with him as dictated by the divorce decree. I always took a few pounds of candy with me and hid it around the house to eat. That's a symptom of an eating disorder. Is it my eating disorder? Or was it his? Do I have an eating disorder? Could be. I've been as light as 115 and as heavy as 190. I've dieted and not-dieted. I'm somewhat secretive about what I eat and feel guilty for everything that goes in my mouth. I'm shamefully addicted to raw spinach and treat it the same way I treat chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. I don't have an ideal weight in my mind, I hate the way I look even when it's Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition cover material. And it is, when I'm not overweight. Hate is, perhaps, the wrong word. Fear it, yes. Anger, too mild. Rage?

I don't like it when people look at my body, especially when it's appreciative. Care to guess why? Not very difficult. When I'm overweight, I feel awful. Who doesn't? It's hard to breathe, hard to do anything, and it's harder to feel good about eating. When I'm a healthy weight, I feel awful, too, just not when climbing stairs.

I used to beg my mother to let me take martial arts. I didn't care which kind. Karate sounded great to me, but Tae Kwon Do was great, too. Kung fu, tai chi, wrestling. Anything. Please. She's a lady from way back. Ladies did not do martial arts. When I refused ballet lessons, she compromised with gymnastics. It was great until it came time to buy a leotard. The coach had a conference with my mother that I'd never make it competitively without surgical breast reduction. 14 years old. Yeah, can we say issues? Maybe I need therapy, but I've kind of been there, done that. My mom cut her "wise woman" teeth on Oprah and Phil Donahue. She can dispense pop-psych wisdom-isms like pez.

I have noticed that my weight has been pretty steady since I started feeling confident in my ability to do the kung fu smackdown.