you are viewing archives from 2004

identity theft

I have once again been the victim of identity theft.

Last time I was tipped off by a collection call from Nextel regarding $1600.08 that I supposedly owed them. Someone in Inglewood had taken my Social Security Card and pretended to be me. A few phone calls, a strongly worded letter or four, and a trip to the police station to fill out a report was all it took to clear things up.

This time, I fear it won’t be so easy.

Because this time, I’m the criminal.

It started a few months back. I had put on the Holiday Five. Five pounds isn’t all that big of a deal. My clothes still fit. I still look the same in the mirror. My brain said no big deal, just diet and exercise and be done with it. You can do this with your eyes closed. I purchased a small notebook to keep as my food and training log. I read and discussed the Ultimate Diet 2.0 with Lyle. I was on my way.

After following the diet and lifting program for one month, I was no leaner. The scale wavered between the same three pounds. Clothes fit exactly the same. One month of weighing and measuring my food, of obsessing over one strawberry or two, of timing meals and training and centering my life around my body to discover that I was exactly the same. My brain said, okay, something’s wrong.

I started to think that perhaps I should try to be less excessive. Moderation was the key.

I’d listen to my body. I’d see how I felt. I’d let my brain be my guide.

I did it for one week.

My body said oooh, cookies, cookies are love! I felt awful. My brain said you fat, stupid girl, knock this shit off!

I threw myself back into an exercise program. I tracked calories, figuring I would just try to maintain. I mused that my issue was that I started jackknifing off the high-dive when all I needed to do was tread water and splash around in the kiddie pool for a bit. My brain said: baby steps.

And then I started to feel terrible.

I went from sleeping six hours a night to sleeping eight. Then nine. Then ten. I was falling asleep in the middle of the day. My body felt like a sack of bones that I dragged from place to place. My weight crept up another pound, then two, the four.

Just get your fat ass moving, my brain told me.

But I don’t feel well, I’d respond.

Then you’ll just stay fat, my brain chided. You have everything going for you: you’re talented, you’re smart, you have an agent and a manager who believe in you, you have a passably cute face and you earn a more than decent living considering you’re unemployed; you have a family who doesn’t want you dead, you have an awesome dog and the most amazing boy on the planet. What’s your problem?

Good point, brain.

Finally at A.’s urging I went to the doctor.

Are you depressed? was the first question the doctor asked.

No, I don’t think so, I responded. I’ve been depressed, and this isn’t it. But if I keep feeling like crap, I’m gonna get depressed as a result.

The doctor did some blood work: I’m not hypothyroid, not Epstein Barr or mono. Liver, pancreas, heart all groovy.

Why do I feel like Night of the Living Dead? I asked him.

We’ll keep doing tests, he said. We’ll get to the bottom of it.

He thinks it’s all in your head, my brain said.

I kept working, conference calls with a director that we’re going to pitch an ABC Family movie with, honing the pilot presentation that we were taking to Nickelodeon. I’d gear up for those thirty minutes I was in the room, or on the phone. In those thirty minutes I’d be on, I’d be clear, I’d be funny and charming.

But afterward, my brain would remind me I know you’re just playing a part, fat girl.

Then my baba died. The call came at 6:30am. I didn’t cry. By 7:30am, I had booked the airline tickets for my brothers and my sister-in-law and me to head down to Florida. I didn’t cry. By 10am I was in Banana Republic, trying on funeral dresses.

I started to cry.

A. comforted me. It’s okay.

No, it’s not, I told him. I’m a horrible person. I’m not crying because of my baba. I’m crying because I just bought a size 12 dress.

I was mortified.

I still am.

I have always been a goal-oriented person. I have always believed that if you work hard enough, you can achieve anything. I believe in taking chances. I believe in operating without a net. I believe in doing things that other people deem impossible.

But fighting back tears in the Beverly Center while I clutched my Banana Republic shopping bag with the size-12 dress for my baba's funeral, I realized that in the past six months what makes me me is slowly dissipating.

And I want it back.

It’s not just the weight. It’s not just the lack of a writing job. It’s not just losing Peanut and my baba and my energy. It’s just everything. It’s Chinese Water Torture, bit by bit, chipping away at my self-esteem. I thought I was strong, I thought I was invincible, I thought I had beat that Fat Girl in my head who told me that I was unlikable and ugly, who told me that I could be charming and witty but people wouldn’t see past my fat thighs.

The person that I was built up an amazing life for herself.

The person that I am could ruin it all.

It’s unfair to the people who count on me. It’s unfair to A. But most of all, it’s unfair to me.

I may have to accept that I can’t change my body, although I’ll try to do so anyway.

I may have to accept that I can’t change my energy level, but I’ll try to do so anyway.

But I refuse to accept that I can’t change my brain. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again.

My name is Nina. I’m guilty of the crime of Identity Theft.

And it’s time to start making reparations.