Tonight, I'm writing because that's all that I know to do right now. I tried to create a Word document but my subscription to Office 365 has expired. How ironic, huh Alanis Morisette?
I went to lunch last Thursday with a group of friends. One friend looked across the table at another friend and said "You're getting so skinny!" One friend ordered a salad with fat free ranch dressing and a diet coke and remarked that she had to get back to her diet because she's gained back some of the weight she's lost. I, too, ordered a salad and then just sat there picking at it, telling myself that I was "full", even though I hadn't even eaten a fourth of it, worrying that I might look "greedy" if I finished it. Another friend grabbed a third piece of garlic bread from the basket and joked that if she kept eating like that she was going to get fat. My brother posted on Face book that he had left a box of truffles at my parent's house for me on Sunday. I stopped by my dad's house today and he asked if I had eaten lunch. I replied "No, I'm not hungry." He replied that there was a strawberry-rhubarb pie on the stove, if I was interested. My 19 year old nephew is concerned that his mom and his sister are overweight and is urging them to do something about it because they're not healthy. My 10 year old nephew gets teased at school for being too fat. My brother's fiancee is on a diet. So is his ex-wife. One friend limits herself to one small meal a day in an attempt to manage her weight. A friend posted a picture of her 6 month old daughter on Face book today and referred to her as "my little pork chop" and then stated that she already weighs 17 pounds and needs to "slow down". I make this list, not to attack anyone or call anyone out, but just to show that even if we are not consciously aware of it, we (as a society, not just within my group of friends) talk about and refer to our weight A LOT! Enough said.
Suck it up, buttercup! Play the hand you were dealt! Well, here's a news flash for you - folding is an option in Poker if you don't think you have a winning hand, and now, I'm choosing to fold.
I have been seeing psychiatrists and therapists for 22 years now. I have been taking my meds. I go to 12 step groups, mental health support groups, and try to do "the next right thing". A friend says to write a gratitude list. But you see, you are assuming that I'm not doing that. After all, you do it and it works. Well, I have been doing that very thing so maybe I'm just doing it wrong. Another tells me to pray, even if all I can say is "Help". I'm doing that too. Another says to reach out to someone else. I called a friend just to ask how they were doing and to say "Hello". I did not feel better this time. Did I do that wrong too? I am reminded of the St. Francis prayer, that it's better to love than to be loved. I guess I'm not up for that calling. I no longer feel comfortable representing NAMI through presentations to others about how it's possible to live well with a mental illness because I'm doing anything but that very thing.
I want to make the choice to stop treatment and I'm told I can't choose that. You see, I'm not in my "right mind" when I think that because of the mental illness so others should make those decisions for me. I get referred to the hospital, to get straightened out. Well, I'm tired of doing it that way. Dr. F. told me 10 years ago or more that my problem was that I wasn't "feminine" enough. His advice was to grow out my hair, start wearing makeup again, and, my favorite part, consider getting some dental work done to create a small gap between the middle of my front teeth because that is what men find attractive. He said "I'm hoping that you are attracted to men" in a way that I knew admitting that I'm not was not acceptable. I saw him for 6 months, because that is who my insurance would pay for me to see. He was a licensed psychiatrist. He went to medical school. After he up and left, and I'm not complaining about that, I went to see Dr. D. He put me on 9 medications. Yes, 9. That's not a typo. I showed up at my therapists office while manic and exhausted. She asked if it was okay to call the doctor. I said yes. Dr. D. told her that I was "too high risk" for him and to let me know that I would need to find another doctor. He didn't even have the balls to tell me himself. He was a licensed psychiatrist. He went to medical school. I went to another mental health provider after that and had a different doctor every time I went in because there was no regular doctor anymore. And I don't want to leave out the brilliant ER physician who looked at me and said "There's nothing wrong with you. You're just manic. " He then presented me with a prescription for Klonopin. He told me that it would be okay to take "a few extra" the first couple of nights, you know, until my sleep got back on track. And he stressed to me the importance of making sure that I lay down on my side or my stomach, not my back, after taking that because due to my size, specifically, my neck circumference, I would be at a high risk for suffocating in my sleep and dying . Dr. L., also an ER doc, told me that I was "wasting his time and taking him away from patients who really needed his help." He at least later apologized, but he couldn't un-ring that bell. And there was the time I had to have my stomach pumped following an overdose. The nurse shoving the tube down my throat kept yelling at me the whole time for "making her job harder on her" because I had no one to blame but myself. It was my own damn fault. I don't imagine that she saw that as a symptom of my depression but rather as a stupid, selfish decision. She did not see my pain because that doesn't show up on a brain scan or heart monitor. I've been to 13 different therapists in 20 years. While I was at one providers' office, there was a sudden mass Exodus of therapists. I point blank asked my therapist if he was going to be leaving too. He looked me in the eye and said "No, I'm here to stay." Two weeks later he announced in a group therapy session that he had accepted a position elsewhere and would be leaving in 2 weeks. So, I know I asked you, L., if you were leaving. Please don't take it personally if I'm reluctant to believe you. You see, I'm drawing on my past experience, which is really all I have to work with right now.
I am beginning to think that the mental health care system is broken beyond repair. I tried making up a list of all of the medications I have tried and I came up with at least 37. Probably in a hundred different combinations over the years. I guess I just haven't found the "right" combination yet. But how long am I supposed to knock on that door? Recovery tells me that if I'm knocking on a door and it doesn't open, it's not my door. There are always new meds. There always will be. When is enough enough? No one seems to have an answer for why I can't sleep. Try Remeron, 30 mg? No. Trazadone, 600 mg? No. Ativan, 10 mg, IM? No. Thorazine, 400 mg? No. Seroquel 900 mg? No. During one of my many too many hospital stays to mention, the Dr. started me on an antidepressant because I was depressed. Three days later, he discontinued it because I had become manic and he commented that he was glad he hadn't already discharged me. I was there for 14 days, then I went home. Less than a month later, I was in a different facility. You see, the depression came back, in full force. Their Dr. put me back on an antidepressant, one to treat the OCD as well. After a week, I went home. Again. I saw my regular psychiatrist, in her office for my outpatient follow-up. She took one look at my manic ass and stopped the medication I had just started for the depression and OCD. She told me I couldn't take those when I'm manic. I've been off of that for 7 weeks now. The depression is back. Bipolar disorder is tricky you see. With the antidepressants, I am manic. Without them, I'm depressed. And the OCD and PTSD are forced to take a "back seat" to the monster, bipolar disorder. Maybe something will come to you in your dreams. I know that as I sit here typing, you are in bed, sleeping. And I am not. You're probably breathing, without having to think about it. But you see, I have to tell myself to breathe, because I forget to do that too.
My whole adult life has been about trying to get better. I'm tired of trying. And I'm tired of you telling me not to give up. Everyone has their "answer". I want to believe that all of the health care professionals I've seen over the years have had what they think is my best interest at heart. But I'm not allowed to have mine. I'm not just dealing with mental illness. The "diet" my medical doctor has me on has side effects. Muscle cramping. Constipation. Drink pickle juice. That just comes with the territory. My headaches are most likely caused by my lack of sleep. No shit Sherlock! Nausea and vomiting? Stick to clear liquids until it passes. I stopped taking Lasix again but my body still has to pee every 30 minutes. So, my urologist wrote a prescription to take care of that. Isn't working. My legs hurt so bad that I couldn't even stand to have my kitties sitting on my lap tonight. What do I have left? Oh, yeah, the Cubs. A friend told me a true Cubs fan doesn't give up. Look where they were on November 2, 2016. Well, it took them 108 years to get there. I don't have 108 years. And I'll be damned if I'm going to keep apologizing for my choices and my feelings and my frustrations right now.
I went for a long drive this afternoon and thought about "letting go". See, I've been trying to let go. I've been trying to let go of anger and resentment. I've been trying to let go of hurt and pain. I've been trying to let go of my addictions. I stay sober. I stay abstinent. Let go and let God, right? I remembered a nursing home resident named Bill that I had the privilege of taking care of when I was a CNA in college. No one wanted to take care of him. Physically, he wasn't that difficult to care for, but he kept pulling his oxygen off and screaming "Help me!" non stop. He had Alzheimer's. He tried your patience for sure. I went in one afternoon for my shift and the nurse informed us that Bill was dying. She said he wasn't expected to survive the shift. She asked for volunteers to take care of him that night. We all looked at each other and then I said I'd take him. I got the other residents taken care of and passed on my lunch break to sit with Bill. He was struggling so hard to breathe. I reached out and took his hand and in a quiet voice, told him that it was okay to let go. I told him that he was loved. That he mattered. And that if he was ready, it was okay to go. He took one more breath and then he died. After I collected myself, I went to get the nurse. She told me that it was my job to get him ready for the coroner. So, I bathed him, dressed him in a clean gown, and combed his hair out of his eyes for the last time. It was so peaceful. But when you're depressed, no one takes your hand and tells you it's okay to let go. No. They tell you to fight. They tell you it will get better. They tell you to be strong, that you are inspiring them to keep going. That's a pretty heavy burden to carry. See, the way that I look at it, I've been looking at "letting go" all wrong. Maybe when I hear God whispering that it's okay to let go, that He's "got this", He's telling me that it's okay to come home.
Sunday, May 27, 2018
Saturday, May 19, 2018
"Too Much" Equals "Not Enough"
It seems like everything and everyone I encounter lately point out to me that I am too fat. My previous entry, It Still Hurts, describes my experience in the grocery store a week ago. Well, it looks like that was just the beginning of the end for me. In the past ten days, my weight has been all that I can focus on. I went to a doctor of mine to discuss possible options for dealing with chronic pain. Well, I never saw the doctor. The nurse who checked me in asked if I was there for another injection. I replied that I wasn't sure if that's what I wanted to do because they don't seem to be helping anymore. She then informed me that I shouldn't expect the doctor to work miracles when the real problem is that I am too fat. If only I'd exercise and eat a salad once in a while, I wouldn't be in this position, she said. I looked over at my reflection in the mirror at the end of the examining room table and felt an overwhelming sense of deep shame. And then I got up and left. I never waited on the doctor. After all, the nurse was right, right? My pain is my own fault. When I got out to the car, I took out my phone and made several calls, cancelling appointments with my endocrinologist, family physician, and OB/GYN, telling myself that I'm too fat to ask for treatment for my medical conditions. I always apologize to the EMTs for having to track down an extra person to load me into an ambulance when I need to go to the ER. God forbid that anything should happen to me in my own apartment and first responders would have to get me up the stairs.
I got on Face book a couple of days later to find a post from a friend. It showed a picture of an obese woman getting out of her car in a handicapped spot in the parking lot. My friend's response to that picture was (he used all caps) "YOU'RE NOT HANDICAPPED, YOU'RE FAT!" He went on to say that the BMV should create a special tag for fat people and require them to park in the spaces furthest from the store so that they would have to do a little exercise on their way in to buy cookies and ice cream. Again, ,I felt ashamed. It must be what everyone else is thinking when they see me get out of the car. I no longer make eye contact with others. It's less painful to look down at my feet.
I was riding in the car with a family member about a month ago and this person commented that "----- would be so much prettier if she would lose a bit of weight." So, I asked if that meant the person in question wasn't pretty because they were overweight. The response I got was that they weren't saying the individual wasn't pretty, just that they could look so much more attractive if they dropped some weight. I then asked what they thought about me, as I am much heavier, only to be met with silence. At the South Side Diner the other day I could feel eyes on me coming from the older couple in the booth directly across the aisle. I heard the older lady say to her husband "How could anybody let themselves get that big?" I glanced over at her, wanting her to know that I heard what she said and I wanted to scream out to everyone there that I was eating a cheeseburger patty, no bun, a side salad, and cottage cheese, and drinking water, all of which are foods I am "allowed" to eat on the food plan established by my weight loss doctor so FUCK OFF! But, I didn't. I pushed my plate aside, asked for my bill, then went home and forced myself to throw up, chastising myself for being "bad". For being hungry. For needing to eat at all. For being alive.
I've found myself really listening to what others are saying about weight lately. I have several friends who have been losing weight. Some, intentionally through diet and exercise. Some due to eating disorders. Some, unintentionally as a result of other physical health issues. No matter what the underlying reason, the comments made by my friends to these individuals go something like this: "You are getting so skinny! You look great! I wish I was that skinny!" I cringe every time I hear those words and remain silent, full of shame and self-loathing. I've cut back on going out to dinner with my friends because, once again, I am worried about being judged for what I order. I worry about how I look compared to everyone else and I'm angry that I am even visible. I've started leaving meetings early, to avoid the "expected" hugging afterward because I am self conscious. I'm not sleek and thin. I'm big and squishy. I don't deserve love.
I seems like I can't not focus on my weight or size anymore. I turn down invitations to go to friends houses because I don't know what kind of furniture they have, knowing that it is hard for me to get up and down from chairs. I don't fit in most booths at restaurants any more. I can't sit outside and enjoy watching the sunset because lawn chairs do not hold me. I don't like to ride with others because the seat belts in their cars might not fit around me. I can't buy clothes at the store, because they don't carry my size. I turned down an opportunity to go on an Alaskan cruise with my family because my weight has caused some physical limitations that would severely limit my ability to go on this trip. Everything is a reminder that I'm too big. It seems like no matter how many things I do "right" (like drinking water, cutting carbs, not eating dessert), it's not enough.
And I, too, am guilty of judging others based on their weight. A friend posted a picture of her daughter's ballet recital on Face book the other night. There were four girls in the front row. My immediate response? The third girl from the left is too fat. And then I started thinking about how painful her life will be if she doesn't slim down. I've totally bought into the idea that thin is what matters. I find myself thinking that thin is all that matters. One of the hardest things to hear from friends and family is "Oh, but I love you anyway." Yes, anyway. That's like saying to someone who has blond hair that I love them anyway, implying that being blond isn't good enough. I know that it shouldn't matter to me what anyone else thinks or says, but it does. There is a saying that goes "what others think of you is none of your business". It's so hard not to make it my business when everywhere I turn, I am faced with reminders that I'm not enough. Several years ago, I was out on a walk and a car of guys, I would say in their early twenties, drove past me. They rolled down the windows of the car and made "oinking" and "mooing" noises at me. As if that weren't embarrassing enough, they turned the car around and made a second pass at me, this time with 3 of them dropping their pants and mooning me while yelling "Here piggy piggy!" So, I joined a health club. I mustered up the courage to go in for my first workout, which took a lot for me to do. I heard two young men mocking me after I got up from using one of the machines. I tried to brush that off and went over to the treadmill. The most I could do was five minutes. I thought I was going to die. As I stepped off the treadmill, the man next to me, who was running on the treadmill, said to me "That's it? That was hardly worth the effort!" I went over to try the recumbent bike but my left knee wouldn't bend enough to allow me to use that either. I crumpled up the exercise plan that the personal trainer had designed for me and I left, hoping I would make it to my car before starting to cry. I never went back, even though I paid the membership fee each month for a full year. I would so much rather admit to being an alcoholic and drug addict, a sexual abuse and rape survivor, or that I am living with mental illness than have to have the whole world see that I am fat.
I don't know where to go from here. I know that I don't have any answers. This entry is coming from a place of deep pain and frustration. I've lost roughly 60 pounds in the past six months. But, (yes, there is a but) I've gained back 7 pounds in the last two weeks, due in part to a medication change which has resulted in a significantly increased appetite. So, I'm feeling defeated, again. I worry that no matter what I do, or how hard I try, I'm never going to reach an acceptable weight. I'm finding it so hard not to give up.
I got on Face book a couple of days later to find a post from a friend. It showed a picture of an obese woman getting out of her car in a handicapped spot in the parking lot. My friend's response to that picture was (he used all caps) "YOU'RE NOT HANDICAPPED, YOU'RE FAT!" He went on to say that the BMV should create a special tag for fat people and require them to park in the spaces furthest from the store so that they would have to do a little exercise on their way in to buy cookies and ice cream. Again, ,I felt ashamed. It must be what everyone else is thinking when they see me get out of the car. I no longer make eye contact with others. It's less painful to look down at my feet.
I was riding in the car with a family member about a month ago and this person commented that "----- would be so much prettier if she would lose a bit of weight." So, I asked if that meant the person in question wasn't pretty because they were overweight. The response I got was that they weren't saying the individual wasn't pretty, just that they could look so much more attractive if they dropped some weight. I then asked what they thought about me, as I am much heavier, only to be met with silence. At the South Side Diner the other day I could feel eyes on me coming from the older couple in the booth directly across the aisle. I heard the older lady say to her husband "How could anybody let themselves get that big?" I glanced over at her, wanting her to know that I heard what she said and I wanted to scream out to everyone there that I was eating a cheeseburger patty, no bun, a side salad, and cottage cheese, and drinking water, all of which are foods I am "allowed" to eat on the food plan established by my weight loss doctor so FUCK OFF! But, I didn't. I pushed my plate aside, asked for my bill, then went home and forced myself to throw up, chastising myself for being "bad". For being hungry. For needing to eat at all. For being alive.
I've found myself really listening to what others are saying about weight lately. I have several friends who have been losing weight. Some, intentionally through diet and exercise. Some due to eating disorders. Some, unintentionally as a result of other physical health issues. No matter what the underlying reason, the comments made by my friends to these individuals go something like this: "You are getting so skinny! You look great! I wish I was that skinny!" I cringe every time I hear those words and remain silent, full of shame and self-loathing. I've cut back on going out to dinner with my friends because, once again, I am worried about being judged for what I order. I worry about how I look compared to everyone else and I'm angry that I am even visible. I've started leaving meetings early, to avoid the "expected" hugging afterward because I am self conscious. I'm not sleek and thin. I'm big and squishy. I don't deserve love.
I seems like I can't not focus on my weight or size anymore. I turn down invitations to go to friends houses because I don't know what kind of furniture they have, knowing that it is hard for me to get up and down from chairs. I don't fit in most booths at restaurants any more. I can't sit outside and enjoy watching the sunset because lawn chairs do not hold me. I don't like to ride with others because the seat belts in their cars might not fit around me. I can't buy clothes at the store, because they don't carry my size. I turned down an opportunity to go on an Alaskan cruise with my family because my weight has caused some physical limitations that would severely limit my ability to go on this trip. Everything is a reminder that I'm too big. It seems like no matter how many things I do "right" (like drinking water, cutting carbs, not eating dessert), it's not enough.
And I, too, am guilty of judging others based on their weight. A friend posted a picture of her daughter's ballet recital on Face book the other night. There were four girls in the front row. My immediate response? The third girl from the left is too fat. And then I started thinking about how painful her life will be if she doesn't slim down. I've totally bought into the idea that thin is what matters. I find myself thinking that thin is all that matters. One of the hardest things to hear from friends and family is "Oh, but I love you anyway." Yes, anyway. That's like saying to someone who has blond hair that I love them anyway, implying that being blond isn't good enough. I know that it shouldn't matter to me what anyone else thinks or says, but it does. There is a saying that goes "what others think of you is none of your business". It's so hard not to make it my business when everywhere I turn, I am faced with reminders that I'm not enough. Several years ago, I was out on a walk and a car of guys, I would say in their early twenties, drove past me. They rolled down the windows of the car and made "oinking" and "mooing" noises at me. As if that weren't embarrassing enough, they turned the car around and made a second pass at me, this time with 3 of them dropping their pants and mooning me while yelling "Here piggy piggy!" So, I joined a health club. I mustered up the courage to go in for my first workout, which took a lot for me to do. I heard two young men mocking me after I got up from using one of the machines. I tried to brush that off and went over to the treadmill. The most I could do was five minutes. I thought I was going to die. As I stepped off the treadmill, the man next to me, who was running on the treadmill, said to me "That's it? That was hardly worth the effort!" I went over to try the recumbent bike but my left knee wouldn't bend enough to allow me to use that either. I crumpled up the exercise plan that the personal trainer had designed for me and I left, hoping I would make it to my car before starting to cry. I never went back, even though I paid the membership fee each month for a full year. I would so much rather admit to being an alcoholic and drug addict, a sexual abuse and rape survivor, or that I am living with mental illness than have to have the whole world see that I am fat.
I don't know where to go from here. I know that I don't have any answers. This entry is coming from a place of deep pain and frustration. I've lost roughly 60 pounds in the past six months. But, (yes, there is a but) I've gained back 7 pounds in the last two weeks, due in part to a medication change which has resulted in a significantly increased appetite. So, I'm feeling defeated, again. I worry that no matter what I do, or how hard I try, I'm never going to reach an acceptable weight. I'm finding it so hard not to give up.
Saturday, May 12, 2018
It Still Hurts
It's after 10:00 p.m. and I'm getting pretty tired but I wanted to write this while it was still fresh in my mind. I don't really know how to start. There are so many thoughts and emotions running through my mind. So, I guess I'll just start writing and hope that at some point it will make sense.
This afternoon, after visiting my mom, I went to Wal Mart to pick up a few groceries. For about the past six months, I have been using the motorized carts to do my shopping. Last September, I was at my highest weight ever, weighing 437 pounds. I have become involved in a couple of programs to help me address this and become a healthier person. As of today, my weight is down to 383 pounds. I know that I still have a long way to go, but I'm working on it. Besides my weight, I have several other health problems that impact my mobility. As a result of a car accident back in 1997, I have a lot of metal in my right foot and since that injury, experience tremendous pain in my foot and ankle with every single step I take. I also have severe osteoarthritis in my knees. There is no cartilage at all left in my left knee. Over the years, NSAID pain relievers and cortisone injections have helped with the knee pain, but they no longer provide even minimal relief. I am still too heavy for knee replacement surgery and at this time there aren't really any other options. Throw in a diminished lung capacity, due in large part to my asthma, and a heart arrhythmia, and well, it all makes things a bit harder for me to do many things I once took for granted.
It has taken some getting used to on my part to adjust to limitations in my mobility. There are simply some things that I am not able to do at this time, and shopping is one of them. I am often uncomfortable and self-conscious when I use the motorized carts. I see older adults pushing grocery carts through the store and find myself thinking that if they can do it, then I should be able to do it. I see other morbidly obese customers pushing carts and chastise myself for not "trying harder" and I hear that overly critical voice inside my head saying that I'm being too lazy. All of my difficulties are my own fault anyway, so I should just suck it up and push the damn cart! I start to imagine what others must be thinking of me when I scoot past them, which makes me forget why I am in the store in the first place. I practice my defense for every item in my cart because God forbid I have anything in it that I "shouldn't" have. And I pray that the unthinkable doesn't happen. I pray that the cart doesn't lose it's charge while I am still shopping, leaving me stranded.
Well, today, it happened. I was finished with my shopping and was heading to the checkout lane when the cart ran out of juice. There I was, stuck in the middle of the aisle, completely blocking the way of people coming from both directions. Shit. So, I flagged down a store employee and told him that the cart had died and asked if there was someone who could help me by bringing me another cart and get the one I was using out of the middle of the aisle so that the other shoppers could get through. The guy looked at me and said that he was stocking shelves and that it wasn't his job to do that. Um, okay. Then he turned around and walked away. So, still stuck, I flagged down a second employee who informed me that he was on his lunch break before I even got my plea for help out of my mouth. When I heard that, I apologized and asked if he could ask someone else to help me but he had already turned away from me and started to walk away. My old way of thinking immediately pounced on me and I felt guilty and ashamed. I found myself thinking that all of this was my fault. My fault for being too fat. My fault for playing the catcher's position in softball for years, which everyone knows is bad for your knees. My fault for having asthma. My fault for trying to do my grocery shopping in the middle of a Saturday afternoon, and worse yet, on a holiday weekend when the store was so busy. My fault for not more closely watching the battery charge on the cart. My fault for being an inconvenience.
Thankfully, another customer had been there and witnessed what had happened and heard what the two employees had said to me. She went looking for another employee to help me, and made it clear that I had been treated disrespectfully and promptly dismissed by the others. This worker went and brought another cart to me and helped me to transfer my groceries to the other cart. I sheepishly thanked him, still feeling like I needed to justify myself or explain why I was worthy of his time and assistance. I then proceeded to the checkout, paid for my groceries, and headed out to my car. And then I started to cry. I still couldn't shake the feeling that I had deserved to be treated that way. And then I was angry - not at the workers, but at MYSELF! How could I have let what was a ten minute long unpleasant experience totally wipe out all of the progress I've made over the past six months to take care of myself, physically, mentally, and spiritually? I found myself wondering if I would ever learn to love myself enough to not feel like I owe the world an apology for living. After I got home and had an opportunity to collect myself, I called the store and asked to speak to a manager. She apologized and told me that she would address the issue. And here I am, eight hours later, still trying to figure out how I'm going to get my groceries from now on because the fear of that happening again seems insurmountable. I shouldn't have to feel that way. No one deserves to be brushed aside. I have to remember that how I was treated this afternoon is a reflection on two insensitive individuals and not on me. But, it still hurts.
This afternoon, after visiting my mom, I went to Wal Mart to pick up a few groceries. For about the past six months, I have been using the motorized carts to do my shopping. Last September, I was at my highest weight ever, weighing 437 pounds. I have become involved in a couple of programs to help me address this and become a healthier person. As of today, my weight is down to 383 pounds. I know that I still have a long way to go, but I'm working on it. Besides my weight, I have several other health problems that impact my mobility. As a result of a car accident back in 1997, I have a lot of metal in my right foot and since that injury, experience tremendous pain in my foot and ankle with every single step I take. I also have severe osteoarthritis in my knees. There is no cartilage at all left in my left knee. Over the years, NSAID pain relievers and cortisone injections have helped with the knee pain, but they no longer provide even minimal relief. I am still too heavy for knee replacement surgery and at this time there aren't really any other options. Throw in a diminished lung capacity, due in large part to my asthma, and a heart arrhythmia, and well, it all makes things a bit harder for me to do many things I once took for granted.
It has taken some getting used to on my part to adjust to limitations in my mobility. There are simply some things that I am not able to do at this time, and shopping is one of them. I am often uncomfortable and self-conscious when I use the motorized carts. I see older adults pushing grocery carts through the store and find myself thinking that if they can do it, then I should be able to do it. I see other morbidly obese customers pushing carts and chastise myself for not "trying harder" and I hear that overly critical voice inside my head saying that I'm being too lazy. All of my difficulties are my own fault anyway, so I should just suck it up and push the damn cart! I start to imagine what others must be thinking of me when I scoot past them, which makes me forget why I am in the store in the first place. I practice my defense for every item in my cart because God forbid I have anything in it that I "shouldn't" have. And I pray that the unthinkable doesn't happen. I pray that the cart doesn't lose it's charge while I am still shopping, leaving me stranded.
Well, today, it happened. I was finished with my shopping and was heading to the checkout lane when the cart ran out of juice. There I was, stuck in the middle of the aisle, completely blocking the way of people coming from both directions. Shit. So, I flagged down a store employee and told him that the cart had died and asked if there was someone who could help me by bringing me another cart and get the one I was using out of the middle of the aisle so that the other shoppers could get through. The guy looked at me and said that he was stocking shelves and that it wasn't his job to do that. Um, okay. Then he turned around and walked away. So, still stuck, I flagged down a second employee who informed me that he was on his lunch break before I even got my plea for help out of my mouth. When I heard that, I apologized and asked if he could ask someone else to help me but he had already turned away from me and started to walk away. My old way of thinking immediately pounced on me and I felt guilty and ashamed. I found myself thinking that all of this was my fault. My fault for being too fat. My fault for playing the catcher's position in softball for years, which everyone knows is bad for your knees. My fault for having asthma. My fault for trying to do my grocery shopping in the middle of a Saturday afternoon, and worse yet, on a holiday weekend when the store was so busy. My fault for not more closely watching the battery charge on the cart. My fault for being an inconvenience.
Thankfully, another customer had been there and witnessed what had happened and heard what the two employees had said to me. She went looking for another employee to help me, and made it clear that I had been treated disrespectfully and promptly dismissed by the others. This worker went and brought another cart to me and helped me to transfer my groceries to the other cart. I sheepishly thanked him, still feeling like I needed to justify myself or explain why I was worthy of his time and assistance. I then proceeded to the checkout, paid for my groceries, and headed out to my car. And then I started to cry. I still couldn't shake the feeling that I had deserved to be treated that way. And then I was angry - not at the workers, but at MYSELF! How could I have let what was a ten minute long unpleasant experience totally wipe out all of the progress I've made over the past six months to take care of myself, physically, mentally, and spiritually? I found myself wondering if I would ever learn to love myself enough to not feel like I owe the world an apology for living. After I got home and had an opportunity to collect myself, I called the store and asked to speak to a manager. She apologized and told me that she would address the issue. And here I am, eight hours later, still trying to figure out how I'm going to get my groceries from now on because the fear of that happening again seems insurmountable. I shouldn't have to feel that way. No one deserves to be brushed aside. I have to remember that how I was treated this afternoon is a reflection on two insensitive individuals and not on me. But, it still hurts.
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