The Ugly Duckling

This past weekend my family gathered to celebrate my nephew Aiden's high school graduation. I went back and forth, fighting with myself over whether or not to go. I came up with a number of "reasons" not to go. It was going to be hot outside. Walking is still very difficult for me ever since my ankle and fibula fractures last winter, so I'd have to use my wheelchair. I haven't been able to go in for a haircut since last November. And oh yeah, I'm fatter again. Ever since my injury in December I've been gaining weight. In fact, I have regained 60 pounds out of the 100 pounds that I had lost. There are many factors that led up to this. The inactivity as a result of being non weight bearing on my left leg for eight weeks. More limited food choices at the nursing facility where I spent 3 months following my surgery. The return of poor eating habits. Because I hated the food at the nursing facility I would order delivery a couple nights a week. I also discovered that Walmart would deliver my "snacks" right to my room! I started ordering candy, chips, fruit snacks (which proved to be my biggest downfall), granola bars, pop, whatever I wanted. I did order some fresh fruit too, so not every choice was "bad". I had fallen into a deep depression because I was cut off from face-to-face contact with family and friends the vast majority of the time. I was bored out of my mind and found myself mindlessly grabbing for the food and shoveling it into my mouth and not even realizing that I was doing it until 10 minutes would go by.

I thought it would be better when I got home. I thought I'd be able to jump right back into my healthy eating habits. But that didn't happen. Coming home was much harder than I thought it would be. I knew that it wasn't going to be easy, but I wasn't mentally prepared for how challenging it was going to be. The stairs leading to my apartment door were precarious and continue to present a significant challenge for me. I had been spending hours and hours and hours searching for an apartment that did not have any steps and would be safe and accessible for me prior to coming home without any success. I'm still plugging away on my search for new housing. My landlord did install two grab bars in the bathroom for me as well as add additional handrails on my stairs for increased safety. The first time I used my bathroom after coming home, I sat on the toilet in tears because I was afraid to try to stand up. The last time I had been in that bathroom was on December 16, 2023, the night I passed out. Just walking to the bathroom was a challenge. I don't know. I think that I was expecting everything to go back to normal the instant I walked through the door and saw my kitties again. Then a good friend who had been instrumental in cheering me on in my weight loss efforts moved across the country and I kind of gave up. I was bored, so I ate. I was sad, so I ate. I started "rewarding" myself with food for simply waking up in the morning. The depression grew stronger and stronger. I withdrew further and further into myself. Melissa Etheridge sings "I wrapped my fear around me like a blanket", Well, I wrapped my "fat" around me like a blanket. I follow the healthy eating plan the doctor wants me to follow for a day and then I say "Fuck it! It's not going to matter anyway. It's too late for me."

Things are harder for me again now that I have regained the weight. I had gotten to the point last fall where I could actually reach down and tie my shoes myself again. Now, I can't even reach my feet. Getting in and out of my van is more difficult. Sure, the injury plays a part in that one, but I have noticed that my left knee feels like it wants to buckle underneath me when I try to get out of the van and I'm once again having some knee pain which I hadn't been having since having my knees replaced a couple of years ago. The orthopedic surgeons had given me a second chance and I was making great strides towards becoming more physically active so that I could do more with my family and friends and once again, that has all been stripped away. I've been avoiding family and friends, definitely in person, but also on Zoom, because I feel ashamed and embarrassed over my appearance.  I especially don't want to go to any events that involve food because of how self-conscious I feel and all of the obsessive thoughts that I know I will have to deal with. This open house should have been about Aiden. He wanted a picture of our family, celebrating his special day. And all I could think about was how fucking fat I looked, sitting front and center in my wheelchair. When I first saw the picture, I cried. I thought to myself "I don't belong". I'm too fat to exist. I want to die. It's been a while since I've had those feelings. I don't like them. And then I remember that as long as I'm still here, I have a chance, an opportunity to change. Maybe there is still hope that one day I will come into my own and go from being that scared, depressed, ugly duckling to becoming a self-confident, beautiful swan. 

When Did This Become Okay?

When did this become okay? When did it become okay to not be able to put on my shoes and socks without straining and becoming short of breath? When did it become okay to not be able to shower in my own home because I cannot raise my legs high enough to step into the tub? When did it become okay to not be able to reach in the bathroom? How did I let things get to this point? I was suddenly struck by the realization that my normal is no longer "normal" this afternoon as I sat on the side of my bed, struggling to get up. I have to rock back and forth, big time, to build up enough momentum to hoist myself off of the mattress into a standing position, which usually takes me 4 or 5 tries now. Its not a pretty sight. I'm not a pretty sight. When did this become okay?

And as I sat there crying, I had to acknowledge that unless I do something about this, unless I take action, this isn't going to change. I presently do not like where I am. I do not like how I look. I do not like how my clothes fit. I do not like how I feel. I do not like that I am limited as to what I can do by the size of my body. So I have a choice to make. Accept that this is my lot in life or do something about it. I refuse to accept that the way I am living now is okay any longer! I want better for me. I have been reluctant to join a gym out of the fear of what others might think of me or how I look. I'm not going to let that stop me anymore. Today, I made a phone call and set up an appointment with a personal trainer to help establish an exercise program to get me started moving again. I know that this is going to be difficult, but I am up for the challenge. In the past, I always enjoyed working out. I have faith that I can get there again. Is it going to be difficult? Yes! Am I going to curse at the treadmill? YES! But I am going to do it anyway knowing that it is what is right for me.

I am also going to commit to drinking four bottles of water a day. My doctor has been pushing that one for several months now. I'm not going to wait until I figure out why I keep sabotaging myself first, before adopting healthy habits. Otherwise, I'll never start taking care of myself. I have time to work on that in therapy while I am working on becoming healthier physically. I really have no more excuses to keep putting off what I know I need to do. I'm ready to work on getting back to "normal".

***UPDATE***: This blog entry was written six years ago. Since then I've swallowed my pride and admitted that I needed help in taking care of myself. As an occupational therapist, I'm aware of durable medical equipment and adaptive equipment that can make it easier to maintain or improve someone's level of independence in the home. I balked at the idea of using these things though. I thought that those were only for people who had a "legitimate" illness or disability. The fact that I needed help because I was "fat" didn't count. I was letting my pride stand in the way of doing what I needed to do for myself. I now use a hospital bed. I had a grab bar, ADA height toilet, and a transfer tub bench installed in my bathroom after my knee replacement surgeries. I use a sock aid and a reacher to get dressed. I have a rolling walker and a cane, if I need them. I have started an exercise program through cardiac rehab three days a week. As I'm losing weight and getting stronger I'm beginning to see some things returning to "normal" and it feels good! Tonight, THAT is what I'm choosing to motivate me to keep moving forward!

No Longer Anesthesized

It has been quite some time since I initially started writing a blog about my weight loss journey. I think its pretty safe to say that I had abandoned my efforts at achieving a healthier me. I gave up on me. And then I continued to try to numb my feelings through compulsive overeating and binging. Why might I do that, you may wonder? I've spent a lot of time asking myself that very same question and the answer I keep coming back to is fear.

I am afraid to lose weight. Losing weight would mean that I would be more mobile. I wouldn't get so out of breath with every little task I set out to do. And that means more would be expected of  me. And I don't like that. I've  become rather accustomed to my slovenly ways and have forgotten how good it feels to be able to actually participate in life instead of simply sitting by the sidelines watching the world go by. I no longer know how to interact with the world and the people around me and being a part of scares me. I am an introvert by nature and my weight has suited me well as a means of isolating myself from others. What will I do without my  crutch? What will I do if I don't have an extra 250 pounds to put between me and you? How will I continue to feel safe around others, without feeling too vulnerable? The thought of intimacy with other human beings (and I'm not referring exclusively to sexual intimacy here) terrifies me and shakes me to the core. What if you really get to know me and you don't like me? I need my fat to protect me!

Only, I'm so very sad and lonely right now. I'm still isolated even within my friendships, at my own doing. I've made some significant progress and am no longer trolling the fast food joints like the great white shark in Jaws (and yes, I hear the music playing in the background!), searching for that ever elusive sense of warmth and comfort that simply cannot be found in a strawberry and cream pie or a peanut buster parfait. Now, the food no longer anesthesizes me and I am crying inside. Dying inside. I cannot continue down the path I am on. Today, I stand ready to make a change. Please be kind and gentle with me as I tread this uneven path, for I am afraid, but I can't continue to live my life the way I've been living it. No more giving up on me.

If Nothing Changes, Nothing Changes

So, here I am, sitting down to start on a new blogging adventure. I have decided to chronicle my weight loss journey on a blog. Why in the world would I want to do this? Afterall, my struggle with weight is a very personal matter and is a sensitive, touchy subject. However, I am going to put my thoughts and experiences out there for others. My reasons for doing so are threefold. First of all, my problems with weight and compulsive overeating are visible, whether I want to admit to that or not. Anyone who looks at me can already see that I have a problem, so it does me no good to continue to deny that I do indeed struggle with my relationship to food. Secondly, I cannot change something that I don't acknowledge and I am ready to make some changes for the better. Lastly, I have decided that this is something that I cannot tackle alone. By making my journey visible for friends and family to read, I am inviting people to help hold me accountable and to be there walking alongside of me as I work to change my life for the better. It will take me out of isolation and allow myself to be loved by others as I move forward on this path.

I don't want to focus on the "numbers". I will not be weighing and measuring myself obsessively, which will be a change in and of itself. I'm used to weighing myself several times a day so that I can either reward myself for being "good" or punish myself for being "bad". Either way, I am eating for reasons other than hunger. That being said, I still need to know where I am starting from and have a way to mark my progress along the way. I am going to commit to weighing and measuring myself only once a week. I will allow the way my clothes fit and feel to be my true measuring stick of progress.

Today, I will start out by acknowledging that yes, I am fat. I'm using that word because it is accurate and by using it in a non judgemental way to simply state a fact, I am taking the power of that word to hurt my feelings away. It used to be that that was the worst thing that I thought anyone could ever call me but I do not feel that way any longer. It simply is what it is.

I started a medically supervised weight loss program in August with the intention of pursuing bariatric surgery next spring. At that time I weighed 396 pounds. Today, I weigh 368 pounds and wear a size 32 in jeans. Period. I am relieved that I am not still at my highest weight which was 447 pounds last fall. I am excited about the opportunities to make myself healthier physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. I guess in this case, there is nowhere to go but down! I'd be lying if I said that I didn't have any expectations about what I want  to happen. I expect to lose weight. I expect to get stronger. I expect my joint pain to decrease. But I don't expect these things to happen overnight or without work and effort on my part. It is my goal to strive for loving and accepting myself along the way, not waiting until I lose "X" number of pounds or get into a size "Y". It is time for me to start loving myself the way I love and treat others. I am fat, but I am not unlovable. I am a woman deserving of love and respect and I refuse to continue to accept anything less.

The Witching Hour

It is upon me again - the witching hour. I have come to dread this time of day. Eight p.m. rolls around and all I want to do is EAT! I'm never "hungry" at 8:00. I'm not always even particularly bored either. But my mind turns to food and it is all that I think about. I wonder what I have in the kitchen. I grumble because I didn't buy any of the "good stuff" like chocolate and ice cream to binge on. I start jonesing for a Coke. As I sit there obsessing, my mouth starts to water and I begin to get agitated. Then I start arguing with myself about whether or not I should get in my car and head out to McDonald's or Dairy Queen for a quick fix. I find it very hard to break free from that obsession without giving in.

I'm struggling to fight the battle right now. I have made the decision to pursue bariatric surgery and am now participating in a medically supervised weight loss program. I have also begun cardiac rehab for 45 minutes, three days a week. I'm still early on in this process so the urges to eat compulsively and the cravings for the carbs and sugars are still strong. I sometimes have to limit my TV viewing at night so that I'm not bombarded with commercials from Taco Bell encouraging me to grab my fourth meal of the day.  I've been trying to redirect my thinking and focus through reading literature that promotes recovery from compulsive overeating and journaling my thoughts and feelings as they come up. I am discovering that I am full of anger, an emotion that I have almost always denied feeling. As I work at trying to stave off the food obsessions, my anger comes bubbling to the surface and I become incredibly uncomfortable, almost to the point of setting off a panic attack. I am frustrated with myself for allowing the food to have so much power over me. Rather than being something to nourish my body, it is a giant monster devouring my soul.

Thankfully, I have a good therapist and am working on building my support system to help guide me through these tumultuous waters. I would be lying if I said that I wasn't afraid of making some changes with regards to my relationship with food. Even though I no longer get that sense of immediate gratification that comes from eating a candy bar, it is still mentally my "go-to"  method to deal with all life circumstances. It is familiar and predictable. I know what happens when I eat; there are no surprises. When I resist the urge to eat, any of a number of things could happen and the uncertainty of that is unsettling to me. Am I willing to ride out the dis-ease? Right now I feel like I'm white knuckling it through the witching hour. This will get better, right? Staying the same is hard. Making changes is hard. It is up to me to choose my hard.

Food. Weight. Depression. I've Had Enough!

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.

"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.