I’ve been fat pretty much my entire adult life. In my early twenties I caught a terrible pneumonia. I was in the hospital for days and when I emerged, I was bone thin. I looked amazing. I think it was a Tuesday. Later, during my divorce, when my husband dropped by to inform me he was getting remarried, I lost my appetite for a time. The sound of him giggling like a school child while detailing his new nuptials seemed stuck in my head like the melody to “It’s A Small World After All” following a day at Disneyland. For weeks I lived on one can of Campbell’s Homestyle Chicken Noodle soup per day. I literally couldn’t swallow what was happening, either in my real life or on my plate. Until I was able to move past that episode, I was thin. That was in May, somewhere in the early 1990’s.
Of course, “fat” is always relative. The first time I was ever called fat to my face, by Megan Kimsey (yes, Megan, I remember you very clearly) I was at the end of sixth grade. Where I grew up, three different grade schools combined into one junior high, which meant seventh grade exposed you to high numbers of new and hostile people. At that time, I was 5’2 tall, and weighed 116 pounds. I remember that very clearly, because by living on Tab soda over the summer. I was able to get down under 110 pounds by the time school started, and I had to face Megan and her clique of fashionable sadists every day. At 116 pounds, I believed I was fat. Short of a terminal illness, I will never weigh 116 pounds again in my life. I want to travel back in time and kick my own ass so hard I fly into the future, so I can kick it again in the current day.
Like all dieters, each time I lost weight, I gained it back plus a little bit more. I spent decades destroying my metabolism. Going up and down the scale like a manic opera singer practicing, always trying, always failing, always too fat for something. Eventually my thyroid quit working, and pre-menopause had me in its sweaty exhausted clutches. The odds had never been more stacked against me.
I had a new doctor, in a terrible clinic assigned to me by the Oregon Health Plan. They will never believe that I don’t drink alcohol, ever. They insist I must be a meth addict, which since I am fat, and have a full set of straight white teeth, is patently ludicrous. They grudgingly acknowledge that yes, my thyroid is shot, and yes, that makes one stay fat. Then they told me EVERY health problem I had was due to my obesity, and lack of self-discipline. They made it crystal clear that they had no intention of trying to help someone so depraved as I, someone who would do nothing to help herself first. I haven’t gone back. Between the Tangerine Twatwaffle always threatening my access to health care, and the supposed “medical professionals” who find it so much more convenient to shame their patients than actually do their jobs, why would I bother?
What has made a real change recently is my daughter. She just graduated college with three degrees, in cellular biology, microbiology, and physics. She is crazy smart, and frequently impatient with me. She went on an exclusion diet, in order to tackle problems she was having ranging from fatigue, joint pain, GI tract issues, and mood swings. She had great success, and lost a large amount of weight. She told me that if I ever wanted to feel better, and work longer and harder, I needed to change my diet completely, and never mind any whining about it, she didn’t want to know.
I gave up grains. No bread, or crackers, or chips. No cookies, or pie. No cereals. No pasta, no rice. I gave up beef, then pork, then switched from poultry to vegetarian based “meat-like” products, but without any breading. I gave up a lot of dairy. I gave up potatoes, sweet potatoes, and corn. I pretty much live on fresh fruit, raw vegetables, cooked vegetables, and sadly, cheese. I can’t break my cheese addiction.
And oh, the coffee!! I tried to give it up. I tried to switch to almond milk and agave syrup sweetener. I made it a few days, then after pondering the reality of going to prison for aggravated homicide, I brought coffee with real cream and sugar back into my day. I’ve never asked my Mom for bail money in my life, and I’m not about to start now.
I’d love to report that I’ve actually lost weight, but I don’t own a scale anymore, so who knows. I do feel better, I feel like I can move more easily, and that’s a lot given how my entire life is physical labor. I’m not exactly sure how to sum up what my problem is except to say this: I am a really good cook, who no longer cooks, because there is no point. I used to enjoy my meals, now they’re just fuel. They give me no pleasure, and they do nothing to assuage stress. Comfort eating is called that because it actually does, at the time, comfort you. Now I’m just sitting here, grinding my teeth and clutching my carrot stick, watching my country be sold by traitors. I’m doing this to extend my life, but every day already feels like it lasts a million years, watching this shitshow. Does it really need to be extended? Really? I guess my fucking problem is I’m always in a bad mood. I’d apologize, but I don’t think I’m alone.
Finally, I’d like to say I know that there are people with health issues who cannot gain weight, and it’s no joke. I know I’m lucky to have enough food to eat when there are people starving. Still, it’s something that’s been on my mind for the last forty years or so, so there’s that…