BananaB

I have been fat forever. At the age of six, I blew up. No reason, no idea why, it just happened. Since then, I have stayed fat. Later, I was diagnosed with PCOS and hypothyroidism, so double whammy on making it harder for me to lose weight. I tried all the usual methods—calorie counting, Weight Watchers, Carbohydrate Addicts, Atkins, gyms, personal trainers, and the utterly useless Adipex. There were also brief stints at starvation. I didn’t eat for four years of high school and graduated fatter than ever. As the years and the pounds came and went, I got no closer to being “normal.” I have never weighed less than two hundred pounds, but I didn’t cross the 300 line, either, a place I promised myself that I would never go. Well, never say never. In 2014, I finally crossed the 300 line and reached that ultimate of BMI categories—super morbidly obese. I’ve been obese forever, but now I was SUPER obese. Not mild, not average, not even great, but SUPER. Hey, go big or go home, right? With my new status came some new problems. Crossing the 300 line hurt, emotionally and physically. I was tired, mopey, my joints hurt, and most importantly, I couldn’t find a decent pair of pants with an actual waist. I couldn’t wear nice jeans and that upset me. Also, I live in the tropics. It’s too hot where I live to weigh over 300 pounds. However, none of this really mattered that much to me. I am a professional fat person, with many years of field experience. Being big is the norm for me. I was unhappy that I had become SUPER, but still, I never hate myself for being me. I am me, I like me, and I am okay with me. Anyone reading this will likely understand when I say that I am a person, not a number, and I refuse to be treated as one, no matter how SUPER I get. Unfortunately, the rest of the world does not agree. They want me to be like them. The funny thing is, though, the world don’t want to be themselves, either. Body image is such a big problem in this nation, and it’s so sad. We keep equating appearance, not health, with happiness and worthiness. I blame shows like The Biggest Loser for making the issue even worse. America’s primetime television entertainment now includes season upon season of fat shaming, so naturally those of us at home are dealing with the fallout. The fat shaming is so much worse than it ever was, in all of my fat history. Normally, I give no figs about what the rest of world thinks (you can’t afford to when you’re SUPER), but at the end of 2014, I quit my job to go back to school. In the quitting, there was a revelation. By quitting, I had left my safe place. My prior job hired me fat, promoted me fat, had employed me as I was for over 15 years, and therefore had also given no figs about my excess bootie. But someday, I would interview for new work. I knew, without a doubt, that my SUPER status was going to be a super problem. Fat prejudice is real. Thanks, Jillian Michaels. There was one other problem with being SUPER. Slowly but surely my A1C had been climbing over the years, but once I crossed the 300 line, it skyrocketed. That beast of our nation called type II diabetes had found me. It was hunting me, and it was dangerously close to catching me. I was one tenth of a place away from having an A1C in the pre-diabetic range. Diabetes. Nope. So much nope. Nope-nope-nope. Not getting diabetes. So, I need to be employable, and also, I want to avoid becoming another statistic. I do not want diabetes, and I needed to do something about it. So I decided to see the bariatric surgeon. Previously, I viewed WLS as a cop-out or a last resort, reserved for people who were in mortal peril and had to lose weight today. Sure, I was fat enough to be in mortal peril myself, but I’m young enough and healthy enough that fat would catch up with me later, not sooner. I wasn’t so worried about mortality, or even a shortened lifespan. I was more worried about going blind or losing my toes in the meantime. So many people want to be thin to please a spouse, to please their family, to please their former, thinner selves, to please…whoever. This is not the case for me. Again, I give no figs about fitting into a standard. Even if I physically achieve that standard, mentally I will never achieve it. Never. It’s too late, and the damage is done. If I’m going to carry all that baggage with me for the rest of my days, however, I need all of my toes. I decided on the VSG procedure, and I am six months post-op. I have lost fifty pounds, gotten rid of my blood pressure medicine, and so far, have had no issues adjusting to the sleeve life. It feels normal, and I don’t miss anything from my former food life. I lost my SUPER BMI status within the first three months, so I had to return the cape. That was a bummer, but I traded the cape for real jeans that do not scream mom, 1985. Do I regret the surgery? No. Do I love it? I wish I could say yes. I’m one of the lucky ones that lost the food cravings immediately. I want for nothing, not even pizza, and wonder of wonders, the fat girl has to remind herself to eat. I do well with portions and not overeating. I get my Protein in every day and take my Vitamins. No nausea, vomiting, or other unpleasantness. As weight loss goes, the sleeve is pretty brainless. However, there are complications with VSG that I was not prepared for. The hormone fluctuations have brought me to my knees. I’m always tired, I’m cranky, I can’t remember smack, my brain will not find x, and I hate everything. I avoided the holidays entirely last year, for many reasons. I’m depressed, and it’s getting worse. My muscles ache, my vision gets blurry, and yes, I have discussed all of this with my doctor. I asked why I am feeling worse and not better. And that’s when I encountered perhaps the worst VSG result of all. My world is still the same. Patients considering a bariatric procedure are told how different their lives will be afterward, how they will feel so much better, and how life will be like looking at the universe through an entirely new set of eyes thanks to this revolutionary procedure, but it is not always true. At the surgeon’s office, things were just the same as they’ve always been. Sure, the doctors were great and so supportive before the procedure when my wallet was still vulnerable, but at my recent follow-up, they were less understanding. I got the finger pointed at me, I got scolded, I got blamed for what I put in my mouth being the cause of my health problems and lack of results, even though I follow their plan to the letter. I was basically called a liar because I didn’t hit an expected number on the scale and I’ve stalled since my last appointment. When I defended myself, my concerns were dismissed, my sentences were interrupted, the phrases shot back at me were condescending, and for the umpteenth time in my life, a stranger tried to tell me how I should feel. Essentially, he said I needed to stop thinking for myself and do what I was told, even though for once, I already have. But if I had, my surgeon countered, then I would lose the weight, and then I would be “happy.” Sound familiar, fat people? I go forward from here, and will do what I need to do, but the shine has already worn off my new sleeve. I don’t doubt that I will lose more weight. It’s physically impossible not to, and it’s not like I can ask for my excised stomach back. There is no going back from bariatric surgery, which is the point. So onward I shall go, because I have no choice, but it will get better. I think. I hope.

I think it's a disservice to imply that anyone seeking therapy is crazy. That's not true. The opposite is true, actually. Insane people don't notice they're insane. Nor do I believe that therapy is always the answer, and yes, I do have experience with it. Some people it works for, some it doesn't. I happen to be one of the people that it doesn't work for, especially when 99% of my problems right now are hormonal. To relieve the stress, I make occasional and bitter rants on the internet instead.

I'm so glad someone else brought this up because the same subject has been on my mind a lot. I just started my sleeve journey, but I have been heavy all of my life. I have no idea what I look like without the fat, but the one advantage to the fat is that fat don't crack. I still look like I did in high school, in all ways. However, RWL has resulted in some serious sag everywhere and a sudden revelation of my real age, and I'm like OMG, is this supposed to be better? Because it's not. I look older already and while I am not vain, I am feeling the pressure to do something about the wrinkles that have apparently been on my face all this time. Looking young for my age was one of my few point of pride, and now it's gone. Sadface. I am trying Mary Kay Timewise, but the jury's out on effectiveness. Truthfully, I think it might be snake oil. I said never with fillers and injections and medical procedures on my face. I'm already seeing I may have to eat those words...Wait, do words have carbs?