I can remember looking into the mirror, before I even had the language to articulate the why, and hating what I saw in my reflection.
I am no different to all the other girls (and boys) who have struggled with their body image and used fat jokes to cover the hurt. Fat Amy put it beautifully, in Pitch Perfect, when she said that she called herself Fat Amy “so that twig bitches like you don’t do it behind my back.” I have always determined what people thought of me, when they look at me, walk past me in the street or are even on the other side of the street. Am I vain or narcissistic? To assume that everyone has enough free time or thought in their day, to form an opinion of the self conscious stranger walking the other way. No, but it has become a habit to think the absolute worst thoughts of myself so that no one else has the chance to surprise and ultimately hurt me.
When I was a preteen there was a family gathering. The women, as women often do, clucked about the way a cousin’s bottom half was grossly disproportionate to her top half. I had looked up to this cousin but recall feeling that she surely must have been less than my previous adoration, as the comments were not made as matter of fact or even with sympathy, but with total distaste. I made the naive mistake of asking if my bottom half was larger than my top….this was met with “No you are evenly spread!” and a snicker. I instantly knew what was meant and came to the fast conclusion that ‘evenly spread’ was far more grotesque than bottom heavy.
I guess I must have always seemed larger than I ought to have been. At the ripe old age of 13 my Mother’s boyfriend, at the time, arrived and excitedly told me to look out the window as he had seen my male double. Not seeing the joke in his eyes I ran to the window, curious as to what a boy version of me might look like. K laughed as he joined me at the window and pointed out a fairly obese man sitting in the passenger seat of a van. K would also make “boom boom boom” sounds if he ever walked behind me up the stairs to our apartment.
I do not know why food has become an addiction for me. My father had a drug and alcohol addiction and my mother is addicted to her business. Maybe it is a hereditary predicament? I often think that I would have rather kept the cigarette crutch, even though I am happy to be free of ciggies I still see fat as worse than a disease. How messed up is that?
My mum hates “FAT”. I guess this comes from her own ideal of what beauty is, or is not. I suppose this is where some of my anxiety of what it means to be fat comes from. She hates fat, I am fat = she hates me. I know that this isn’t true, but sometimes those inner demons can make any nonsense believable. Mum has never been fat. She has always been active. Skydiving, scuba diving, aerobics, body sculpting, race car driving, you name it, she has probably done it. Then she got sick. Cancer. But worse than that, the cancer (through a long explanation about lymphoma and depression) made her less active and put on a little weight. My mother has always triumphed in everything that she did, and cancer was no exception. But the weight, the fat that had invaded her body and her mind, was harder to beat. She has beaten it. But the power of that inner demon will probably always tell her that she should look better.
Over the years I have lost weight. When I lived in Auckland, in my late 20’s, I weighed less than I did when I was 13. I felt confident, I looked confident and I knew that everyone celebrated in my achievement. But it wasn’t an achievement. I lived on black coffee and cigarettes. I drank straight whiskey and went dancing 3 nights of the week. I was unhealthy and there was no way that I would be able to maintain this lifestyle. And I didn’t. So I began the familiar pattern of feast and famine….and that has lead me to this point.
To be a little fair on myself, and perhaps the excuse that I have hidden behind is that I had a bit of turbulence along the way. I was diagnosed with a disease called Sarcoidosis. This debilitated me for almost a year. I had to quit my job, I was on steroids for over 6 months and I learned what it was like to develop a love/hate relationship with prescription pain medication. I have Rheumatoid Arthritis and was later diagnosed with Fibromyalgia. Pain had become as natural as every mouthful of glorious food I shoveled into my mouth.
I became a natural mother. I already had a beautiful teenager but I experienced my first pregnancy and the changes that come with being a middle aged mother. My daughter was NEVER going to hate her body! She was going to see every perfection that I saw as I gazed at the single most incredible thing I had ever created.
I got fatter. And fatter. And fatter.
I feel like I am broken. How can I have such an amazing life and keep ‘punishing’ myself with food. I felt that sooner or later my Body hatred was going to penetrate my beautiful daughter’s thoughts. She would hear my insecurities and start to measure herself by them. She would think that I hated fat, wonder if she was fat and then….wonder if I hated her. Not F#@ken happening!!!!!
3 years ago I made the decision that I wanted to have Gastric Bypass Surgery. I did the research, I asked around and I spoke to my Doctor. To be honest there was still a part of me that hoped that he would seem shocked at my decision and say that I was not a qualifying candidate for such a procedure. Alas he nodded his head and told me that it was probably a good idea but that I would not be able to have it under the Public Health System. $25,000. I had never before longed to have diabetes, so that I qualified for the subsidised surgery. $25,000. More than I would ever spend on a car. Was I being selfish? Was it fair to expect my partner and children to go without, so that I didn’t have to feel ugly? 3 years ago. It was 3 years ago because I felt guilty. It was 3 years ago because I felt that I did not deserve that kind of money spent on me, just because I can not get a grip on my self control. It was 3 years ago because it took 3 years of my partner telling me that I was worth it to finally make the decision to go for it. So here goes.
I have booked it in. 3 weeks of Optifast torture…pffft, nothing compared to the abuse that I have put myself through with fade dieting and binge eating. I am one week into this Optifast thing and I see it, a little, as buy in. Is it hard? YES! Is it the start of my journey? YES! So I am not about to moan about something that will change my life in such a positive way. I think this is right for me. I am okay with what it means, in my head and in my heart. I am also grateful that I have the love and support of my family and friends.
I am scared. But I also do this knowing that I do not hate fat. I do this knowing that it will make my joints ache a little less. I do this knowing that I will be better at teaching my daughter to love herself (whatever her shape and size). This may not sit well with some people, but I am confident in my decision and I am excited about my future.