Skip to main content

The Fear

I had a total meltdown last night.  Some of it was triggered by the usual stress (I just got back from a wonderful trip to SF, and I'm homesick and worried about catching up with work, and I had a massively important writing deadline yesterday), but mostly it was about the doctor's appointment I have tomorrow.  And the weigh-in that awaits me there.

I know I've ranted about doctors before.  And I've told you about this one, specifically.  The short story is that if my BMI goes up one more point I'll be cut off from using Nuvaring, which is the only form of hormonal birth control I've ever tried that hasn't made me feel crazy and disinterested in sex.  So I booked this appointment last month, making sure to make it for a day when I was unlikely to be PMSing and likely to be writing at home instead of in the office.  But I didn't factor in the vacation beforehand; suffice it to say, my weight is not low enough that I feel totally confident strutting in there and coming out with a prescription in hand.  It's not above the line, but it's within 5 pounds, which for me is basically on it since I gain/lose 5 pounds randomly by the hour.

But I'm getting away from the point.  The important thing about last night's meltdown was the way I reacted to this stress: I was finally honest about it.  I wasn't angry or righteously indignant.  I wasn't just stressed out about my weight.  I was terrified.

I'm terrified of doctors.  And I'm terrified that I'll never not be terrified of them.  After all those years of being obese and dreading doctor's visits because of the weigh-in and inevitable following lecture, after everything I've done to and been through with my body to make it 'healthy' enough to allow me to relax about it, I'm still terrified.  They still weigh me, and they still don't like what they see on the scale.  I still get lectures about losing weight, and sometimes they continue even after I've explained my history and my current lifestyle. 

The thing is, while I'm scared of the lectures and afraid of the shaming and the judgment, what I'm really afraid of is that they might be right.  Maybe I really am still unhealthy?  Obese?  Massively fat and in denial?  If they never change their opinion, if doctors all over the world look at me and think I'm fine, if overweight, and then weigh me and decide I'm obese and need to be shamed, then what is it that I'm missing when I tell myself to ignore the scale and focus on feeling/looking good? 

I believe myself: I should focus on how I feel, not what I weigh.  I also believe them: I'm huge and disgusting and socially unacceptable and I should worry about losing 50 pounds.  I believe us both, and it scares the shit out of me.

I don't want to live my life this way.  With 2 choices: be obsessively dieting / trying to lose weight all the time, or avoid / fear doctors and all other weigh-ins until the day you die.  I also don't want to become schizophrenic as a result of my two minds on the matter.  I just want to be normal.

Wasn't that the point of the surgery in the first place?

Comments

Sara said…
you're beautiful!! i know that's not really relevant to the doc/bc/etc. problem, but you are, whatever the doc or scales say!
Anne said…
it may not be relevant, but it's always nice to hear. thanks, sara.

Popular posts from this blog

This book stuff is harder than it seems...

So as I think I may have mentioned, I have to write a book for my MA in Creative Nonfiction, and I decided to write a memoir about this whole GB experience, including childhood stuff and family dynamics in addition to the process of surgery and the mental and physical results of the change.  I thought it would be so easy.  I mean, I spend 90% of my time thinking about my body anyway, how hard could it be to put those thoughts down in the form of an interesting, structured narrative? NOT, that's how easy.  I haven't written one single word of the book, and I'm having a really hard time starting.  And the longer I put it off, the more afraid I am of failing at my goal to write a funny, frank narrative; I'm terrified it'll end up as a 'poor me' memoir, and I'll have proven my dad right in saying that this project is self-indulgent and useless.  And that's not the only surprise stumbling block... When I tell people what I'm writing about, they al...

Nothing tastes as good as thin feels?

That old Upper East Side adage has been running through my mind all week. Ever since I got my visa to go back to London and started counting down the days I had left of fresh, delicious California cuisine. I recently got to within a couple pounds of my goal (well, not my goal weight, but my goal of getting below a certain hated number), and now I’m struggling with a very difficult decision: to eat or not to eat? I have an opportunity here. I could be below the dreaded number by the time I leave for London, if I’m willing to give up all badness and only eat healthy, low-calorie foods like vegetables sans olive oil and salads with no cheese or nuts. But then I would be sacrificing my last week of yumtastic treats like Trader Joes Mini Peanut Butter Cups and delicious grilled asparagus with olive oil and steak, glorious steak! Maybe the choice would be easier if I had a point of reference, but I’ve never been thin, so I have no idea how it feels. What I do know is that a lot of thing...

More scars, inside this time.

I was supposed to get married yesterday.   I had the dress, the caterers, the guest list – most importantly I had the man, whom I loved with a certainty I’d long thought impossible. But I didn’t.   Get married, or have the man, as it turned out.   I was cut brutally loose, with little warning, and spent the summer floundering and desperately trying to weave together some semblance of a life for myself from the shreds of who I was before things imploded. The good news: I’m getting there.   I’m in therapy, which is helping me strengthen my emotional core; I’m dating new people, which is a constant reminder that I’m not totally worthless to every male member of the human race; I’m actively looking for a full-time job (and the health insurance that comes along with it); and I’m reconnecting with my amazing, wonderful girlfriends, a gang of whom spent the weekend with me at a vacation cabin in Healdsburg, distracting me from my sorrows w...