When my ex and I were together, I used to joke (or, honestly, wrap the truth in a joking tone that fooled no one) about how after we had kids I’d probably need “a re-up” on my gastric bypass surgery. I was terrified of regaining the weight I’d lost – I’d already regained about 20 lbs, give or take another 15 on any given day, and I knew from reading about longer-term GB patients that it was common for them to regain all of the weight, even going over their original weight in a sort of pendulum reaction.
This is true of diets in general: they screw up your metabolism and cause more gain than loss in the long term. So why any of us should imagine that literally starving ourselves would lead to long-term, maintainable weight loss, I’m not sure. But despite all my jokes, I was in no way prepared to actually face the reality that science told me was coming.
But I’m coming up against it now. I haven’t regained all the weight (yet), but I’ve been steadily getting larger – a combination of my severe anemia* and the pandemic leading to relative inactivity and stress, or just because my body wants to be at its set point. Whatever the reason, I knew I’d gained weight and gone up a couple sizes, but it wasn’t until I was weighed at urgent care because I didn’t have the strength to argue that I discovered that I’m 20 lbs below my pre-surgery weight.
I was at urgent care for shingles, which was bad enough, especially since the urgent care doc refused to prescribe me the non-controlled-substance medication the telehealth doc had told me to go get. But being weighed essentially against my will and then having that number slapped in huge bold numbers across the top of the visit summary printout I literally never want – well, let’s just say it was a new low.
It's been 19 years since I had the gastric bypass, and in the past four years I've regained an enormous percentage of the weight I lost. Does that mean I've failed? Was the surgery a waste? I know the answer to those questions is 'no,' because living in a smaller body helped me do a lot of the things – travel, date, trust in love (however misguided that turned out to be the first time around) – that I was afraid I'd never manage in a larger body. But as irrational as they are, those questions have been plaguing me.
Luckily, my husband was working from home that day, so I could just walk through the front door and fall apart in his arms. But as much as his support means to me, it can’t help me deal with this new reality: my body is getting bigger, and heavier, and I don’t understand what to do about it.
This is complicated by the fact that, unlike when I went under the knife at 17, I no longer believe that being fat makes me unlovable or disgusting or less worthy. My husband loves me, and fat people are just as attractive as anyone else – which is to say, some of them are hot to my eye and some of them aren’t. Their/our fatness doesn’t make them/us unattractive in and of itself.
That all sounds simple but it’s taken me years of unlearning to get here. And it still doesn’t help much with the issue of not recognizing the woman I see in the mirror, or not fitting into any of the clothes I’ve loved and collected for over a decade. But it is important.
The main thing my relatively newfound fat acceptance doesn’t help, though, is the rest of society. I don’t have to worry about dating or friendships, but the world is still extraordinarily unwelcoming to fat people. Even at my slimmest, a withered, suicidal size 10, flying was uncomfortable, but now? Well, we flew to California last weekend – my first time on a plane since 2019 – and not only was I extremely uncomfortable but the seatbelt barely fit.
Even at 290 lbs and a size 26, I never needed a lap belt extender. Sure, I hurt my body immensely by squeezing the belt around it at all cost, but it clicked. Now, 20 lbs under that, it’s a close call. So clearly the planes are getting worse – I think we all know that, but it’s suffocating and panic-inducing when you realize your body is getting larger as planes get smaller and you have no control over either one.
When we were on our flight home, I turned to my husband and said, in another joke-cloaked truth, “How am I going to lose 50 lbs before I fly again in October?”
I was kidding, but only because I don’t feel like I have any option for losing weight intentionally. In the choice between my physical size and my mental health, I have to prioritize my mental health, and disordered eating has done more than enough damage already.
But I also don’t feel like I know how to handle this life, where my body is oppressed on a daily basis. I’ve been living in relative size privilege for so long, nearly 20 years, and I’m terrified of losing it. And yes, I absolutely think the system is what should change, not necessarily my body (and certainly not others’), but after 36 years of watching the system refuse to change I have very little faith in that potential outcome.
I don’t have a neat little bow to tie this post up in. I don’t even have a rough conclusion. I just have anxiety and confusion and frustration and fear – but sharing those feelings is one of the best ways I’ve found to cope with them, so here we are.
Thanks for listening, and to those of you who’ve been along for much/all/most of this ride, thanks for hanging in there with me. At least I’m not alone anymore.
*Yeah, it's back/still going. I had another round of iron infusions this month so maybe soon I’ll be able to do an hour of yoga without feeling like I’m dying?
Comments