Through the looking glass...

This is the beginning of the story...

I walked out of the Doctor’s office feeling almost lightheaded I was so turned around. What had just happened? What was I doing? I was overwhelmed with good and bad feelings, hope and fear, oscillating back and forth from glee and excitement to fear and dismay, and then back again. I got into the car, stared at the steering wheel for a half a minute, and then burst into tears. I felt like I was going to throw up.

Let me back up. About 6 weeks before that scene, I talked to my homeopathic practitioner about my weight and why I felt like I had never lost it, and worried I never would. We talked over a lot, and worked out some garbage I had in my head, and a few days later I sat down at my computer and I was fed up at long last. I started writing, and what poured out first were all the things I was tired of. And It went like this (this is deeply personal, and potentially too vulnerable, but I made an executive decision to keep it perfectly in-tact, as originally written):

I’m tired of hating cameras, and then wishing I was in more of my friends’ pictures. I am tired of being the fat friend, and my fat being a barrier to true vulnerability and closeness with my dearest friends. I’m tired of putting off my happiness to some mysterious day in the future when my “true self” will come out and I’ll finally be comfortable and free. I’m tired of knowing I can be and do better, and never ever knowing how. I’m tired of feeling disqualified on account of being big. I’m tired of my beauty being on the inside. I’m tired of wishing I was invisible, and faking ill to avoid social situations that will make me feel like Godzilla. I’m tired of actually feeling ill when I realize I’m the biggest one in the room. I’m tired of the anxiety I feel in fitting rooms and among new people and when choosing an outfit in the morning. I’m tired of having a limited selection of clothes, and sharing a store with old ladies. I’m tired of my fashion sense being stunted by what fits. I’m tired of being bigger than my mom. I’m tired of wondering if my loving and adoring mother is a little bit disappointed that I lost the "weight battle." I’m tired of my feet hurting, my jeans button digging, my bras stabbing, and getting winded on the stairs, and feeling disabled. I’m tired of actually feeling inflated and huge, and hating sitting in chairs and choosing to stand, or to sit on the floor, instead. I’m tired of holding in my tummy and knowing it doesn’t help at all, and having a constant mental image of what I look like all the time like a scrutinizing mirror making sure that I’m standing straight enough and that my shirt isn’t stuck in my fat. I am TIRED of pulling my shirt out of my fat. I’m tired of trying to find someone in the room that is fatter than my so I can hate myself less. I’m tired of my weight being the undercurrent of my life, in the back of my mind like a mournful song at every moment of every day, and knowing that nothing is as good as it could be if I wasn’t big. I’m sick and tired of pretending to think I’m skinny so people won’t feel sorry for me, or maybe they’ll fall for the pretense and won’t see my gut, and ending up having such a twisted sense of what I  look like that mirrors always surprise me. I’m tired of wondering what I would look like if I was normal.

A list of things I love that would be better if I weren’t heavy:  wearing eye shadow, doing my hair, being tall, looking forward to being a mom, wearing bright colors, wearing dresses, swimming, my car, sleeping, traveling, dancing, hugs, sleep-overs, pictures, facebook, Disneyland, holidays, shopping for anything, meeting new people, talking to friends, elevators, eating out, everyone cramming into one car, theaters, late nights, watching movies, looking at pictures, taking pictures, reading magazines, pinterest, making clothes, thrift stores, bargain hunting, hiking, the beach, pools, summer, Halloween, romance, parties…

I could have gone on and on, because truly every second of every day is impacted by my weight. I sent it off to a friend of mine who would understand, and heard back quickly. We both laughed at the hilarity of someone else saying what we were thinking, and sobbed at our shared misery. It was gut-wrenching, but it was comforting to have someone who knew that very unique pain—so few people will read my list above and truly resonate with it.

Most importantly, I believe it was my turning point. It was the day I decided I was really and truly done being fat. I think I had begun to be “comfortable in my skin” as some say is good, but for me it was a creeping complacency brought on by convenience foods, my love of chocolate, and a few blouses I had recently bought that I felt magically normal in. I hadn’t really decided I was happy, but I hadn’t decided I was unhappy enough to let go of my comforts. I have started a hundred diets with diligence and determination, and this was not the same feeling. Something was burrowing into my brain that quickly killed my sense of comfort and complacency. I put on my trusty blouse the next morning, and walked to the mirror, expecting to feel the same in it. When I saw myself I looked dowdy, enormous, and lumpy. I felt like I had gained 10 lbs overnight.

I don’t think I had a skewed view of myself that morning—I think I was seeing the truth which I had been in denial about for a good stretch of time. I think I was seeing the me I had forgotten I was, the me that shows up in pictures unexpectedly, and I hated it. Over the next week a fissure grew between my true self and the body I wore like a big theme park character suit. My mind began to reject my body, and my complacency was gone. I was sure I’d never be complacent again. If I were to fail this time, I wouldn’t go back to my old self, though I might give up. I knew I’d never be happy as a fat girl again, which only left the option of living with a sense of defeat forever.

After writing the list, I began my healthy eating plan that I spoke about in my last post. I also started to get a really weird and intense migraine that troubled me—it behaved differently than they often do—so I went to see the Doctor about it. The first time I went, I saw the PA who was uncertain of the diagnosis. She sent me along with some advice and a date for a follow up with the doctor. The doctor I saw was a stranger to me. I chose her off of the internet when I had to make a selection for my insurance, and all I knew was that she was close and she had high marks on a “Rate Your Doctor” site. By the time I actually met Dr. Levine, the headache was reduced by about 90%, which meant I’d be fine. Due to the fact that it was no longer a concern, this follow-up appointment changed gears and she began to tell me about her life work of helping people change their lives through weight loss. She said, “Of all the doctors you could have gone to (about the headache) you happened to choose one off of the internet that could help you change your whole life.”

I cannot imagine the look on my face when she said that.

I thought it over for a week or 2, and went back. It was a struggle, and really I wasn’t 100% I was going to do it. There was cost to consider, and the fact that as I looked over the food list I felt like I was staring at a vending machine (bars, shakes, cheese puffs, etc), but I went to talk to her. I was worried about the ingredients, as I’d recently become a vocal advocate for real/whole food, and I was concerned about the soy content—LOTS of soy. But with the help of Dr. Levine’s powerful persistence (reminiscent of a cheer coach) and a sense that I needed to just take a leap, I signed the darn paper and walked out.

And that is when I found myself crying in my car. I cried at the suddenness. And the fear. And the feeling of failure that I worried would inevitably come. I cried because I had gotten so out of my own control, and needed help. I cried at the relief of finding help.

And the possibilities.

And the hope.

And the long road ahead of me.

More to come!