I spent some time in my closet this morning, putting away all the clothes that don't fit anymore. Afterwards, I looked around, taking stock of what was left - it wasn't much. The handful of dresses I wear to work, trying desperately to rotate enough that my coworkers don't notice I'm wearing the same things over and over again. The few tops that don't hug my fat too tightly, that I can use to accentuate what body parts I'm not ashamed of. That doesn't leave me much. As I went through all of these clothes, I heard the familiar refrain in my head - "I just need to lose a few pounds and this will fit" - over and over again; the same song that's played in my head every year for the last twenty years. And the reality is that only a couple times in those twenty years have I actually lose weight and fit into my smaller clothes.
I spent the last few days of this week wondering what it will take to get me to really make some changes in my life, to embrace doing what's good for me not only in the moment but in the long run as well. I have lived most of my life for immediate gratification, making choices based on how my day went, how many thoughts I want to silence, how many feelings I want to squash. And the result is more than obvious.
I had my first visit with my new doctor this week, aiming to discover the source behind my continued and new gastro-intestinal issues, and was answered with the following: "Lose weight, reduce stress, and you'll feel better." And I left that appointment not only heavy with shame and embarrassment (because of course my doctor was young and petite and knows all about my life, my past, and problems, right?), but with an odd sense of unease. The voice inside my head, one of many, whispering, "See? That's why I didn't want to go to the doctor to begin with." Over and over again, I go to the doctor for genuine health concerns and over and over again, I am asked the same questions ("What are you eating?" "Do you exercise?" "Do you have a lot of stress in your life?" "Are you seeing a counselor/therapist?") and given the same speeches ("You need to change your diet." "Too many carbs." "Exercise will help." "Reduce your stress." "See a therapist.") without any regard for my actual situation. Does anyone ask why I eat the way I eat? Or why my stress level is so high, or why I am not seeing a therapist (i.e. they cost money that I don't currently have)? Or do they ask why it's hard for me to motivate myself to exercise? No. They just plug in the formula and spit out a solution without factoring in all the multiple parts of the equation.
The result is that I, like many people who are overweight, end up feeling ashamed, guilty, embarrassed and even more defeated.
A day or so after this appointment, a friend of mine tagged me in a post on Facebook by an overweight woman with knee pain, who was being diagnosed, talked to, and treated differently because of her weight. She raised the question - what of those with this same pain who are NOT overweight? How do you treat them? After reading this post I realized why I felt so icky after that appointment. This doctor had essentially assumed that the source of all my ails was my weight. Even on my worst days of low self-esteem I know that I am more than my weight - so why do doctors continuously treat us as though we aren't?
I am not saying, of course, that none of my issues are related to my weight. I understand that they are, to an extent. But I am a whole person, with a complex history and I don't appreciate that our health care system is not set up for a holistic approach to well-being.
All that being said, I know I do have to start making changes, because I do acknowledge that some things are a direct result of my weight. But I also acknowledge that it's harder than it seems to change 40 years of behavior. I've spent my life perfecting this system of damaging behavior and while I know it isn't actually helping me, I also know it isn't easy to just stop doing it.
But I also know that obesity is the reason my mother is not alive today. It is the reason she turned to a surgical solution - she felt powerless to fix the broken parts of her life and her soul and used food to quiet her own demons. She was robbed of the last few decades of her life because she refused to do the work. And I really don't want to follow in those steps. My mother was an admirable woman - a strong, loving, woman - but she was not perfect. Her attempts to save her own life came too late, and were not enough. I don't want to go down that road. I want to save my own life.
The reality is, though, that this stuff takes money and resources that I don't know I can get my hands on. My insurance is such that any provider that I see, other than my primary doctor, costs me $70 a visit. So on top of the psychiatrist who prescribes me the medications that keep me on a somewhat even emotional keel, I'd need a good therapist, a nutritionist, and who knows what else. My share of the premium for this less-than-ideal health insurance eats away at a good portion of my paycheck, so where am I to come up with the funds for all of these specialists? How can I get myself the help I need when it costs me more money than I have to spare?
I don't have the answers to those questions. I don't know what I am going to do for myself. But I think that at least talking about it helps a little. Maybe in doing so, I will find a few answers.
