I'm not going to lie and say that I'm somehow getting any healthier. I'm not. I gained all of the weight back that I lost a year or so ago and then some. My legs look terrible from the adema. But at least right now I don't have any open sores oozing fluid. Those have all healed for now.
Getting back on the horse has been incredibly hard.
My weight is complicated. People look at me and they think I'm fat just because I'm lazy and I sit around drinking Mt. Dew and eating fast food all day. I wish that was how I got like this.
When I went to the clinic to get a check-up, after friends held an intervention for me, I met somebody who treated me with kindness and sympathy. It was the first time anybody in the medical field had done so. He told me a story that needs to be repeated.
He told me about a doctor who realized just about all of his morbidly obese patients had experienced childhood trauma. Some were physically abused, some were sexually abuse, while others were mentally and emotionally abused as children. He realized he was onto something important so he gave a paper on the subject.
He was laughed at by his colleagues.
Fifteen years later, we're in a national epidemic of obesity, and people are approaching him and asking about this paper he delivered.
My guy at the clinic gave me a nine-question survey. Did you experience physical abuse as a child? Did you see violence as a child? Were any of your parents alcoholics or drug addicts?
A score of two is considered high. A score a three was a danger level and counseling was included as part of the treatment for obesity.
I scored an eight.
Being fat is a lot of different things for me.
It's revenge and belligerence towards my dad, who was savage in his abuse, the details of which I cannot list here. Sometimes, I feel like eating food that's bad for me is my way of telling him to fuck off and leave me alone. It's the final Fuck You to a man I often describe as a middle-class Hannibal Lecter because he was a master at head games and getting inside a person's mind. I grew up being broken down repeatedly and stripped of self.
So there are times when I'll grab a snack at the gas station and in my mind I'm giving the finger to a fucker who has been dead for 23 years.
And losing weight feels like I'm proving him right. All the terrible things he said about me were true and I really was the horrible human being he repeatedly forced me to admit to being.
Being fat is my armor. It keeps me from being too close to people and it allows me to hide inside my apartment alone. It keeps the women away, too, so I'm safe. Women aren't into guys like me and that keeps me secure and safe. But that's another blog post when I'm ready.
A number of years ago, I gave up. I decided I was going to either eat myself to death or die from an overdose. And I was okay with it. I ate more bacon than is humanly reasonable, baked cakes and pies just for myself, and churned tubs of ice cream I never shared with anybody.
But then my friends had an intervention and I made the choice to give this life bullshit another chance. I dropped weight and started to move better. My clothes got looser and I was able to go for walks without hip pain holding me back.
And then the blood flow improved to my extremities--all of them. Hands, feet, and you know the rest.
That caused nightmares. Horrific ones centered around that certain awakened area and about the past.
Then, I lost my job, and the depression got bad, so I stopped my keto diet and the weight came back.
I keep telling myself I'm going to do it again. I'm going to get back on the horse and make another run at it. Just make good choices today--that's all. Just for today I'll make good choices.
But that usually falls apart at some point.
I refuse to have anything to do with the medical community but for my one person at the clinic. If I break my arm, I'll set it myself. If I have a heart attack, so be it. If I OD, then I got what I was aiming at, and nobody better call an ambulance or shoot that shit up my nose.
I cannot go back to the medical community. If somebody like me ends up in an ER with a gunshot wound to the head, we're told that it's because of our weight, and we should go home and lose some of it. Then, we'll get a lecture about our weight, as if we don't know we're fat. Or worse, we don't know how to not be fat.
"But what about this bullet in my head?"
"Fine. I'll write a script for ibuprofen. Now go be fat someplace else."
It is dehumanizing and humiliating to go to a doctor when you're fat. Many of us would rather die than subject ourselves to it more than once.
Doctors treat me as if being fat is the worst thing in the world you can be. They rarely hide the disgust from their expressions.
Losing weight means more to me than just a healthier life or better mobility. It means I'm banking on life itself. It means I'm admitting there is more to life than this shit and that there is a reason for me to be here.
Losing weight is saying there is a potential for a better tomorrow. And that is the hardest thing in the world for me to say.
Some of you know I keep a loaded pistol on my desk, next to my mouse. I look at it several times a day and tell myself that I choose to be here, and I can leave any time I feel like it.
I've got a lot of friends and acquaintances who have dropped huge amounts of weight in recent years. They all brag about how great they feel. For some reason, I don't trust them, like it'll be different for me somehow. Being less heavy and still miserable isn't worth it to me.
I feel like the ground is rushing up to me and I need to pull out of this tailspin fast or I'm going to get a dirt overdose. And that means making those healthy choices I cringe over.
Dealing with my weight means going back into life and dealing with all of the bullshit that will come up as I do. And it's complicated.
I never thought I'd end up like this but here I am. A few years ago, I lost a friend to this shit, and he didn't go to doctors, either. I'm willing to bet it was for the same reasons, too. Derek was a good guy and he died in his 20's. I'm in my late forties and somehow I'm still here. People younger than myself are dropping dead of strokes and heart attacks all over the place and somehow I'm still here.
Maybe the universe has a plan for us all. Apparently, the plan for me isn't to die alone in my apartment and not be found until the stench is so bad that neighbors complain a few weeks later.
But then again, I've been wrong before.
Getting back on the horse has been incredibly hard.
My weight is complicated. People look at me and they think I'm fat just because I'm lazy and I sit around drinking Mt. Dew and eating fast food all day. I wish that was how I got like this.
When I went to the clinic to get a check-up, after friends held an intervention for me, I met somebody who treated me with kindness and sympathy. It was the first time anybody in the medical field had done so. He told me a story that needs to be repeated.
He told me about a doctor who realized just about all of his morbidly obese patients had experienced childhood trauma. Some were physically abused, some were sexually abuse, while others were mentally and emotionally abused as children. He realized he was onto something important so he gave a paper on the subject.
He was laughed at by his colleagues.
Fifteen years later, we're in a national epidemic of obesity, and people are approaching him and asking about this paper he delivered.
My guy at the clinic gave me a nine-question survey. Did you experience physical abuse as a child? Did you see violence as a child? Were any of your parents alcoholics or drug addicts?
A score of two is considered high. A score a three was a danger level and counseling was included as part of the treatment for obesity.
I scored an eight.
Being fat is a lot of different things for me.
It's revenge and belligerence towards my dad, who was savage in his abuse, the details of which I cannot list here. Sometimes, I feel like eating food that's bad for me is my way of telling him to fuck off and leave me alone. It's the final Fuck You to a man I often describe as a middle-class Hannibal Lecter because he was a master at head games and getting inside a person's mind. I grew up being broken down repeatedly and stripped of self.
So there are times when I'll grab a snack at the gas station and in my mind I'm giving the finger to a fucker who has been dead for 23 years.
And losing weight feels like I'm proving him right. All the terrible things he said about me were true and I really was the horrible human being he repeatedly forced me to admit to being.
Being fat is my armor. It keeps me from being too close to people and it allows me to hide inside my apartment alone. It keeps the women away, too, so I'm safe. Women aren't into guys like me and that keeps me secure and safe. But that's another blog post when I'm ready.
A number of years ago, I gave up. I decided I was going to either eat myself to death or die from an overdose. And I was okay with it. I ate more bacon than is humanly reasonable, baked cakes and pies just for myself, and churned tubs of ice cream I never shared with anybody.
But then my friends had an intervention and I made the choice to give this life bullshit another chance. I dropped weight and started to move better. My clothes got looser and I was able to go for walks without hip pain holding me back.
And then the blood flow improved to my extremities--all of them. Hands, feet, and you know the rest.
That caused nightmares. Horrific ones centered around that certain awakened area and about the past.
Then, I lost my job, and the depression got bad, so I stopped my keto diet and the weight came back.
I keep telling myself I'm going to do it again. I'm going to get back on the horse and make another run at it. Just make good choices today--that's all. Just for today I'll make good choices.
But that usually falls apart at some point.
I refuse to have anything to do with the medical community but for my one person at the clinic. If I break my arm, I'll set it myself. If I have a heart attack, so be it. If I OD, then I got what I was aiming at, and nobody better call an ambulance or shoot that shit up my nose.
I cannot go back to the medical community. If somebody like me ends up in an ER with a gunshot wound to the head, we're told that it's because of our weight, and we should go home and lose some of it. Then, we'll get a lecture about our weight, as if we don't know we're fat. Or worse, we don't know how to not be fat.
"But what about this bullet in my head?"
"Fine. I'll write a script for ibuprofen. Now go be fat someplace else."
It is dehumanizing and humiliating to go to a doctor when you're fat. Many of us would rather die than subject ourselves to it more than once.
Doctors treat me as if being fat is the worst thing in the world you can be. They rarely hide the disgust from their expressions.
Losing weight means more to me than just a healthier life or better mobility. It means I'm banking on life itself. It means I'm admitting there is more to life than this shit and that there is a reason for me to be here.
Losing weight is saying there is a potential for a better tomorrow. And that is the hardest thing in the world for me to say.
Some of you know I keep a loaded pistol on my desk, next to my mouse. I look at it several times a day and tell myself that I choose to be here, and I can leave any time I feel like it.
I've got a lot of friends and acquaintances who have dropped huge amounts of weight in recent years. They all brag about how great they feel. For some reason, I don't trust them, like it'll be different for me somehow. Being less heavy and still miserable isn't worth it to me.
I feel like the ground is rushing up to me and I need to pull out of this tailspin fast or I'm going to get a dirt overdose. And that means making those healthy choices I cringe over.
Dealing with my weight means going back into life and dealing with all of the bullshit that will come up as I do. And it's complicated.
I never thought I'd end up like this but here I am. A few years ago, I lost a friend to this shit, and he didn't go to doctors, either. I'm willing to bet it was for the same reasons, too. Derek was a good guy and he died in his 20's. I'm in my late forties and somehow I'm still here. People younger than myself are dropping dead of strokes and heart attacks all over the place and somehow I'm still here.
Maybe the universe has a plan for us all. Apparently, the plan for me isn't to die alone in my apartment and not be found until the stench is so bad that neighbors complain a few weeks later.
But then again, I've been wrong before.
