Jamie W.
I remember the first time I was called fat.
It was second or third grade, during a Halloween event my school was hosting called “Fun Night”. Since I went to a small private school, they didn’t want it to have anything to do with Halloween, so the event served as a place for us good little Lutheran kids to dress us and run around the school gymnasium playing games and winning candy.
My favorite TV show at the time was I Dream of Jeannie. I used to stay up late every night and watch it with my grandma on Nick at Nite (right after Bewitched and right before I Love Lucy). Thus, when my grandma took me to the local drugstore to pick out a costume, I picked The Genie, a cute, purple-sequined, two piece harem outfit with a veil.
At Fun Night, I had my hair in a high ponytail my cute little headdress on perfectly, just like Barbara Eden (only a brunette). I was having fun and playing games with my only friend at the time, while I heard popular girls snickering around me. Even the “neutral girls” that were sometimes nice to me were pointing too. I guess that I was to chubby to be showing my midriff. When my grandma picked me up, I yelled at her for letting me go out like that—yelled that she should have told me I was too fat.
The next day at school, I got to hear what everyone was saying when one of the neutral girls approached me and said, “You probably shouldn’t wear anything like that again. Just so you know. Sorry.” I was humiliated. I even knew Barbara Eden was somewhere shaking her head too.
How did I get fat?
I wasn’t always overweight. When I was in Kindergarten and first grade, I was skinny as a rail. I loved to swim and play outside. I loved playing dress up.
When I was six-years old, I died. Clinically. I had an asthma attack at home, and stopped breathing. By the time my grandma found me, my heart had stopped. My great-grandma gave me CPR until the paramedics arrived, and they gave me used an AED to resuscitate me. My heart stopped again in the ambulance, and they gave me a shot of adrenaline to my heart (just like Pulp Fiction!) that brought me back. After a week in the hospital, I was released and put on Prednisone, a steroid, for a few months. The steroid, coupled with my grandma and my mom spoiling me by giving me anything I wanted to eat, made me put on weight like crazy.
Ever since then, I never got rid of the weight. During my childhood, ever since my asthma attack, my family got me doctor’s notes to keep me from exercising. I wasn’t allowed to go out and play during recess in the winter because the cold air made my asthma act up. I wasn’t allowed to run in gym class because I might have an asthma attack. My doctor wrote me out of swim class in high school because the chlorine might make me stop breathing. My whole life has been bad eating habits and excuses for never exercising.
Here, 17 years later, I guess I’ve run out of excuses finally.
Why I am now motivated to lose weight?
This is an important thing to think about for me, seeing as I have been overweight since I was seven years old and haven’t really seriously tried to lose the weight until now. Also, if I want to get a sleeve gastrectomy, which is irreversible, I need to be sure I won't want to kill myself the second I can't ingest an entire pizza in one sitting.
Back in high school and even in college, I was happy with the way I was. I never hated myself enough to “starve” myself and go on a diet. Every time I dieted it was because someone told me I should—my mother, my doctor—or because someone talked shit about my body. I never dieted when left to my own devices because I was comfortable enough in my skin. I was funny. I had friends. I had a boyfriend (kinda, more on that below). I was an actress. I was popular in my own eyes because I had better friends and hobbies than the “popular” girls. I also never went on a diet because it was like torture. I didn’t want to eat healthy, and I didn’t want to exercise because it made me want to die. Food makes me happy. Some people turn to alcohol or sex when they have a bad day; I turn to something covered in artery-clogging cheese. Food is always around. It’s always there for me.
But now, I am beginning to realize that a diet doesn’t have to mean “starving” yourself and running six miles a day. I had an unhealthy view of what being healthy was. I am starting to see negative effects on my health finally even though doctors have been telling me it was happening all those years ago. I finally feel like losing weight is something I should and want to do for myself. Why? I guess I am finally sick and tired of all the assumptions, stigmas and baggage that comes with being overweight. To name a few specific examples: people who are overweight are statistically less likely to get ahead in the business world due to the stigma that they are lazy or unhealthy. My career is important to me, and I want to go as far as I can. Also, I’m not comfortable in my skin anymore. I want to put my best foot forward, and unfortunately, in our shallow society, that means being fabulous and thin. I don't necessarily think that is fair that I should have to get 85% of my stomach removed to impress other people, but I'm a realist, not an idealist. Thin is in, and that isn't going to change anytime soon. At least I will be healthier as an added bonus.
The last and (sadly) one of the biggest factors in the reason I want to lose weight deserves a little story…
I used to sleep with this boy. We got together when I was a junior in high school and we were on and off until about 4 months ago (so, about 7 years). Part of that time we were in a relationship, but we only lived in the same city for the first two years while we were in high school, so most of the time we only saw each other about once a month. I had one boyfriend before him, who, long story short, fucked me up a little. Finally having a boyfriend again made me happy for a while, and I was into him while we were in high school, became ambivalent about him during the first 3 years of college, and then started to loathe him after my senior year. The funny thing is, he was exactly the opposite…ambivalent about me when I was into him and began to like me more as I liked him less.
The reason I started to hate him was this: one time, after we had met up to have sex when we were both back in our hometown, we started talking. (This always ended badly, as we just liked having sex with each other and weren’t really that compatible as people.) I expressed that I was getting bored of our relationship, and wanted to either get serious or stop seeing each other because we were in an open relationship at the time. He said, “Well, I don’t want to be in a relationship, but I don’t want to break up with you either.” I asked, “Why?” Then he said, “Because I know you can’t do any better than me, and I don’t want to do that to you.”
I was taken aback. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember gathering my stuff and getting to my car before I started crying. I didn’t talk to him for 3 months, but eventually (and sadly) proved him right by getting back with him again after his numerous apologies of “I’m-sorry-I-didn’t-mean-it-like-that!” Eventually I completely stopped talking to him after our last separation. I feel like my payback was when he drove 13 hours to see me in Chicago, I slept with him, then told him that I didn’t want to see him anymore. Ever.
Anyway, the point of the story is that he was kind of right. He was more physically attractive than me and I was “lucky” to get to sleep with him. In this world of shallow people (especially men), fat girls don’t get a lot of play. It’s true, I didn’t think I could do much better than him, even before he said it. I settled for him and kept going back to him because of lack of options. I want to lose weight so I will never have to feel like I have to settle for anyone ever again.
