Jonay
Why Now?
Nov 05, 2014
A question that keeps coming up, not only in my head, but out of the mouths of others, is why now? Why do I want the surgery now?
It is one that I have an answer to, but I am going to share some background information first. It is not a pitty party; I want you to really understand the answer.
It hurt to get picked on and made fun of because I was not only fat, but had the 'bearded lady' look as early as junior high. My nickname during junior high and high school years, though I stopped going as soon as I could, was BIC...not the pens, but the brand of razors. Astonishingly enough, I was diagnosed with major depression, anger issues, thyroid issues, and PCOS all in that same year (1998).
I would have to say that was when it started. I started to hate people. I did not want to be around friends or family. I felt deserted because no one could look past how horribly ugly I was and see that I was a good person...a nice person. It did not matter because I was big. I could not really blame them. After being receiving my nickname, I did not engage in making new friends. I was angry. So what did I do?
You got it! I turned to food. I might get gas or make myself sick if I ate too much, but it never talked back, never treated me with (unwarranted) disrespect, and never cared what I looked like. It was my therapy for all the hateful experiences I had endured in school and at home. And it did not stop. I did not want it to stop. When I moved out of foster care and got my own apartment, I stocked it with frozen pizzas and boxes of macaroni n' cheese or roman noodles (by the case). The worst food a person could eat, aside from Crisco straight out of the can, was in my kitchen and I never once thought about the consequences.
A lot of years pass and the same patterns continue. I am diagnosed with diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and asthma in 2005. I was a bit more aware of what I was eating, but for the most part, it stayed the same. I probably would have eaten a bit better if it did not cost so much, but I do not believe that I would have stopped the destructive and self-sabotaging behaviors; after all, food was still my best friend.
So, even after all those years, I still did not get it. It took almost another decade before I realized that I needed help.
I thought I had it under control. I knew I did not feel good, but the lights were still out. I would buy a treadmill and find a reason not to use it, or I would diet for a month, not lose a pound, and give up. It was easier to be friends with food.
Fast forward to March of this year. I had insurance finally, so I went to (what I believed was a better doctor). She was a diabetes educator, after all. We started from scratch, but within two months of trial and error, my A1C actually went up, not down, and she was ready to put me on insulin.
This was a true turning point for me. Here I am, barely 30 years old, and I am now having to give myself shots. I watched my grandmother do it. I have known other people who have had to do it, but did I really learn what that meant? No, I just did not like needles and hated the idea of shoving those things in me everyday. I did not fully awake from my fantasy land until I actually started taking the insulin. It burned, but my diabetes educator had that attitude that I needed to suck it up. I got in contact with my mother (who is a nurse) and told her about the burning. She said it sounded like I hit a stretch mark and a bad burning sensation could happen with that. After the conversation ended, I sat down and cried. Silent tears just pouring out as I look down at my stomach. I have yo-yoed so much with dieting that my stomach is truly full of stretch marks. I did not have a safe place to insert that needle without feeling that pain. My stomach is so stretched and marked that I really could not tell what was the stretch mark and what was the safe zone. Regardless, my doctor was right; I needed to suck it up.
Sitting on the couch, reeling from the multitude of light bulbs going off, I realized the problem: me. I was the enemy. I was the one who had made any problem I had worse by running to the kind of food children are taught to stay away from. Whether or not I was taught this during my childhood does not matter. As soon as I moved out and became responsible for feeding myself (and even before then), I should have taken care of what I was putting in my mouth.
I know there has not been a lot of time between now and then, but I have done a lot of thinking and true soul searching.
Like many, I have been obese for most of my life (all but three years of it, actually). Was I jealous of the skinny girls who always seemed to radiate with flawless skin and endless amounts of energy? Yeah, I was jealous. Why did they deserve it and I did not...
I remember first contemplating gastric bypass surgery back in 2002, but I talked myself out of it. I did not need to take such drastic measures to lose weight. I only needed to do it. I wanted to lose weight and be one of the beauties you see all over magazines and billboards, but not enough for surgery.
So, why now?
Because now:
I do not hate food, I am just eating too much of it.
I no longer hate myself; I do not have to be perfect, I just need to be true to myself.
I no longer hate people. They may think or feel however they want. I will still love them.
I no longer resent the skinny girls.
BIC or no BIC, I know I am beautiful and worthy.
This is my life and I am not giving it up for anything. I want my chance to live it.
I am ready to admit that I need help and to accept the help that is offered.
