LaShelle2
My Journey to Thin
Jun 27, 2009
I know people, even morbidly obese people must look at someone my size and wonder to themselves, "How did she get that way?" I'll admit I've done it myself when I passed an obese person in the mall or grocery store, or my favorite buffet. "Surely she should have known she was past her fat limit at size 18."So, this is my story. As best as I can summarize, this is how and why I got to the point I am today.... I have been holding this story in for my whole life. Nobody, not even my closest confidants really know all about me. I am releasing all this from my spirit. I not only have physical weight anchoring me down, there are years and layers of emotional weight I carry with me every day. It festers, and weeps, and No matter how many pounds I shed, I will never be content with me unless I release this burden to the Heavens.
This is one of many steps to my physical and emotional freedom.
This is my journey to thin.
July 5, 1975
I was born in Covington GA to young inexperienced parents. My mother was 16 when she had me. She had grown up in an abusive home. I think she must have married my father out of shame, fear, and a hope to escape to something better. Unfortunately she jumped from a situation where she was abused, to one where her children would be abused and she would be beaten down not physically, but emotionally to an extent far worse than any bruises could have impressed upon her spirit.
I am the oldest of 4 children. My childhood was very traumatic. It was filled with years of physical sexual, verbal, and emotional abuse. As an adult looking back, I am sure some of that must attribute to my obesity and food addiction.
1980 to 1982
I have been overweight since about kindergarten. I guess that was about the time I started to understand my family was not "normal". I didn't know what abuse or molestation was, but I knew my life was vastly different from the other children in my classroom. The teachers noticed something was off-kilter with me too, but that was before mandatory reporting and such, so it was whispered about, but pretty much looked over. Besides the going-ons in a poor African American child's home life was not priority to the administration of my primarily Caucasian school. It's just the way things were back then in the South.
2nd - 5th grade 1982 to 1985
I became a perfectionist. Somewhere in my pubescent mind, I rationalized if I appeared as perfect as possible on the outside, nobody could see what was going on inside. I remember rewriting an entire essay because I couldn't stomach the idea of turning it in with an erasure mark. I didn't have any friends. This was partly due to the fact that my abusive father wouldn't allow anyone to visit us.
Also, kids just didn't like me. Children are very perceptive. Back then I found being the brunt of bullying and being shunned from the in crowd was nearly intollerable. Besides the fact that I was the weird kid in class. I had an awkward appearance. I was very fair skinned. My grandmother would lay me in the sun for hours in effort to get some color on me. Skin cancer didn't exist back then. To make matters worse I had shockingly nappy red hair! Old men would tease me and call me Red, or yella gal. I hated it! My classmates used the hair and complexion against me as the subject of constant taunting. I didn't fit in with the white kids because I was black, and I didn't fit in with the black kids because I didn't look like them either. The town I grew up in was not diverse. You were either black or white. There were no in-betweens. Asians and Hispanics were unworldly.
Looking back, I realize children have an innate sense to identify when something isn't right about a person. They must have seen that about me. As much as I tried to bury the abuse down inside, it must have emanated from my aura.
In the meantime, home life grew worse. By then my mother had given birth to my 2 sisters and my brothers. My father had become a full fledged alcoholic. Beatings were a regular occurrence. Leaving a spot on a dish meant a beating, not folding the clothes meant a beating, leaving toys out meant a beating, talking to loud meant a beating, not talking loud enough meant a beating, looking at him the wrong way meant a beating. Now, there was no 1-800-CHILDABUSE. There wasn't even 911. Neighbors were scarce because we were in the country. There was nobody to protect us. Besides, if you disciplined your kids back then it was your business.
He also had an affinity to gambling and women. He had plenty of money coming in from his business, but it didn't always make it home. There were many nights we went to bed hungry. Dinner often consisted of meat with gravy (it stretches farther that way) or fatback, biscuits, molasses, and whatever vegetables were ripe in the garden. To this day I will not eat a crowder pea or a purple hulled butter bean! Today, those things are considered soul food delicacies, but I promise if you look at biscuits and gravy and beans every night you won't hold them to such high esteem.
One one occasion I vividly remember, my mother was driving us to see our paternal grandmother. My father never took us anywhere, so it was her job to even take us to see his own mother. If she didn't she would be berated for thinking she was too god to take us around his family. Well, on this evening we had NOTHING at home in the refrigerator. No bread, no butter, no milk, NOTHING. On the way to my grandmothers, mother spotted his truck at the grocery store. I'm sure she must have thought he had gotten paid, and intended to run in and make sure he got whatever was needed from her list.
I recall turning the corner down the aisle he was on. My mother in her K-Mart polyester special, me, my 2 sisters, and my brother... all faced him with a cart load of groceries! Good cereal, not the yellow and black boxed ones we had to settle for, real butter, meat, bread, eggs, sodas, the works! Along with that loaded cart, those scrumptious groceries, and my asshole of a father, I got my first glimpse of the other woman. Those groceries he was buying were not intended for us, but for her and her children!
When we got home that night our refrigerator and cupboards still had NOTHING!
While this was going on my father was known as the man around town. His associates called him "Big Time" because He was known to have plenty of money and plenty of women. Me and my siblings had learned to hate Him. My mother lived in a world of her own. Either she was apathetic, or in so much pain herself, she pretended it was not happening. The outside world never saw what went on at home. They respected, adored, and still idolize him. He never had to open his door, wash his own truck, pump his own gas, or refill his own glass. His flunky entourage took care of that. It was and is still hard to see those people love him when we hate him so much. Sometimes I just want to shout to the mountain tops what He really is made of.
With staples so tight, I mastered the art of hoarding. I learned to swipe the extra apple or crackers from a classmate's lunch tray to take home. One lunch lady I will never forget, must have noticed this and on a few occasions set aside "special packages" for me to take home. I also ALWAYS cleaned my plate.
My mother worked off and on during my elementary years, mostly at factory jobs. She had a couple of jobs working nights. After school she would take us to the babysitter. I use the term babysitter loosely. It was more-so an old lady that "watched" us. She lived in a rented shack of a home. It was a weathered gray wood. I'm not sure if it had ever been painted, or if it was just that old. The roof was of tin sheet metal. She had no indoor plumbing. Water came from the well, and there was an outhouse. She had a pot bellied stove for heat. This old lady being poor herself, rarely fed us. When I complained to my mother, she did pack us a dinner, but the old lady's teenaged nieces regularly took it for themselves, since they weren't getting fed well either. There was nobody to defend us. My cycle of starving and hoarding continued. The old lady's husband used to lift the corner of my skirt with his cane and rub my legs with his gnarled fingers. He never went any further than that, but to a child who was being molested, it was disconcerting.
I relate closely with the character Celie in The Color Purple by Alice Walker. Celie's father was much like mine in that he was a well respected business man, but an abusive demon to his own family. If you revisit the novel, you will recall her abuse started well before her forced marriage to Mister, the character portrayed by Dannie Glover in the movie. Purple is my favorite color. I keep that novel on my bedside table.
At night my father picked us up from the old lady's rented shack. More often than not he was drunk on Moonshine or "corn liquor" as it was called. Otherwise, it was beer, or Crown Royal. I have yet to love a man that drinks beer. I find the smell nauseating. Inevitably, sometime during the night He would come into the room I shared with my sister. I can't remember every detail. I believe God has allowed me to block much of it out, otherwise I would take leave of my sanity. I recall being penetrated with his fingers. And violated orally. I also remember him trying to force himself inside me. I don't know if he ever succeeded, but I do know he always ejaculated, and washed me down with a towel. Afterward he admonished me for "letting" him touch me down there. He convinced me I was bad, and it was my fault for letting him do it. He then threatened to kill me if I would tell. I was receiving regular blood letting beatings, so I believed him. My first memory of molestation was at about three of four years old. I know because I remember the house we lived in at the time and the surroundings in my room. Parents, be cautious of what you do to and around your children. They will remember things from even a very young age!
The nightly visits were frequent. I don't know how often He came before I was in elementary school. But, I do remember it being an almost nightly occurrence when I was older somewhere between the ages of six and nine. It was just an inevitable part of my day's routine.
I spent quite a bit of time with my grandparents, aunta, cousins, and extended family as a child. In those days in the rural South or "the country" it was custom to go visiting on the weekends. Saturday mornings were reserved for grocery shopping. That was the day you got your hair washed and pressed. You would see all the ladies about town with curlers in their hair and bandannas protecting their coveted Sunday morning hairdo. It was oddly fashionable to have those curlers in because it meant you had the class to get your hair done. Lawd ain't life a mess.
Sunday afternoon we went to Grandma's for Sunday dinner. It was like the movie Soul Food magnified. Fried chicken, baked hen and dressing, collards, ham, potato salad, maccoroni and cheese, pork chops, beef pot roast, meat loaf, fried corn (what northerners call creamed corn) fresh from the garden with fatback on the side, green beans, okra from the garden, real mashed potatoes, biscuits, cornbread, yeast rolls... The main meal was always accompanied by fresh tomatoes, onions, and hot peppers from the garden. There was chow chow, pepper sauce, hot sauce, and a variety of fresh preserves usually fig, pear, or peach. Most of the vegetables came from Grandpa's garden. My southern grandmother managed to boil, stew, and fry every morsel of nutrition out of those vegetables. By the time they reached the table, they were fatback and hamhock laden, and cooked to oblivion. Damn it was good! My uncle would steal the prized hunk of fatback from the greens and eat it with his supper. He died last year of a heart attack in his seventies. I wonder how many years those fatback doses stole from him?
And oh the desserts! Red Velvet Cake, sweet potatoe pie, peach cobbler, cheese cake, ice cream, bananna pudding, cookies, it was divine. All this gluttenous perfection was washed down the Southern staple sweet tea, which is more of a syrup than a beverage. I may have starved Monday through Saturday, but I was well fed on Sundays!
When I was about six or seven I remember a particular Sunday afternoon. We had finished dinner and I had strolled next door to my great aunt's house. My family had communal property. At one point my great grandfather the first NAACP president in Covington, GA owned over fifty acres of land. That was renowned in those days for an African American man. His moon shine still helped fund his estate.
The day at my aunt's house was typical. We cousins all stayed outside. Kids were not allowed to play in the house back then. It was too hot anyway because she didn't have air conditioning. We played our typical games, Ring Around the Roses, 123 redlight, catch, kickball, tag, I Spy... Toys were few and far between. We had to make up our own entertainment. Kids these days lack creativity and imagination. We buy it for them and think we're giving them something better than what we had.
After running around the yard a while, I had to pee. I ran into my aunt's house to use the bathroom. The other cousins stayed outside. My aunt had a small, but orderly well kept home. Family photos adorned the walls. Lace doilies and other nic nacks spruced up the living room. She has a son who was in his early twenties at that time. He was reclusive. He always stayed in his room. I don't know if he even came out to pee or eat. I guess he was the family's Uncle Pete from the movie Soul Food.
On this day of all days, he opened his door while I was in the restroom. When I came out, he had emerged from his den. He lured me to his room. I don't recall what he did or said to get me in there, but I imagine it's not too complicated to convince a kid the age I was at the time. It wasn't long before he had forced himself on top of me. I don't remember what I was wearing or not wearing, whether he penetrated me, or whether it hurt. I just knew it was wrong, and I needed to get out of there. I knew my father was doing this to me at night, but I also knew from my father's threats it was wrong.
I somehow managed to escape. I told my cousins, and they teased me. Word leaked to the adults and my parents. Nobody did anything. Back then things like that were just not talked about. it was whispered about, but the conversation quickly reverted back to who had the best tomatoes in their garden, who was pregnant, what was on sale at Kroger this week...
I was lectured when I got home. Why did I let this happen? Poor little me. Why did this keep hapening to me/ Was I bad. Was I doing something to make this happen? That night the molestation from my father was servere. He caught me in the bathroom. I had learned to hold my pee through the night fearing he would catch me in there, but the sweet tea got the best of me that Sunday night. He had to punish me extra thoroughly because I has let my cousin touch me down there.
My last memory of that night was him holding the handle of his wood chopping ax to my throat. "If you tell I will kill you." I was just a little girl. I was scared. I did not tell. I cried myself to sleep again.
"A girl child ain't safe in a house full of mens"
~ Sophia
The Color Purple
Yes, I eventually told my mother. I was about 8 years old. She told me I should have let her know sooner. Again I was being blamed for "letting" this happen. She said there was nothing she could do about it now. She did stop working nights soon after I told her, but He would still come into my room while she was asleep. She MUST have known this was happening in her own house while she was in the next room. Our house was very small, only 2 bedrooms. Shouldn't she have seen the stains on my sheets, or the blood on my panties?
I came to my mother for rescue from the abuse that one time. She didn't do anything. I never mentioned it to her again until I was an adult. She did not provide any logical explanation as to why she allowed it to go on. I will go to my grave wondering...
The last memory of molestation was the summer before sixth grade. I had started to get my period, and my mother had taught me about the birds and the bees. I was still afraid of him and the beatings, but I was more afraid of getting pregnant. I fought and wouldn't let him touch me again. Something inside me scared him. He is still afraid of me today. An eleven year old child should not have to be concerned about being pregnant! Why did my God, my mother, my teachers, somebody, anybody STOP this! Why didn't somebody save me? Why me and not my sisters? Why?
1986 to 1989
Middle school was a blur. I guess I was so miserable I don't remember much of it. The molestation had stopped, but the beatings continued. My brother was four or five years old by now, and he began to be beaten too, My sisters didn't suffer as much. He did dislocate my middle sister's shoulder once, but for some reason he favored beating me and my brother. Lucky us.
Middle school was still a friendless period. I was never allowed to do cheerleading, or ballet, or gymnastics like normal little girls. I just didn't fit in. It became more noticeable too that my clothing was not up to par with the latest styles. Much of what we wore was second hand or home-made. Not because there wasn't money coming in, but because the money never made it home.
1990-1992
High school was not much better than middle school. My beatings had declined substantially, to my brother's misfortune. The police were called on several occasions to his rescue. Even then, the child abuse and domestic violence laws were not as strict as they are now. I am employed by the state agency that regulates child welfare. I have seen children coming into state care for far less worse offenses against them than what me and my brother endured. Not that those children's cases do not mandate removal from their parent's homes, I just wonder why nobody saved me.
With years of starving and hoarding, I had somehow managed to blossom to a size 18w. This was not appealing to the popular clique. Most of my mornings were spent in the library reading the dictionary or encyclopedia. I set a goal for myself to read every book in the library. I began with the author's with last name "A" By the time I left high school , I had made it a little more than half way through the alphabet. I was an official tape on the glasses, homemade clothes wearing, flute playing nerd!
I also discovered boys. Of course I wasn't allowed to date. Eventhough I had been being molested since I was about three, He forbid me to date. Oh the ironies of life. Regardless of the restrictions, I snuck out. I went on a lot of "band trips" and overnight "field trips". I was actually with my girlfriend sneakng out to see our boyfriends.
I was convinced from all those years of being abused nobody loved me. I was periodically suicidal. I dreamed of ways I would kill myself. I envisioned my family mourning around my casket. I wanted my mother to feel the pain from my death that I felt from the life she had allowed me to live. So, naturally when a couple of boys paid me some attention, I thrived on it. I was like a seed in the desert that had been waiting 15 years for a drop of rain. Finally somebody was showing me some love. Or at least I thought it was love.
I managed to starve myself down to a snug size fourteen, I was about 175 pounds. This time I was starving for looks, not because of lack. I was likely borderline anorexic. That only lasted a quick minute.
June 12, 1992
On one of those "field trips" I got pregnant with my now 17 year old son. I was sixteen and pregnant. I had become generation two of an ugly cycle. My father said I was a disgrace, so I had to move out of His house. He actually put my stuff out on the street. I was sixteen, no education, no money, no job, with a baby! I was homeless. I went to live with my then boyfriend's grandmother in Macon. I had only met her one time before I moved in with her. She did not like me. She was evil. I had nowhere else to go. Somehow during this time God had the Grace to lead me to the county welfare office. I learned about a program that would help me with daycare, food stamps, medical assistance, etc, while I studied for the GED exam. This program would even help me get through college. Now me being the nerd that I am jumped on this opportunity.
I quickly mastered the prerequisite course to obtain my GED. I actually ended up teaching the class on most days because I was so far advanced ot the other students. The class instructors were mesmerized. I relished the attention and praise. I successfully completed the GED exam and enrolled in a junior college.
By this time I had moved back home with my estranged parents. Life is crazy. He threw my stuff on the street and they called about nine months later and begged me to come back. I was miserable with my boyfriend's grandmother. I would be miserable at home too. I guess In my teenaged mind I figured it would be better to be miserable with people you know than with strangers. No matter how cruel parents are to their children, the child still feel some connection to them, I have seen children taken into state custody they had been molested, beaten, burned, filtly, lice and feces infested. These children, sometimes cry and plead not to be removed from those deplorable conditions. It is heartwrenching. No matter how dysfunctional the love at home is, it is the only love they know.
I moved out into my own apartment when I was seventeen. I was still receiving food stamps. This was like crack to a young lady who had been starved for the past sixteen years. I could buy anything and everything I wanted to eat, and I didn't have to share with anybody, I no longer had to hoard or hide what I was eating. I had gained about sixty pounds to 230 after having my son. This new free reign on the grocery store added about thirty more.
June 15, 1997
College graduation led to a series of professional jobs, and my own money. I often treated myself to lavish dinners, trips to the Chinese buffet, Mexican, Japanese, Movie popcorn with extra butter, hot wings, pizza, doughnuts at 3:00a.m. , a whole pack of bacon, half a chicken... I ate, and ate, and ate, and made up for all those years of not having enough. I ate because it was good, I ate because it was sociable, I ate because it covered up all the hurt. I ate because it was power. I could control when, what, and how much. And nobody could stop me.
You know how some obese people claim " I don't know why I'm so big. I never eat anything. I must have a slow metabolism or a bad thyroid." Well that ain't me! I am big because I ATE myself big. And, I loved every morsel of it!
2004
I am fat!
I am not chubby, or thick, or plump, or voluptuous, or fluffy, or big boned, or plus sized. I am not a Big Beautiful Woman (BBW), I am just a Big Woman.
I have eaten myself to 278 lbs. When did this happen? Those years of sitting behind a desk all day, pigging out at lunch, and eating whatever comes in a box or bag for dinner have caught up with me. I am morbidly obese. Several people in the news have had wls, Carnie, Al Roker, Sharon Osborne. They are starting to put wls commercials on television. Could I do this too?
Now, weight is not as much of an issue in the African American culture as it is for some European descendants. A black man would take Rosie Odonel over Jessica Simpson any day. (Well maybe not Rosie, but you get the point). Do you know how many black women hated Oprah when she lost all that weight? Star Jones didn't fare any better in the community. She would still be on The View if she had stayed plump.
Surgery in itself is taboo. You don't go to the hospital unless it's life threatening. You definitely don't go letting somebody cutting you open for the hell of it. Breast implants, face lifts, nose jobs... We just don't do it! Now, in the past decade, some of the stigma has lessened, but there are still plenty of naysayers out there with the old school mentality.
Now, I grew up with this mentality, and this culture. I grew up with a grandma that didn't let you wash your hair if it rained because you would die of pneumonia, and wouldn't let you out of the house after delivering a baby until your six week checkup. So, I am wrestling with this dichotomy. The "college educated worldly me" and the "country bumpkin girl ain't nothing wrong with you, you just take after your mama" me.
Well the college educated me won! So, I see an ad in the Covington News for this new surgeon Dr. Maynard in Conyers. He's having a weight loss surgery seminar at Rockdale Hospital. I marked my calendar, and blocked my schedule. I am chronically late, but I arrive at the seminar early. I am very excited! I have never seen so many fat people in one place. There were young people, old people, male, female, black, white. I remember one girl was only 16 and over 350 lbs. I was impressed by Dr. Maynard. He seemed so kind and compassionate. He really seemed to know his stuff. He also had cookies, and fruit and punch. I guess he got a few brownie points for that too in my subliminal.
During the course of his presentation he gave an overview of all the surgrey types. He focused most of his time covering the Duodenal Switch, which his practice focuses on. At the time of this seminar, he had just gotten out of med school, and had not operated on a patient. Yes, I was foolish to consider letting this man operate on me, but this was before I did any research and he did give a convincing presentation. So, it was decided! I was going to have the DS with Dr. Maynard at Rockdale Medical Center. I completed the application packet and turned it in. I attended his support meetings religiously. I was on the road to Thin.
When life hands you lemons
make lemonade!
I had been given a bitter, sour lemon. Years of abuse and deprivation, led to starving and hoarding. Adulthood and financial security led to bingeing. Obesity was my lemon! I was ready to squeeze me some damned good lemonade and get sexy!
Well. whoever coined that motto, never gave an anecdote for when your lemonade goes rancid! To my dismay my insurance with State of GA has a wls exclusion. There is no way to appeal. I couldn't afford an attorney anyway on my state salary. I have legal insurance with my job, but it can't be used to sue my employer, another damned exclusion. Well ain't life grand. Nothing to do now, except be fat and unhappy. There will be no lemonade at my picnic today.
October 2008.
I have ballooned to 330 lbs. I have been diagnosed with diabetes, sleep apnea, PCOS, high cholesterol, metabolic syndrome, depression. Life has gotten so bad, I had to take a three month medical leave this spring to deal with some of my depression and health issues.
I am fatter than fat.
I am super morbidly obese!
Morbid (mor-bid) adj, 1 Being in a diseased or abnormal state. 2. Caused by or denoting a diseased condition of body or mind. ... .4. Grisly; gruesome.
This is how Mr. Webster describes me, and he's right on the money. I am diseased, I am abnormal. I am fat. It hurts when I walk. I can't sleep comfortably through the night. I can't walk up a flight of stairs without being winded. I sweat all the time. Even the big girl stores don't have my size in stock. I don't feel confident being on top during sex because I may be too heavy for my partner. I have to wear a panty liner in case I have a bladder leak. When it is hot outside I come home at lunch and shower for fear I'll be the smelly fat girl in the office. I don't want my ob/gyn to examine me because I am gross, I can't clean my house the way I want to because I don't have the energy. I can't cook a healthy meal at night because I am too tired, so I settle for fast food. I am afraid I embarrass my son because I am fat. He does not invite his friends over. I don't get invited to join in family activities becuase they know I am too fat to participate. I want to run, swim, dance, climb, jump, but I can't. I have trouble with routine hygiene practices because I can't reach everything. I can't paint my toenails, I can't climb a step ladder to change a light bulb. I can't mow my lawn.
I am super morbidly obese!
I am afraid I will die. I am afraid I will continue to live in this grave of a body and not get the peace death would render. I know I am killing myself with every bite, but I can't stop. I am not crazy, but wish I were, so I wouldn't have to realize the misery of my actuality. I cannot live like this. I cannot die like this. It petrifies me to think of everybody starring at my bloated, fat corpse.
I am super morbidly obese!
I got some good news today. It's open enrollment time at work. I called to compare benefits for the two options, Cigna and United Healthcare. I hate picking insurance. They should have a college course to prepare you for this. I never understand it all. I call 800-CIGNA and get a nice lady on the phone. She goes over the benefits yada yada yada. Out of the blue she asks if I were considering wls? I was shocked at first. Why is this chick asking me about wls? How does she even know I'm fat? I didn't have Cigna at the time, so she didn't have any of my medical records or demographics. Did I sound Fat? Well, I snapped out of my shock and told her yes, I had considered it, but gave up because of the exclusion.
It gave me immeasurable joy to hear from that Angel at Cigna wls would be added to my benefits under the HRA and High deductible plans! I signed up for the HRA. I logged back on to Obesity Help after being dormant for the past few years. I couldn't even remember the website name. I learned there were several other state employees just as excited about the news. This marked the new beginning of my lemonade manufacturing.
I began to research wls like a mad woman! I knew for sure I was getting a lap band cause wasn't nobody cuttin on me! The "country bumpkin me" didn't totally disappear. I started my 6 month supervised diet in November to get a head start on things. eventhough the insurance wouldn't cover wls until January, I could at least jump that hurdle in the race. Why are they even putting me on a diet anyway. I've been on every diet. I could teach the diet class. This is a bunch of crap, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.
In the meantime, I attended seminars for Dr. Titis Duncan and Dr. Dennis Smith. It has become evident with all my research and seminar knowledge the lap band and RNY are not for me. I need the Duodenal Switch. As much bad press as Dr. Maynard receives, I will be forever grateful to him for education me in the DS procdure. It will allow me to lose the weight I need withouht the unpleasant side effects of the RNY, or the hassle of the lap band fills. Plus the long term success results are more favorable for this procedure. I can't imagine having anything else.
About Me
STOCKBRIDGE, GA
Location
54.9
BMI
Surgery
07/28/2009
Surgery Date
Dec 01, 2006
Member Since
