I wish someone would have shaken my shoulders, looked deep into my eyes and told me exactly what was going to happen to my body as I got older and fatter. I don't even remember a doctor being honest with me other than to say that I was "overweight" and should do "something" about that and blah blah blah diabetes blah blah blah fat blah blah blah exercise.
Ok so perhaps doctors might have said a thing or two now and then. To be honest, I didn't go to the doc because I didn't want to hear what they had to say about my weight. The times I did go were uncomfortable so eventually I just stopped going.
I liked to live my life in a big bubble of peace and pizza.
Outside of the doctors office though, I think that as a society we tippy-toe around overweight people because we don't want them to feel even worse about themselves. While I agree that there's no reason to degrade, insult, or treat them with disrespect, I don't think we need to cater to their addiction. Are we, as a society, making being fat too acceptable and comfortable?
If life would have been more uncomfortable for me, would I have made changes sooner?
I don't know. I'd like to think I would have although, now that I'm writing this, I'm somewhat changing my mind.
As a fat girl, life was uncomfortable. I was embarrassed each time I shopped at Lane Bryant. Each time someone asked me where I got my shirt, I wanted to cringe because I didn't want them to know I shopped at the "fat store". I didn't fit in airplane seats, car seats, or any seats for that matter. Yeah, that was uncomfortable physically because my butt cheeks just wouldn't or couldn't squeeze together enough to fit in the seat but also uncomfortable mentally because it was a poke in my peace pizza bubble. Being told I couldn't join the mounted search and rescue horse group because I couldn't get up and down off my horse ... yeah ... uncomfortable. Life wasn't good. It was hard.
I just didn't let it sink in how hard or uncomfortable it as and that all that hardness ... all that uncomfortable-ness ... that was all brought on by my addiction. It wasn't Boeing's fault for designing seats for skinny peeps. It wasn't the mounted patrol captain being a jerk that kept me from the group. It was me. My weight. My actions. And my inability to control my own addiction.
There are marks on my body that are reminders of my past head-in-the-hole-ness. I have a lot of weight stretch marks. They are reminders of the choice I made to be fat and now that choice I'm making to be healthy.
Next week I'll have gall bladder surgery which will leave me with a series of small scars (very small) that will be additional weight war wounds.
I'm not sure how to deal with these marks and scars yet. Part of me is annoyed with myself for ever even getting to the point of having them and that's the part that wants to revert back to blaming everyone else for them.
"If someone would have told me I'd have stretch marks and need gall bladder surgery, I would have dieted way sooner."
Hmm... ok so I'm pretty sure I heard it at some point, somewhere, somehow and I'm pretty sure it was my choice to disregard that information whilst cramming more food into my mouth.
The other part of me is thankful for the reminders of where I've come from. I'm using them to remind me to make wise choices. These are small warnings and I'm thankful that my risky eating behavior didn't leave me with far worse issues especially considering my family history of heart disease and diabetes. Stretch marks and gall bladder attacks pale in comparison to the worse case scenario.
These small reminders might be unsightly, but I'll take them. They tell the story of who I was and who I won't be ever again.