When we introduce ourselves, we don't usually start off by saying something like, "Hi, I am Andee, I used to weigh 255 lbs." We usually say our name, and then we say something about our career, or another identity marker, like for me, it has always been "artist." But I somehow morphed into a space where I was only the fat girl.
But because I have now lost 57 pounds, I feel like that is how I silently introduce myself. She is still there lurking in the shadows. Wondering if there is space for her. My brain is still entwined with the fat girl who always felt like the world had to accommodate her fatness and that she was taking up too much space.
Need a seatbelt extender on this flight, ma'am? Here, let me get that for you. I felt the eyes of other passengers in silent judgment that the fat girl was taking up space with her fatness and inconveniencing everyone.
Oh, you want to go horseback riding? Our weight limit is 220 lbs. You may hurt the horse, so sorry.
Whitewater rafting? The guide surveys the group and locks eyes on you. Oh, she has to go in the back because of the extra weight.
The world was an obstacle course, navigating my fatness and seeing if I could fit in anywhere.
It is like my brain is a GPS whose road maps haven't been updated. My actions are on autopilot, following the old roads. I buy clothes and I am still buying my old size. I ask for a seat belt extender, but I don't need one. I look in the mirror and see a person who I am not familiar with yet. I used to know her, but we drifted apart.
The weight loss has really dredged up a lot of feelings around food and body image. Things I "knew" happened and could articulate to you in small, casual stories, but when I piece them together like a mosaic and view the bigger picture, I say, no wonder I was fat. Food insecurity as a child, a mother who would rather spend money on animals than food. A father desperately trying to start a garden because we needed to eat. Begging my dad for lunch money so I could eat. A grandmother who put me on SlimFast at 10. Never being thin enough to be loved, I guess.
Fast forward to my teenage years. Watching my dad eat voraciously, like he was trying to fill the emotional hole of losing his dad at a young age and being married to a woman who cared more about herself than anyone else. Still begging for lunch money. Opening the fridge and seeing baking soda and beer. Starting to try to control my weight by not eating. Seeing a mother, who was a nurse for the love of God, smoking to "try to lose weight." Getting positive attention for "being skinny." It didn't matter how I got there, only that I took up less space. This was also the time when "heroin chic" was popular in the magazines and you could buy speed at the grocery store. Next, enter sexual assault and trying to deal with all the ramifications of being raped at 17 and all the things that ensued from that.
All these things are like tiny shards of colored glass. You can see them and touch them, and they cut you and they leave a mark. But you still can't see the bigger picture. Yet.
Fast forward to when I was with my ex-boyfriend. I got kidney stones and lost weight because I was throwing up. And my kidneys were shutting down. All I remember is he told me that he preferred me at a lower weight. I said, even though I was throwing up and my kidneys were shutting down to get there? Again, the message was clear. Skinny is the goal, no matter how you get there.
Next, I met my husband, who has always loved me and been supportive of me no matter what my weight. But my grandmother told me that he deserved a skinny wife and I should lose weight. "He deserves a skinny wife at least once." So I was motivated. Motivated by the negative. Again, the message was clear, you can only be worth loving if you are skinny. The less space you take up, the more value you have.
And I lost the weight. I got to 155 pounds, which for me is small. I still carry 20 lbs. of boobs no matter what I weigh. I was mountain biking, doing yoga, and Weight Watchers. Counting points. I looked good, I felt good. Then I got into a mountain biking accident. I took a pretty high jump and landed on my head. I remember being in the ambulance and the guy in there with me was calling in my accident. He said, "I have a 27-year-old athletic female..." And even then, in the midst of wondering if I was going to be paralyzed or sustain another serious injury, I heard "athletic." I had never been called that in my life. And that comment anchored itself into my body like a ship trying not to float away in a hurricane.
Fast forward: healing from the accident took years. I am VERY lucky that I only suffered minor injuries; others who had less traumatic accidents have fared far worse. I am very thankful. But there was still a lot of healing to do. And I gained weight. And kept gaining. Later on, I joined a group of fitness friends, and that was when I really started to see fit was superior to skinny. Those people had such a profound impact on me. Many positive seeds were being planted then. I did my first fitness race, Hero Rush. I was at one of my heaviest weights. I think I was 240? The friends I was with were much more fit than I was. But they waited for me and helped me finish the race. That was when I realized I was capable of far more. I did a few rounds of Beachbody programs. I lost weight. I think I got to 216? I didn't realize it then, but I believe that was the beginning of perimenopause. I think this was the first time I started shifting my mindset that strong is better than skinny and skinny doesn't mean healthy.
It was during this time that I had my brain stent surgery. I have IIH. For those who don't know, it is a condition where your spinal fluid builds up and puts pressure on your optic nerves and you go blind. You have excruciating daily headaches. Once the surgery was finished, I literally woke up and had no pain or headaches for the first time in years. Having a chronic painful condition takes a lot of energy to manage. When such a sudden change occurs, you have a moment of peace, and then all the things you didn't have the energy to process or deal with come rushing to the forefront, and you are now drowning in a tsunami of unresolved childhood trauma.
Shortly after, I had a hysterectomy. No one tells you there are still MAJOR hormonal shifts that occur, and even if they leave your ovaries, removing the uterus expedites ovarian aging, pushing you into a hormonal shit storm. So my menopause was expedited, but I had no idea because I "had my ovaries." This manifested in many ways. Night sweats, MAJOR anxiety that manifested when I was around other people in a HUGE way, feeling like I was observing my body and not a part of my body, disconnection, panic attacks, unable to access JOY or any emotion besides panic. Not feeling like myself, overwhelming angst, and a heavy ennui settled over me like a dark cloud. Who am I, even? I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. This is also the time I started really experiencing RA pain at its extreme.
Continued in Part 2
