When Fears Become Reality

Things continue to be, well, interesting in regards to that Marie Claire post. At first, I thought that the author's apology added at the end of the piece was a load of bs that she was forced to write, but it turns out that Maura Kelly really has had a long, documented history of anorexia. She was even hospitalized at one point at 70 pounds. Yikes.

That said, I'm still angry with the magazine for encouraging her to write the piece -- apparently her boss assigned it to Kelly after seeing an article on CNN about MIKE & MOLLY -- and am feeling sorry for Kelly. For one thing, what kind of crappy boss assigns an article fat prejudice to a recovering anorexic? And how much must Kelly b going through personally, if she got herself to the point where she was hospitalized for her weight issues? No wonder why overweight people disgust her -- she's seeing her greatest fear come alive right in front of her face!

I still don't agree with a word she said in her editorial, but I can at least understand what prompted her to write such a thing. Your world view can be extremely twisted when you fear something so much -- and fear that you can become said thing. It was definitely like that for me when I battled anorexia and bulimia (though I never got down to 70 pounds). I was definitely prejudiced against the overweight.

I still regret the fact that I made fat jokes against this chubby girl on our bus. To be fair, she was a total bitch and made Jewish jokes against me, but two wrongs didn't make a right here. But then there were the times I treated perfectly nice overweight people like crap. There was this girl in junior high -- let's just call her Evelyn -- who always wanted to sit with us at lunch and we'd let her; but my friends and I would make snide comments about her when she was out of earshot. She knew it, too, and was always trying to diet. All she wanted was for us to be her friends.

Part of this had to do with me being a stupid kid, but I know that a lot had to do with my own fears of gaining weight and being fat. I'd weigh myself obsessively and my mood would be predicated on what number appeared. No matter how good I looked in an outfit, I always noticed the "fat rolls" that popped out (which was ridiculous because I didn't have any!). Back then, I had the same stereotypes as everyone else -- that overweight people are lazy and ignorant. I wish I could go back in time and bitch slap the 13-year-old me!

The thing is, I didn't even like myself then. I HATED myself. I hesitate to share this, but I was 14 when I seriously considered committing suicide. So yeah, I wasn't fat, but I kinda thought I was anyway, and I was miserable with my own existence. What kind of life was that? No wonder I had so much prejudice -- it's difficult to feel love and compassion for others when you're dealing with your own shit.

What's interesting is that one of my best friends is gay and admits that when he was younger, he thought being gay was "disgusting." He's been out for 10 years now and has obviously changed his world view, but it was a similar thing in that he "hated" the thing that he feared himself being.

There are many things that I don't like about being obese, but in some ways, gaining weight has been good for me. I don't hate myself these days and think that I'm more compassionate toward others. I'm definitely less selfish than I was when I was younger and don't care quite as much about being perfect. Yes, I want to lose weight for health purposes, but I don't think that thinner equals better. For a one-time anorexic, that's a big deal.

It's pretty ironic that it took me becoming obese to become my best self so far. Hopefully, I'll take everything that I've learned during this time and continue to be who I am as the pounds come off.

Anniversary

I made some huge strides today. I managed to walk a few feet without using the walker for balance. I then made it through my exercises at PT without "cheating" by leaning over the rail to relieve the pressure on my back. And then this evening, I walked (using the walker) from my apartment to the sidewalk in front of our building and even successfully made it down the flight of six stairs in our entranceway! Jon brought the wheelchair with him in case I needed a rest, but I never had to stop and sit down. By the end of my walk, my back was hurting and I was hunched over te walker to relieve the stress, but I reached my goal. Tomorrow, I plan to walk a few feet more up the sidewalk ... and I'll keep practicing until I can make it to the bus stop up the block.

At PT, my therapist was so happy to see me walking around. The other therapist who was working with me today was also pleased that I'd memorized my exercises and appreciated that I'm so motivated to work and get well. He told me that a lot of patients hate doing the exercises and end up leaving their practice to go to another one where all they do is give patients massages and have them relax with heat compresses. I admitted that when I'm doing the actual exercise moves that it sucks because I'm out of shape and it's painful, but that it felt really good afterward. He was very encouraging and cheered me on when I managed to complete 30 reps in a row without stopping or slouching over. What was really nice was that when I was finished, this other patient there -- who's overweight herself, but was further along in her therapy than I am --came over to give me a hug and said that I was doing a great job.

Next week, my therapist wants me to start doing balancing exercises and using the stair climber. I'm a little nervous about this and how it'll affect my back. The good news is, I've been working really hard to lose weight this week because I know that this is only way that I can get rid of my back pain. So far, it's working, at least somewhat. I've diligently returned to keeping a food journal and have been doing my PT workout every other day. I already feel a bit lighter and am finding it easier to stand for longer amounts of time. I know that as long as I keep this up, I'll get stronger and leaner. I can't say that I love working out because it's very tough for me right now, but I really like the therapists at PT and feel that they're pushing me just enough; they're encouraging and give me a lot to do, but they also understand that I have some limitations because of my leg and my weight. And yet they're never judgemental about it.

With so much going on, I almost didn't realize what today's date is: July 10. It's also the official 20th anniversary of my eating disorder.

For as long as I can remember, I've been obsessed with food. Don't get me wrong, my parents never starved me or anything; in fact, my mom is a great cook. But I did get a lot of "Nos" and "You've had enoughs" as a child. We didn't keep sweets or chips or sugary cereal in our home (which is a good thing, but I didn't see it that way back then) and whenever we went to a restaurant or a party, my mom would always give me a disapproving eye if I ate too much. Treats were saved for special occasions, like birthday parties or holidays; plus, whenever I got a good report card, we'd get ice cream sundaes at Friendly's. Whenever we went to a concert or movies, my parents would let me get one small bag of candy.

And yet, I was always hungry. I don't know why, exactly, but it seemed as if no matter how much good, healthy food I ate, I always wanted more. My parents tell me that when I was four or five, I actually went to my neighbors' homes and complained that my parents weren't feeding me so I could ask for food. I don't remember this, but I do recall judging my friends based on what kinds of foods they had in their homes. I used to love going to my friend, Michelle's, because she always had tons of junk in the house for us to snack on. But I didn't like spending time at Dina's because the food selection there was limited.

By the time I turned 11, my obsession went into overdrive. By now, I was a latch key kid and was staying home by myself a lot more. During these times while my parents were away, I'd gorge on bagels and low fat ice cream and anything good that I could find in my parents' kitchen. One time, my dad received a box of cookies as a holiday gift and hid them in the back of the pantry. I found them and ate the entire thing. Another time, I ate through all of the leftover frosting that we had from when I'd made birthday cupcakes. I even ate an entire jar of sprinkles. I think my preoccupation with food is best illustrated, though, by the time my parents took me to see a classical music concert and I freaked out because the candy stand didn't have M&Ms. I'd be so looking forward to having them that I actually broke down and cried. Over M&Ms! Can you imagine that?

I still haven't quite figured out why food meant (means) so much to me, so that'll have to be a post for another day. But I do know that by the time I was a sophomore in high school, I was no longer obsessed with food and had become more obsessed with being thin. To clarify things, I was NOT fat. Not even close. I was about 5'2" and weighed about 115 pounds -- pretty ideal, come to think of it.

But during my freshman year, I fell for this guy, who didn't know that I was alive. He, in turn, liked the skinniest girl in our class. Looking back, I'm not so sure how healthy she was, but at the time, I was envious of her 95-pound frame. I figured that if I could get to be that thin and lose my wide hips and big butt (they were not wide or big at all, but this is what I thought back then), that this boy would find me attractive, too.

Many other things were going on in my life, too, at the time. I was shy and didn't have many friends. My childhood friend, Lani, whom I'm still close with today, was a year ahead of me in school and popular, so we didn't see as much of each other. The friends I did have weren't exactly loyal toward me, so I didn't feel very connected to anyone. I was in a special advanced program in school, so I was drowning in homework and reports every night and weekend. Plus, I was played flute in band and was very competitive with it at the time, so I was battling with some other flute players for first chair. In other words, I was lonely, stressed and getting hardly any sleep.

During sophomore year, my life spiraled even more out of control. My grandmother broke her hip and was given medication that made her really depressed. My then 90-year-old grandfather got pneumonia and wasted away to 75 pounds in the hospital (he survived and lived to be 98 1/2, but that's another story) -- and then moved into a home for the eldery. And then my great uncle died.

All of this happened in the span of about two or three months and it was very overwhelming for me. That's when I began my extreme dieting. The first time I tried it was when we were helping my grandfather clean out his apartment so he could move to the home. We'd always go to a nearby diner for lunch and I decided to eat only half of my meal that day. I was pleased when I lost three pounds that week.

But my real diet didn't begin until July 10, 1990, 20 years ago. My parents, who were both teachers, usually took me to some exotic place each summer like China or Egypt, but because there was so much going on in our family, decided to take a tour of the South instead that year. This was fine with me because I'd decided to use the five weeks we were away to lose some weight. I was scheduled to get my braces off at the end of the summer and I wanted to enter my junior year with a "perfect" figure and perfect teeth.

My plan worked -- sort of. That summer, I stuck with salads and fruits, making sure to cut out "bad" foods like breads and snacks. I ended up losing 15 pounds and went down two sizes. But that wasn't enough for me.

When I came home, I promised my mom that I wouldn't get below 95 pounds (which was probably still underweight for me), but I didn't listen. I hardly ate anything so that my stomach grumbled loudly in school. I exercised for hours a day. I ended up getting down to about 90 pounds, way underweight for someone with my frame. I remember my grandfather telling me that I was too skinny, but I usually wore layered outfits so it was difficult for most people to tell just how thin I was. Yet I could see every bone in my torso sticking out and bruised easily because I had no cushioning on my body.

Of course, the guy I liked continued to show no interest in me and people started making comments about my weight. The turnaround came for me when I went to a friend's sweet 16 and wore a slinky dress, thinking I looked great. My friend's older brother, who was always very nice to me, told me point-blank that I was too skinny and now had chicken legs. Since I was at that age where a boy's opinion meant everything, I actually listened to him and put some weight back on. Then, I entered the bulimia phase of my life, which wasn't much better ... and here I am.

I didn't realize until health class in my senior year that I'd flirted with anorexia, but I was a classic textbook case: the "good girl" who tries to please everyone and starts to diet when her life spirals out of control. I wish I'd gotten help back then, but am glad that I found the strength to pull myself out of it before I became really ill.

Still, it's pretty sad that 20 years later, I'm dealing with the same eating disorder, albeit in another form. It never went away; it simply changed. I honestly don't know if I'll ever beat this thing entirely, but I'd like to be able to at least manage it. So here's hoping that 20 years from now, my problems with food will be a very distant memory.

Let's Get Physical (Therapy)

Today was my first real day of physical therapy (as opposed to the last time, which was just a consulatation). It wasn't too bad, though the session lasted longer than I thought at 90 minutes. I didn't think that there would be much I could do since I'm still non-weight bearing, but the therapist, Abigail, really gave my foot a workout.

First, she had me put heat on it for 20 minutes and the massaged it for 10 (this was my favorite part). After, I had to move my foot in every way possible -- curl the toes, flex and point, rotate my ankle. None of these exercises hurt, but my foot felt very stiff and it was shaking a bit because it's still so weak. She then had me do some movements where I actually put my foot on the floor (while sitting) and THAT felt strange. She had me rest my toes on the floor while I did calf raises with my heel and then rest my heel on the floor while I raised my toes. The calf raises hurt! I wasn't in agony or anything, but my muscles were quite sore. This makes me even more nervous about what it will feel like when I actually stand on my foot again, but the therapist told me if I do these exercises twice a day, I'll build up my muscles and the swelling will go down. I sure as hell hope so. I'm not intending to half-ass anything, though. I'll do these exercises daily.

I also picked up a mini ultrasound machine that's supposed to help my fracture heal. I haven't used it yet so I don't know what it'll feel like, but I have to keep it on my leg for 20 minutes a day, as well. So between this and the therapy, a good chunk of my day is filled.

I'm grateful that I've had my parents to drive me around to these various appointments. I was afraid that we'd kill each other, because we tend to argue when we spend a lot of time together -- especially when I'm alone and without my husband -- but so far (knock on wood, knock on wood), it's been okay. They still annoy me; for instance, my dad refused to listen when I told him to back the wheelchair out at a certain point because this is how Jon does it ... and sure enough the chair got stuck. And he still keeps asking me questions about my medical history (have you seen this type of doctor? Why are you listed as being pre-diabetic -- what does that mean?) whenever my mom goes out for a cigarette (yeah, I get the irony, too). But I'm trying to keep my cool and not flip out at him, even though I wish he wouldn't ask me this stuff.

We actually had a very civil conversation today about my weight. He said that he saw an interview with Al Roker who'd shared that even though he'd gotten a gastric bypass, he'd gained weight back -- and that no matter how thin he got, he'd always be a fat person inside, kind of like an alcoholic always is an alcoholic, even if he's sober. I explained that yes, this is exactly how it is for me -- that I want to be thin and have succeeded before but it's just been so difficult for me to stay on track. That even though I know what to eat, that I'm often overtaken by a compulsion to binge, and that I have to think about every bite I eat. I also revealed that I've been speaking with a therapist about my eating disorder and my dad was happy to hear that. I think maybe he's beginning to understand how complex obesity and how me being fat doesn't mean that I'm lazy or "misbehaving" because I ate "bad" food. I think that maybe Roker's interview hit a nerve or something and he saw how even someone who went to great extremes to lose weight has had a difficult time fighting his food addiction.

This conversation was important to me because I feel as if my weight has created a barrier between my parents and me. When I began to gain in college, it understandably frustrated them, but I don't think they handled it well. They'd lecture me as if I were a naughty child, attempted to use negative reinforcement ("You'll never get a boyfriend, job, etc.") and actually threatened to take me out of school if I didn't lose. Then when I did lose a little, they'd remind me that I had more to go. When I was a bridesmaid in my friend's wedding, I looked GREAT and a lot of people complimented me -- but then my mom replied, "She still has to lose some more."

I get that they were concerned, but I wished that they'd taken a different approach. I don't think that they meant to make me feel badly about myself, but they did. Not only was I upset about gaining the weight, but now I was disappointing them, as well. That's what really got to me, that I let them down so much. The thing is, I TRIED to lose the weight, as I am now. But they didn't seem to understand that or understand how hard it was for me.

Eventually the pressure got to me and I just stopped coming home during holidays whenever it was possible for me to find another place to stay. During our long spring break, I went home with my now sister-in-law and spent Passover with my now in-laws (on a sidenote, this is how I got to know my husband). And during Thanksgiving of senior year, I chose to spend the weekend in our house by myself rather than come home. I lied that I had to do a shift at the newspaper where I was working at the time, but I just didn't feel like dealing with them. So while everyone else was enjoying Thanksgiving with their families, I was all by myself for four days. It sucked. But it was better than going home and getting in an argument.

These days, I have a decent relationship with my folks, but we don't see each other much. They travel often and I've made a point to only see them when Jon is with me to act as a buffer. I would like to be closer, though. I think that they could handle things better, but then again, I probably can, too.

Now that I'm older, I can see their side of things a little better. I'm not sure what I'd do if I had a daughter and she became obese as an adult. I don't know what I'd say or how I could help her without hurting her feelings. I guess I can see how it would be a tough thing to deal with. I don't think that my parents are bad people at all, but they (unintentionally) made ME feel like a bad person.

I think that there are too many bad memories tied in with my parents and my weight for me to ever fully let them in on my weight loss struggles; as of now, they don't know that I spent some time bingeing and purging. But if I can let them in at least a little, maybe we can find some peace.