Being fat can be a bit claustrophobic. At my top weight of 316 lbs, I was rendered to a state of near inactivity. I would get up in the morning, take a shower, and go to work, where I would basically sit at a desk all day. A few short walks to the bathroom or break room or another office was my form of exercise. Then, arriving home again, I would fall into my recliner and move very little for the rest of the day. That's not to say that I didn't do anything at all... there were household errands, chauffeuring of the children in my life, and periodic moments of spontaneity.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, my weight had reduced me to a slow chugging machine that huffed and puffed and creaked and groaned. My parts were failing and I had one foot in the junkyard. I have always been listed as an anatomical donor on my driver's license and I truly wanted to have my body used for the best purposes possible after my death. However, I am pretty certain at this point, that my parts would have been useless, even at a pick and pull yard.
As I slumped in my chair and avoided getting to my feet, two things were happening. I felt like I could not breathe when I was moving. My throat would tighten up and my airway would choke out the breathing process. My breathing had become very shallow and pushing more air in my lungs felt like I was being choked. The second thing that was happening to me was the inability to walk without a great deal of pain in my knees.
I couldn't tell anyone, even my partner of twenty years at the time. I didn't want to draw attention to myself, even though a withdrawal from household chores was probably a pretty good signal that something was wrong. My partner would tell me that I should get up and move around, go outside, take a walk... anything to get me out of that damn recliner. I was full of excuses. ""Not right now. I am tired," I'd say, and I was. Weary with inactivity and hiding the reasons why.
There are a multitude of reasons for this decline in my life. I remember being a strong and active person in my younger years. I carried my three year old niece on my shoulders for long walks across town to visit the library. I hoisted 50 lb bags of this and that, carried large sheets of plywood, and moved heavy set pieces at my local community theater. I didn't shirk when it came to loading and unloading a truck of furniture on moving day. And, all of this activity happened at various weights between 125-210 lbs.
The first reason I would recount is that I quit smoking cigarettes after a 20 year habit of 2-3 packs a day. Within less than a year, I gained 75 lbs by replacing the nicotine with eating candy. When I first made the decision to allow myself one Snickers bar a day, I was proud of myself. I was making a decisive choice to allow myself room to escape the deadliest habit in my life. By the time I reached 225 lbs, I was not so happy with the choice, but... *shrug* what could I do?
The second thing that happened is the death of my mother in 2003. Glioblastoma... a deadly and incurable brain tumor was the cause. My mom had survived two other bouts of cancer in her life, breast cancer and uterine cancer. Both times she recovered and went on to live for many years without recurrence. I was wounded beyond belief by the brain tumor that took her out of my life.
And that is when the serious out of control eating became insurmountable. My days were dark and I barely put one foot in front of another, just managing to work and avoid as much personal contact as possible. I don't know exactly how long it took, but I swiftly managed to gain another 91 lbs within a two year span of time. Bags of potato chips, candy bars, pasta and potatoes in heaping portions, fast food... By the time I opened my eyes again to let some of the world back into my hurting heart, I was 316 lbs and utterly in despair of changing.
It was the loss of my job that started my recovery, in a way. While I was devastated by losing contact with the outside world, I was also motivated to make some changes in my life. This did not happen overnight, of course, but I will cut out the messy parts of a dark depression that only allowed me to stare blankly at my living room walls for hours at a time.
We can talk about my journey into sanity later. Right now, I just want to reach out and let my readers know that I know. Your pain is my pain. Your loss is my loss. We are in this life together and it is important that we support each other, regardless of conventions. We need to see each other as real human beings who are constantly being motivated by pain and loss and injustice, as well as love and kindness and compassion. The next time an extra large someone rolls past us on an electric scooter in the grocery store, lets remember only one thing. Today this person needs the electric scooter and not our judgement.
THANK YOU
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