There was a fat-acceptance woman who wrote something fairly recently about “skinny privilege.” And how she felt bad for people who got fat after having it. This, my friends, is me. One of the things that has happened since I got sober was I lost weight and now, in the last three or four years, I’ve gained it. A lot of it. 50-50 pounds of it.
I have been told repeatedly over the course of my life by a wide variety of people what small hands I have or what small feet I have — I know that my own wrists are pretty small, as well. So, I’m NOT big-boned by any stretch of the imagination. I’m not meant to carry this weight around.
I would look smashing at 120, but I really would be grooving on 130 or at this point, 140, to be honest. Even though that’s bigger than my “goal weight,” it’s still 40 pounds less than what I weigh today. Today … and that’s the other problem. The scale keeps creeping up and up and … I don’t know.
I know that one of the things that will help me more is getting good sleep. But the fact of the matter is, as much as I like to stay up and hang out or do whatever, lately, I’ve been getting awakened by Flan two to three hours earlier than I would like, and I’ve been going to bed, naturally, around 12 or 1 a.m. Which for me, is pretty good. Normal. Decent. A fine time to get to bed. I will always be a night owl, methinks.
So, I haven’t been staying up super late or anything. I’ve started to ride my bike consistently (a lot of rain as of late), and getting in at least 12 miles a day when I ride to work. So, I’m not sitting on my ass all day, either.
Eating. Again, I know there are improvements to be made here. Lots. I want to not eat wheat/gluten anymore. I want to cut out really obvious refined sugar. But, I don’t sit down and eat tubs of ice cream or boxes of cookies. I bought myself a pint of Ben and Jerry’s frozen greek strawberry yogurt several weeks ago — it remains, in the freezer, untouched.
Here’s the deal — the thing I can’t get anyone to help me with or act like they believe in. I believe that for whatever reason (hypothyroidism, PCOS, shitty eating), I have become insulin-resistant. And my body is fucked up. I gain weight. I have lots of urinary infections (with no symptoms, so they are left untreated, really). Little tiny wounds (nick from my bike, shaving, etc.) don’t heal. Like they don’t fucking heal. I crave sugar. My digestion is completely fucked up (Within 15 minutes of eating a salad, there’s salad in the toilet. Pieces of it. Like .. did my stomach acids even TOUCH that lettuce?). I urinate more than I used to — and sadly enough, I’m NOT drinking the water amounts to back it up. My vision is getting worse. I retain water — you can see exactly what pair of socks I was wearing even after I take them off. Even if it hasn’t been all day.
I’m not sure if the Seroquel I took for years also has something to do with it — they say it can fuck with blood sugar, but I’m sure if I tell anyone the amount I took for all that time, they’d say that it’s not NEAR enough to make a difference. But here’s the thing … I took a small amount for YEARS. Not to mention, my body often does shit differently than other people. So, just listen to me when I speak my truth, yes?
My hair is so fine and thin, you can’t tell so much (but it’s getting more and more obvious) that I have a beard and a mustache. I have hair on my body where I didn’t before. My voice has gotten lower and hoarser. My hormones are fucked the fuck up. And that’s also what happens when you are insulin-resistant. Your body doesn’t have time to take care of sex hormones and shit, so they get all out of wack.
And every time I look in the mirror and see how fucking fat I am, I hate it. And every time I contemplate what I can possibly do about any one of these tens of untreated symptoms, I hate it. And every time I can’t fit into something or go to a store whose sizes only go up to 16 or comb through thrift stores, only to find all the things that catch my eye are between 6-12, I HATE IT.
I feel particularly hopeless because I don’t have health insurance, and when I went to an endocrinologist at Cook County, he looked at some stuff and just told me nothing was wrong with me. No blood work, no nothing. I was so furious, I started crying. Why would I make this shit up? Metformin and/or synthroid isn’t fucking Ativan or Xanax. I just want to feel normal and lose some fucking weight. And the more I read about this whole thing, the more I’m left to surmise I’m fucked. You’re always hungry, you crave sugar, etc. That’s no recipe for losing weight now, is it?
Anyway, I just wanted to write it all down. And admit that I’m worried and depressed and obsessed with the fact that I used to be thin. I used to be skinny. I see pictures of me and know at the time that I was not happy with my weight, and I look at them now and think, “You stupid bitch! You looked so fucking good.”
Oh, and my mouth is all jacked up to hillbilly land. I need a dentist, and I don’t think it’s going to be pretty. Sigh.