August 20, 2018
10 months have passed without my ability to touch this blog. I’ve been giving excuses to myself as to why I haven’t written. I blamed it on lack of time because of a job change, lack of emotional energy due to many deaths in my family, and lack of readership.
The real reason why I stopped writing this blog is because I’ve been afraid to talk about what it means to have each passing day bring me closer to my 2-year surgery anniversary. I’ve been afraid to face my behavior since meeting my one-year mark, to face the ramifications of significant weight loss in my life, and to face failure, in many forms. Every day that has passed without writing, I’ve been plagued with guilt that has fed into my fear, depression, and anxiety.
At my year mark, November 17, 2017, I gave up. I had “made weight,” and was praised and accepted by the people whose voices had echoed and tortured me every hour of every day from July 2016 to that year mark. I had many visits with the weight loss clinic that first year, so I became the embodiment of their threats and negative reinforcement. I was terrified of every piece of food I put into my mouth, every missed opportunity for physical activity, and breaking any rule from the contract I signed to enter into this form of madness that “making weight” had become.
In order to make weight, I postponed activities, such as going to movies, having dinner with friends, and eating certain foods until after the weigh-in mark to make sure I made it to their, once again, unreasonable number on their scale. I worried every day about a number on a scale, not because I was unhappy with how I looked or felt, but because I didn’t want to be reprimanded and dehumanized more than I had been by the people at the clinic.
In preparation for the weigh-in, I weighed 2 very cute dresses to find out which one weighed less, to make sure I met the goal. Never mind the fact that I had not just 1 cute dress I loved but 2, or the fact I was completely comfortable at the weight I was at or that I knew the cute dresses made me look cute.
When the date arrived, and I stepped on the scale in their office, I made weight. I was now worthy of their praise and acceptance because I had moved into their successful surgery weight loss column.
Back at the very first doctor assessment appointment where I had to choose between the two surgeries, I was told that the average weight lost by procedure was 100 pounds over a year with the gastric bypass and 60 pounds with the gastric sleeve. I had chosen the gastric sleeve, and even with the 60-pound information, the goal that was set for me was 127 pounds in the first year.
I met the goal.
I made weight.
I lost 127 pounds AND myself in the process.
I’m not suggesting that I had any idea who I was before the surgery, but once I had the surgery, I became Becky, the bariatric surgery patient. But, when do you stop being a patient? Who are you when you cross back over? What does cross back over even mean? Do you ever stop? I have no idea.
This blog’s goal and purpose has not been lost, even though I have been for a long time. It will continue to address the “reality” of my bariatric surgery experience, but it must include my own vulnerability and humanity as I fight for self-worth. At the very least I owe myself that.