Not Until We Are Lost Do We Truly Find Ourselves: Thoreau

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.

The Scale

July 8, 2016

After waiting several minutes in the waiting room for my first doctor visit, my husband was escorted to an exam room, and I was escorted to a scale.

Side note: When I was 7, and I had “gotten fat.” I knew I gained weight because I had this awesome orange sweater with a penguin on it.  It fit perfectly at the beginning of 2nd grade, and by the end of the school year, my mother told me to put it in the “garage sale” box because I was too big for it.

I remember the exact moment the scale changed from a simple, subjective object to an emotionally charged monster that measured my self worth. We didn’t have a scale at home, and we were weighed twice a year in gym class. At the end of 2nd grade, I emotionally connected the scale with the loss of my favorite sweater.  My first diet came in 4th grade, or when I was 9. My parents gave me a product for Christmas called “Get In Shape, Girl.” I had the ribbon edition, see below:

Get In Shape, Girl came with an audio cassette that would shout out the exercises I was to perform with my ribbon. In the upstairs hallway of my childhood home, I ran back and forth with my ribbon several times a week for months. This product didn’t teach me that exercise is important; it taught me that because I was fat, I didn’t get to have real toys or have real fun. Nope. Being fat meant that your “play” was exercise.

But, the diet didn’t work. My parents felt it was important to humiliate me for my weight but did not feel it was important to educate themselves on proper nutrition for their children or themselves. When I stepped on the scale at the end of school that year, I hadn’t lost any weight. Instead, I gained a pound. I worked so hard. My mother told me my weight was good because I gained just one pound unlike the other years where I had gained so many. When I got home that day, I put the damn ribbon and the cassette tape in the “garage sale” box. End side note

The gym scale eventually turned into a bathroom scale in my childhood bathroom which turned into my own scale in college and graduate school which turned into a scale at my husband’s house when I moved in. That was the end of scales in my life until after the information session. We brought a digital scale into our apartment that was not wide enough for me to stand on without squishing myself onto it performing a feat of balance. I was too fat to fit on a scale purchased at Target.

The first time I stepped on the scale the number appeared was the largest number I had ever seen or will ever see again. The number was terrifying; I instantly screamed and cried. I didn’t have a penguin sweater to tell me about the weight I had gained. I had simply filled out my big and baggy clothes a bit more.

I knew I was going to be weighed at this first appointment, so I wore my favorite blue jeans, my Bob’s Burgers T-Shirt that read “Tina is my spirit animal,” and sandals. I made sure both my stomach and bowels were completely empty. As I look back on the decision of what to wear and being completely empty for that weigh in, I wish I had made a different one. I would have worn a coat, kept my shoes on and eaten a massive meal beforehand. This would have given me a bit more ammunition in the fight against the weight loss war that was to come.

I was scared. I was afraid the doctor would reject me for the gastric sleeve surgery. After I had accepted this was the path I was going to take, I feared the doctor would block my entrance. I made sure I was as light as I could be in order to get clearance to begin the journey.

The scale, much like the chairs at the weight loss clinic, is an exaggeratedly large size. It is double the size of the scale that is at my primary care doctor’s office, which doesn’t sound odd upon first glance, except that the scale at the primary doctor’s office is handicapped accessible to accommodate people in wheelchairs. The scale at the weight loss clinic can accommodate at least 2 people in wheelchairs.

I was told to remove my shoes and step on the scale. As I did this, a new ritual was born. Every single time I stepped on the scale in front of these people, I was greeted with a “mmm-huh” noise and a loud pen scribbling down the number. The number was clearly visible to me, as it was also much larger than necessary.

This scale became my enemy and my obsession. That number was the number they would use to calculate my pre-surgery weight loss requirement.

Every weigh in is a nightmare on this scale because no matter how large my obsession with that number was, it could never outweigh the clinic’s. You were “good” if the number was the right one, and “bad” if it wasn’t. To them, I’m a statistic. My success with the number on the scale means one more notch in their belt of one more person either becoming a success story or a failure.

Even when I hit their goals, they do not praise me. They never told me I was doing a good job with my weight and obviously following their program. I wonder what they are striving for. What sort of “perfection” do I need to be?

I was escorted back to the exam room where my husband was sitting on a giant chair, his hand open so I could put mine in his.