How far is too far

It's been a long, long time since I posted here. I have gained and lost, gained and lost. I'm presently in losing mode again, again on Weight Watchers...quasi-ambivalent, but that's not actually why I'm posting here today. Today I'm posting because a young woman I know of (it's my daughter's fiance's cousin, but I never actually met her) in fact was so morbidly obese that she died of it. That's what morbid means, after all. She was super-morbidly obese, probably over 500 lbs. I only heard of her because my daughter met here and some of her similarly morbidly obese friends (and I believe I wrote about it in another blog, but can I find that? I cannot) and talked about her experience. And then this young woman got married just under two years ago, and her wedding was cause for a little bit of can't-look-away gossip. I haven't calculated my BMI lately (and I know all about the inaccuracies) but probably I'm classified as morbidly obese myself, or at least on the borderline. That doesn't feel too good, but I also spend a minimum of time thinking about it. But anyway, she was. I can speak mainly about her wedding, because I heard the story twice. She married a man of normal size, who is a chef, and I think a feeder. In a way this is ideal. In a way, of course, not so much. She got married in a church, but she didn't walk down the aisle, she approached the altar from a side door, and couldn't walk all the way from the side door to the front; there was a chair halfway, for her to sit in. My daughter and I discussed at the time that even if we weren't losing weight, we would have at least worked up to being able to walk all the way to the altar, if not up the aisle. Worked out, as it were. But anyway, she married this man and by all accounts, they were happy. She received disability (again, not too sure how I feel about that) but also earned money as an on-line sex worker, for men who had a fetish for super-obese women. Of all the things, that was what I have the least issue with. If you want to do that, and people will pay you for it, go for it. It's a strange world, but these were not the first ones to be doing it, access was just a bit easier. But apparently she had diabetes, her blood sugar was out of control, and she had a number of infections that wouldn't heal. This of course, put a strain on her system. She was in the hospital for some time, and was discharged to a rehab center, which was not close to home, because it was the only one that would take her. I have a bit of experience with rehab centers and I can only imagine that this was not a good scenario, on all counts. In any case, she got worse again, and neared death. Yesterday morning, at about 9, she died. She was determined not to lose weight. This was what she had chosen, to be this person, and she was going to stand by it, even if it meant she was going to die, and she did. I simply don't know how I feel about this. Do I admire her for having the courage of her convictions? Do I decry her for letting herself die, or "letting" herself die? Do I go all the way back to fat acceptance and say that this is the natural outcome of that movement, that you have people getting so fat they die? When I got the news, I was with my daughter and her fiance at a summer festival in rural Vermont, and if I wanted to do a statistical analysis on body types, well, I was richly supplied. Since this was Vermont, there were a good number of sinewy, crunchy-granola, vegan runner types, but they were probably outnumbered by woman, and men, who were...fat. Lots of fat people. I'm certainly in that number right now, and may always be, but again, that's not really the point here. So you're fat, you're overweight. You have rolls. How many rolls? You can walk, a lot, or not a lot, or a normal amount. You have a normal life, but your shoes are sort of far away. But you're young, so your joints don't bother you yet. You can get more cute clothes, because more people are making cute clothes in plus sizes, but do you look cute in them? I totally understand that society tells us what's attractive, I get that. But viewed through the lens of a young woman dying 300 miles away, because she believed it was okay, or good, to be fat, it all looked different. But when you get that fat--500, 600 llbs, you've made a real commitment. You've altered your body, the same as the people who insist on having a healthy limb amputated (except that won't kill them). I looked at it as a sort of body modification, but one that had an almost certainly lethal outcome, and did. It was her choice, and she followed it to her death. I have lost and gained and lost and gained probably her body weight in my life. Maybe not, but probably my OWN body weight. I've been fatter and thinner. Right now, I'm trying to be thinner, because my knee feels better when I am, and because I still love to walk, and because I don't want to look too large in the upcoming wedding photos I'll be in as mother of the bride. So I'm on the side of diet and exercise right now. However, I also oppose the tyranny of thinness, the belief that only the thin are attractive, and I fight against that in my life and in myself. But at what point have you gone too far? At what point is acceptance something else--the dreaded enabling? She refused bariatric surgery, which was, of course, her right. She was a member of an on-line community, of a real-life group, she made her living because of her body--just as a thin, conventionally attractive woman who chooses sex work does. All her right. And then she died. Her husband is, I'm sure bereft (and not just because he doesn't have someone to feed), I know my future son-in-law is bereft, and grieving. Her mother, her friends, her other family members. But the whole thing is freighted. (Pardon the pun). Her friends, in the group, what are they thinking, feeling? It can't happen to me? It can! It could probably happen to ME, though not in quite the same way. And, I feel myself wanting to make an endless stream of horrible jokes. I could tell, upon telling other people, that they were being equally restrained. And how about her customers? I'm pretty sure they're going to be sad, and not just because they'll have to find a new morbidly obese sex symbol. It's all very confusing. It's sort of like the people who refuse treatment for something like cancer--but even then, there's not the stigma attached to it, because it's not because of FOOD, it's not because they're FAT. How much is hating fat people and hoping they'll disappear (which, in fact, they frequently do, at least at that weight, because they can't get out) and so being glad that there's one less in the world? But I suppose the question is, what are our rights over our bodies? To an extent weight can be controlled, to an extent not, and body type not at all. So how many stones can be thrown? What do you get to say, or not say, or think, or not think? And, because, I guess, it's all about me, what does this mean to me? Well, I lost enough weight (5 lbs) so that I am now 100 lbs over my lowest adult weight. This sounds awful, but actually, there are so many people on Weight Watchers who have lost 100 lbs that it seems utterly doable to me. And after I got the news about the cousin, the first thing I wanted to do was get up and walk, no matter how much it made my back hurt, how much my feet hurt (and they do and I would like that to change) how much my knee hurt. Walk as fast as I could. After having lived in a more or less (literally) overweight body my entire life, this is what I have come up with: you don't need to be a stick figure to get love, or devotion, or even cheap sex. You don't have to be a stick figure to be chic, even. However: at a certain point, attaining any of those things gets harder. Also, from a purely mechanical standpoint, more weight is hard on your body. It just is. It is entirely possible to be overweight and be healthy, but it takes a lot more work, I think. But food tastes good and who wants to spend their life never eating Ben & Jerry's? But who wants to spend their life never wearing pretty clothes? But really, you have to like yourself, because why would you ever do anything good for someone you despise? So you have to arrive at that place of saying, I'm great now. I'll be great if I lose 25 lbs. I won't be better, I'll be the same degree of great. Or, if I gain. That's fine, too. But, as I asked, how much is too much? To some degree, my tax dollars paid for her to be fat, if she was getting disability. Is that right? Should I have to do that? And what is your right? Really? Was it just, as some say, slow suicide? (Because, in this case, it was). And let's not even get into insurance money, because that's such a freighted topic right now. I don't know. I don't have an answer. I'm confused.

A new mindset

As of this morning, I've lost ten pounds, or looked at another way, have only put back on 23. (A pessimistic view, but one I felt I needed to represent).

The big difference this time, though, is that I'm whole-heartedly into this. I'm not afraid, I'm not of two minds, I'm here. It's a marvel to me that I lost any weight at all two years ago, what with all the doubt.

Another big difference this time is that I have my eyes firmly on the prize. WW tells you to break it down, into small increments, but I need to keep the long view. I need to think about, if it feels this good at 238 (and I have to say, even though it's probably obese by any normal person's standard, it feels good to even be in the 230's. How telling is that?) how truly wonderful will it be at 145? I intend to get there this time. I intend to reach it. I don't have a we'll see, or I have a long way to go mindset this time, I believe.

Of course, I'll need to look back on this when I've hit a plateau, when I've lost a point or two and there's not so much wiggle room any more, when it feels like I haven't had an uncounted or unconsidered bite in months.

But honestly, except for the wedding, and Easter, I have nothing big on my horizon for months. I can go on like this for a long time, I think. It helps that I get to eat real food, it helps that I can have the occasional Quarterpounder and egg and bacon breakfast. That helps. But what helps more is the knowledge, won over these last two years, that weight is just weight. It didn't affect how much people loved me or didn't love me--passion and uproar and indifference continued on their usual courses, whether I was at 250 or 215, I was just wearing different clothes for all of it. It made my joints hurt and my feet ache, but it didn't alter heartache or joy one iota. I was me, no matter what. And that's what scared me so bad the last time, that some weird thing was going to happen to me, that those who matter to me were going to love me more thin, and thus prove that I was worth less heavier, or that they were shallow sons of bitches anyway, and I was wrong to care about them. None of that happened, none, none, none.

So, she said, shrugging, it's okay. Weight has been stripped of, well, its weight. Its freight. Its baggage. It's all about how I feel this time, with how I look thrown in, but only the positive side of that. It's whee! I get to wear cool clothes, not, oh my God, here I am in a short skirt, men are looking at me, what the hell is wrong with them?

So here I go. Ten pounds down, 93 to go.

Getting dressed

We've been here before, but apparently this is the point where getting dressed ceases to be what can I wear to cover the bulk and starts trending to, what nice thing do I get to wear today? I'm not nearly into what are, sadly, my skinny clothes (women's 16) but things are starting to look better.

I'm so much less conflicted this time. It's amazing. I'm not sure why, either, maybe because I did this and the world didn't end and then I gained weight and the world didn't end, so I finally believe that it's safe to do either? Not sure, but feeling sane about what I'm doing is certainly helpful.

I wish that I could strip away all the nonsense from losing weight. That it's not morality or immorality, it's weight. That your weight is not a reflection of the value of the soul, tops of the way you value your soul.

I still work in the bead shop. We've moved, so I don't get to see people come down the stairs belly first, but I still see some very overweight women. Sometimes, I have to be honest, I'm repelled, by the ones that sort of seem like they could be me, utterly out of control, and sometimes I just feel bad for them. As I said before, I wish I could tell them how much better they'd feel, how much simpler life would be.

Oh, well. I can't, can I? And there's nothing worse than a reformed drunk!

...and the mental work

Since the last great weight loss attempt, something else happened. (A lot of something elses happened, but probably only one big one that pertains to this).

My uncle died. He was my mother's brother, and his daughter, my cousin, is my best friend as well. Once he was gone, we spent many, many hours talking about our childhoods, our mothers and our weight issues.

I am emphatically not blaming all this on my mother, but I will say without her influence, I might not be having as hard a time with this as I am. Not with the physical aspect of losing weight, which (and don't shoot me) is honestly not THAT hard for me. I absolutely get the eat less, exercise more thing and when I put that into action, I lose weight. It's as easy as that. (Don't hate me).

What I'm more concerned with here is the psychological issue. I hit a wall, and it's not just a physical plateau, though of course it's that, too--I hit a wall when I start to feel too good. My mother has been gone for more than 25 years and I didn't come here to malign the dead, but let's just say that when I felt good about myself growing up, I generally got snapped back to my mother's version of reality pretty quickly. Those things die hard, very hard. So hard that all these years later, I'm still dealing with them.

So my task this time, I think, is to learn that it's okay to feel good. It really is. It's okay to be proud of yourself (your physical self, there was a big mind-body disconnect going on there) and that no giant hand is going to come down and smack me when I feel really good.

I lie in bed sometimes, at thinner points, wondering, what will/would it be like to be even thinner? What would it be like to feel good all or most of the time? To be really physically active? To have unbounded (more or less) energy? And....do I deserve that?

I think the key this time will be to realize that, yes, I actually do deserve that.

Sundays

This being the third time I'm attempting to lose weight via Weight Watchers, I've figured a few things out.

On the advice of a friend of mine who works for WW, I made Wednesday my weigh-in day. The reason? Everyone is all gung-ho to start a diet on a Monday, but then weigh-in day follows the weekend and its excesses. Not good. My excesses usually involve salt, so it's especially not good.

So I started on a Wednesday. Yee-hah! That means that I can pretty much pick my way through Sunday, if I so desire, and today I so desired. I did last Sunday, too, but I learned some things last Sunday.

Last Sunday night, after I had eaten my way through the day (punctilioiusly noting everything, I might add) I went to bed feeling not as well as I could have. A little over-stuffed, in fact. I managed to learn from that this time, which in itself is an amazement. It didn't affect my weight loss; I lost five pounds the first week, and I am well aware that a good bit of that was water. Whatever. I'll take it.

Today, I picked my way through, though I didn't start with bacon and eggs. I had a few things that I thought looked appealing. I find that if I find a way to eat a thing, then I don't have the problem of craving it any more. I'm trying to adopt the philosophy that enough is as good as a feast. For now, not quite two weeks in, it seems to be working.

More stamina. Fewer aches.

You know, when you're older, as I am now (0lder than I was yesterday, and older than I was the last time I did this) I think that the whole health and comfort issue becomes more pressing. I'm a good solid girl, no matter what, and I can carry a lot of weight and not look horrible. But my joints, industriously aging, no matter how much I color my hair and grease my skin, tell me the truth. This time, I think this might make it stick: I'm going to look better with less weight, that's a given. But I'm going to feel better, and honestly, having an easier time climbing the stairs (and believing that I'm going to be able to climb those stairs for another thirty years) is going to make me stick to this far longer than the notion that someone is going to look at my legs.

And, oh, yeah

I can't live without breakfast any more. I used to hate it, it made me retch, but now I get up and I'm prowling around the house saying, what am I going to have to eat this morning?

I eat some strange and some not-strange stuff. My stand-by is a piece of that dark-brown chewy German bread with smoked salmon (also known as lox) on it, with a little of the Gravlaxsas from Ikea. Failing that, a soft-boiled egg with an English muffin and some butter. (I'm not giving up butter). Or, what Al calls the Breakfast of Champions, Arabic bread and baba ganoush. Cold pizza has long been a favorite, but unfortunately not WW-friendly.

I got actively cranky last week when Al shoveled the driveway before making breakfast, because my weekly indulgence has become a bacon and egg breakfast.

So I guess I did make some progress, after all.

Back on the Wagon

Well, here I am again. In the interval since July 4, 2007 and now, many things happened, most of them not suitable for a blog. Suffice to say that I ate back on all the weight that I lost, every last pound of it, except maybe for two.

My foster-daughter is getting married in just over a month. I don't want to be the whale in the pictures (especially since I'm wearing gray, a whale color) so I'm back on Weight Watchers. My success has been stellar--in just under two weeks, I've lost around eight pounds. I'm back in those size 18 jeans I was so happy to buy, and truthfully, I'm happy to be in them again. A jacket that I bought in a fit of optimism in November needs about five more pounds to be right, so that's good, too.

How do I feel about this? Well, something interesting happened during the weight loss. Not only did I give away all my big clothes, leaving me with not much to wear once I gained the weight back, I realized that for all my kicking and screaming, I had gotten used to being the smaller me. I was no longer comfortable at my higher weight. I hated it, in fact, more than I ever hated it before.

That's without even talking about the physical toll it was taking on me. 250 pounds seems to be the top weight my particular body can take without breaking down, without quitting, without setting me firmly on the road to being the mother in "What's Eating Gilbert Grape". It's good, in a way....I know I'll never weigh 300 pounds, say, because I couldn't stand it.

I also lost the first five pounds very quickly, quickly enough to notice what a huge difference even the five pounds made. I can be pretty dense about stuff, but boom! five pounds gone! makes even me take notice.

Fewer aches. Fewer pains. My 6 Advil a day habit seems to be down to 2. (Maybe 4. I have a cold and a lot of attendant aches from that). I can make dinner without my lower back screaming for mercy. I hope to be not so knackered, to use that handy British term, after a day on my feet at work. I need (NEED!!!!) to get back into my high heels. I'm not giving up high heels!

So, class, what have we learned? You can get used to a lower weight, too. You can find out how much your body can stand, and then back off from that point.

You can always come home again, at least to Weight Watchers.