Diary of a Fat Girl - stark honesty and a beseeching of the heavens

You certainly did not start out this way. In fact, throughout childhood, your teen years even into adulthood through to your thirties, you were skinny. That you were underemployed, living paycheck to paycheck where food was less of a priority over rent, that you were a social smoker and could curb hunger with a cigarette, that stress and fear made food the farthest thing from your mind. All contributing factors. Like all, most, many young people, you believed yourself to be invincible, immortal, and able to operate on caffeine, popcorn, and pizza shared with friends. Your saving grace: you never developed a taste for beer, wine, or soda.
So how did you go from 120s in your 20s; 130s in your 30s; 140s in your 40s to 150, 160, 170, 180 in your 50s to drum roll please 210 shortly before your 62nd birthday? How is it you had not recognized yourself as FAT? First – only look at yourself in a mirror straight on, no side or slanted views. Second: you only look at yourself in relatively shapeless clothing – tunics and other things designed to hide your shape – because yes, you still have a shape at 210 pounds. It may not be flattering or desirable, but it is, in fact a shape.***

***should be noted the 210 pounds is being hoisted on a 4’10” frame, creating a rather block like shape. Think Lego Person – short legs, stocky body, no neck or chin. Moving is slow, bones, joints, tendons and muscles protest – a lot. From the inside it feels like being in a stiff puffy coat – all the time. When you run the Google Arts program to find a work of art that looks like you – the algorithm only returns male paintings – usually stout male burghers. But this really is the Diary of a Fat *Girl* (cis gendered female person of near social security eligible age.)

In utter frustration, you walked away from the support group like weight loss program. Tired of hearing the same complaints/recommendations over and over. You want a way to not track food, to not have to sit and listen to the same people discuss how they ate the whole pizza/box of cookies/contents of the refrigerator. You know, deep inside even as you cram handfuls of cereal into your mouth, that you’ve got to stop. There has to be a way.

To the Universe, to God, to Aliens listening from a distant star, to the West Wind: you plead to find a way to drop the weight, without having to track everything you eat. Without having to listen to the same rote thing. Your doctor told you to eat less and exercise 30 minutes a day. At this point, you can barely stand for 30 minutes without sciatic pain running down your left leg. You certainly cannot walk for more than a couple minutes – without a cane, without having to sit down, without pain.

Enter the Nutritionist. A chance referral from a walk-in clinic. And a diet plan of Eat These Things. No tracking, but don’t stray off this path of things and one morning you dare yourself and you’re at 206. The Nutritionist had said – you had quit smoking, that was much harder than this was going to be. But oh, this just seems daunting. To the Aliens listening from a distant star, to the West Wind, to the Universe and God: you plead, please, progress. Something to show for the effort. You find new walking shoes, you get new orthotics, and one evening before bed 199.5. Your dog joins you in a happy dance.

It’s a joint effort, your will, the shoes, the orthotics, your commitment, strength training, and to the West Wind, God, the Universe and sure, why not, the Aliens: you’re really not asking for much. Someone 4’10” should be between 115 and 122. But you know, you’re not healthy at that weight. Your people are milk maids and bar maids, wrestling men, cows and carrying trays of pints. They are strong stout farm folk. There is not a svelte gene in your DNA. You’ll be happy at 135-140. Your doctors will be happy with 135 to 140. You do the math: 210 -130 = 80. You’ve got 80 pounds to lose. In fact, you’re certain that at least 20 of those pounds you’ve lost at least five times over the years. Which means you can lose 80 easily right? Then somehow, with your shoes, and jeans and a shirt on, you’re at 192. And you can walk for a mile.

You shop for veggies, you plan your snacks and meals ahead of time, you eat out with consideration. You develop a liking for low carb items. You don’t really snack between meals, except for unsalted almonds. You have upcoming appointments with the Nutritionist, with your doctor – who ordered bloodwork. And you ask of the Aliens, the West Wind, God and the Universe: Just a few more pounds. You really want 25 pounds in 4 months. And the scale says: the equivalent of your dog and a five-pound bag of dog food.

You asked, you were given - support and hope. You go girl! You're one quarter of the way there.

— Lkai