Chronicles of a Late Bloomer

I’ve alluded to it several times, but at this point in my journey it bears repeating: In my adult life, I have never weighed under 300 pounds.¹

Twice, I have successfully lost enough weight to approach the 300-pound mark — once I got as low as 304, and again down to 309 — but have never yet crossed it. I don’t remember crossing that mark the first time, either — as I ballooned past it sometime in the late 1990’s. I never cared to weigh or measure back then, only kept buying larger and larger sizes of mustard-yellow tentwear at the local Lane Bryant.

I hate to put too much weight in pop psychology (therapist though I may be), but I must admit that there’s something about that imaginary century line that seems to hold power over me. I’ve felt its spectre hovering around me in the past few weeks as I achieve one goal after another and zero in on that zero-zero point. And, I’m feeling good in general — but note that I did take a dangerous, exploratory mission into the world of energy bars last week, and accomplished very little exercise in the month of July.

This morning, when I did my mid-week progress weigh in, I was startled to find myself at the “300 plus single digit” gate. One thing is certain: if there was ever a time to stare down the troll that guards my 300-pound bridge, it is now.

Call it self-convincing, but I think it’s time to make out a list of reasons why I will be able to, with neither overt trauma nor ostentatious fanfare, cross the 300-pound mark as quietly as I crossed the 320-pound mark, or the 310-pound mark.

Why it will be different this time:

• I’ve completed 4 years of intense and amazing psychotherapy, during which I dismantled my ineffective defenses, hacked away at the roots of my Binge Eating Disorder, and placed the shards of it under such a microscopic scrutiny that even Madame Curie would approve. I am calm now, and solid in myself. I can handle both the fear of failure and the discomfort of success without eating myself into a Cadbury Egg Stupor.

• Previously, I have attacked new health regimens with the ire and focus of a bull on a red cape. This time, I have been calm, permissive, and utterly satisfied with a slow and steady progress. I simply try my best to make good choices most of the time. There is no reason to believe that I will burn out on this new lifestyle any time soon, and certainly not just because I achieved my original goal, no matter how unattainable I believed it would be at the time.

• I am learning more about my particular body, and am better able to care for and nourish it than ever before. Case in point: chocolate is not only a sweet which must be enjoyed in moderation, it also seems to be the catalyst for my most debilitating migraines. The fact that I have the capability to turn down chocolate because of what it might do to me is a personal strength that I’m still getting used to. Similarly, I now know that other simple things — such as avoiding potatoes — will keep my blood pressure more level and provide me with better energy reserves. Rice, on the other hand, seems to have very little effect on my own personal blood sugar. This kind of self-awareness and understanding will certainly serve me well past 300.

• And while we’re at it, let’s talk about that boyfriend stuff. Yes, we’ve faced the realities of our respective ambitions and futures and broken up. Yes, it’s difficult to pick up those pieces and move on. Yes, I miss him (and the magic of committed relationship) every single day. But, among the gifts I received from that relationship is the absolute knowledge that I am not unloveable as I had always feared. In fact, I’m both loveable and capable of love. I know that loving yourself is supposed to be enough. Unfortunately for me, it only took me so far. And, certainly, I hope to have the opportunity to test out this theory again before I die, but experiencing it just this once has put to rest some of my most ravenous fears and insatiable needs.

I am okay, and I will continue to be okay even when I begin inhabiting a body that is completely and utterly new to me.

1. Take a moment to smile with me, since I subconsciously typed 3000 before correcting my error. [↩]

It occurs to me that the two thoughts that have been bouncing around my head may be more related than I am giving them credit for.

The first is a buzzing halo of “hmmm” circling around a story I heard on the local news this morning. Apparently, a man was found dead in a parked car, on which sat a parking ticket. Investigators think he may have been dead when the ticket was issued.

The second thought is a general sense of gratitude and bewilderment about my current frame of mind. I have been thinking, in recent days, about how emotionally effortless this round of dieting has been, and wondering what makes it different from all of my other attempts. I have allowed myself to make 80% “perfect” choices and 20% “other.” Honestly, even my “other” choices are not nearly as wild as they once were; we’re not talking chocolate eclairs and ice cream sundaes so much as whole-wheat sourdough french toast that I make for company, or mango with sticky rice (my ultimate weakness). I’m hesitant to say this out loud, but I have — even on weeks where I didn’t focus too much on it — been able to consistently lose weight. It’s slow going, yes, but it’s consistent.

Now it occurs to me that perhaps these two thoughts are connected. I am beginning to think that all of the years I spent in working on myself — intensive psychotherapy to hunt out my binge-eating issues, journaling, painting, reading, trial and error, self-talk — is beginning to pay off. I simply don’t need food as I once did; although I need it physically, I don’t need it emotionally.

It’s still difficult for me to make time and energy for cooking healthy food. Honestly, I am tired of doing dishes and each time I pack my lunch in tupperwares, my dish duty quadruples. (Oh, for a dishwasher!) I struggle to find time and energy for official exercise, but I do make an effort to take the stairs and park at the far end of the lot. All in all, though, I am sleeping well and setting good boundaries and taking time to be careful with myself.

I guess the connection between my two morning thoughts is this: for years and years, I focused on the symptoms, rather than the causes, of my internal and external distress. In essence, I gave myself punitive parking tickets in the midst of a life-and-death crisis. Years later, all of that awful, slogging, introspective work seems to finally be bearing fruit.

We’ll see how this all holds up as I approach the 300-pound mark — a mark that I have never been able to cross in my adult life. But, for today, I am calm and at peace. It’s a nice feeling.

Many, many thanks to those who have commented or emailed in the past few days. Your words of encouragement have meant so much to me. I continue to nurture a clarity about this difficult decision and feel that it will all, eventually, be for my good. Several of you have emailed more than once and I truly appreciate you.

As a sidenote: Losing roughly 10% of my body weight has put me into size 24 pants. In December, I was overflowing my size 28’s.

Thank you, thank you for your kindness to an anonymous stranger.

At his request, I’ll be bringing my boyfriend home to meet my family this Christmas. I was surprised when he brought it up; on TV, the boyfriends always dread meeting the family and do so grudgingly. Also, on TV, there is a canned laughter track when the boyfriend disagrees with pop on politics and mom on religion and offers to milk the cat.

The man set about memorizing my family tree on our third date — and that’s when I knew he would be staying for a while. But, no amount of explaining to him what it’s like to be in a house with my 6 siblings, their spouses and children, dogs, neighbors, and a dozen other refugees of every stripe can dissuade him. He’s giddy with excitement.

No, my boyfriend isn’t perfect, but he’s wonderful. We’re going on a year and a half together now, and if it’s true that opposites attract, we could be the poster children for Making It Work. He’s content and I’m ambitious. He takes things easy and I just go go go. He is black and white and I am shades of gray. He is Mr. Abstinence while I struggle to delay my gratification in even the smallest of ways.

So, he finds it impossible to understand why I can’t just stop eating cookies.

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I get into QZ’s car so that we can go to the Felt Club show downtown. “I have a goal,” I announce.

She looks a little doubtful, and who can blame her? I sheepishly cough up some caveats. “Well, I mean, it might not be my goal tomorrow, but it is my goal today.”

“Proceed,” she encourages, but haltingly.

“I am going to lose 40 pounds before my PhD interviews.”

“And when are those?” Now, she’s checking her rear-view mirrors. A lot.

“In about 4 months.”

“4?”

I stop. I actually count on my fingers.

“Okay, 3. More like 2 and a half.”

“That’s a very ambitious goal,” she hmmm’s.

We change the subject and then arrive at the show. We walk together, past the artsy booths with hand-made fashions — not even stopping for the girl who makes the adorable jackets. We know they won’t fit us, nor will the screen-print tees or even some of the bracelets for sale. I like the wrist cuffs, but they’ll accentuate my blobbery arms. I act, though, like I’m not interested in them at all.

We take a break to eat breakfast. And lunch. It’s more than just brunch, since I have a huge blueberry waffle, 2 scrambled eggs, 2 full strips of bacon, and an entire pile of corned beef hash. Also, I have orange juice. It is delicious.

On the way home, I dig up a copy of Bust from the floor of QZ’s car. It features Beth Ditto on the cover, and who doesn’t love Beth Ditto? I chitchat with QZ about performances that I’ve seen on Youtube where Beth Ditto just got so into the music that she started stripping down. She just couldn’t stay clothed. She jiggles and jumps around onstage, flab a’flying. In all her glory. It’s awesome.

Beth talks in the article about how little she cares for what people think — and I actually believe her. She talks about how long it took her to break fat-girl fashion rules and start showing off her upper arms. She is unafraid. She is herself. She looks amazing in the photos — even the one with the ridiculous pink tights. I feel a twinge.

“Fuck ‘em,” I announce, dropping the magazine to my lap. “I’m just going to be who I am. If they don’t want me because of how I look, that’s their problem.” QZ nods. It’s really the only possible response because, unlike Beth Ditto, I don’t really mean it.

I just wish I did.

Either the scale was wrong last week or I have lost over 13 pounds in the past 5 days. True, I have been eating better than before (though not perfectly) and have tried to get more sleep, walk the dogs more frequently, and take better care of myself in general.

But maybe it’s just indicative of how much weight was lifted off my shoulders when I was offered the new job. Maybe it was just the relief of knowing that things will be different now. Something that I’ve been carrying around deep inside of me seemed to pop to the surface and wisp away into the air.

Still, there’s nothing like empirical, visible, measurable success to give me motivation. I’ve decided not to look back — only forward from here.

A major change in direction, a sudden surge of goodwill toward the world and all mankind, a return of interest in my own thoughts, and I sit up, wide awake, at 3:15 a.m.

I let the puppy out to potty so she can sleep longer and then pull a stack of pages into bed. I have a midnight clarity about the article that has been accepted for publication. I recline comfortably, curled up with the snoring dogs, and make long red strokes through unnecessary paragraphs. I draw arrows and circle key phrases. Shift this, flip that, this section is unclear — go back and work it until it makes sense again.

I eliminate redundancy and inconsistency and the article once again feels solid — stable. It is ready to be seen by others in this new form. I pad through the dark, quiet house into the kitchen where I slice an apple and bring the peanut butter jar back to bed. These changes are good, and must be finalized. It is now 5 a.m. and I sit down to the final edit. I am not tired. I feel alive.

Crunch.

It has finally happened.

I knew the news wouldn’t be good, but (I figured) it’s better to know the Truth and proceed from there, no? No. The Truth is that when I stepped onto my scale — something which I had not deigned to do since August — it did not give me a number that I could plug into my now-defunct spreadsheet.

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Boyfriend-Semi-Ex-Semi-Boyfriend asked this morning, when we woke up to the following email from WeightWatchers.com, “Did they implant that chip in your head when you paid the membership fee?”

The email was titled, Simple Ways to Get Back on Track. It felt like irony, after last night’s little meltdown — admissions of self-loathing, pokes and pinches of my belly and thighs, and my own not-so-little pity party. Simple ways to get back on track? Meet my middle finger.

I never want to have to think about The Track again. I hate The Track. Good Lord Almighty I hate this idea that you are always either on or off The Track. It’s so self-punishing. Maybe I don’t hate The Track. Maybe I just hate myself.

Last time I visited my parents, I had lost 25 pounds from my starting weight. In contrast to the pajamas and slippers that I prefer to wear on travel days (C’mon. You’ll never see any of those people again…), I was wearing a cute, “slimming” (one of my least favorite words) blouse, a cute pair of heels, and had straightened my hair because I was to meet the two Rachels right after the flight. I sat in the airport, sketching in my journal and waiting for boarding call when a man came and asked me for the time. I scarcely looked up when I answered, and continued with my little painting.

Then, our flight was rerouted and we all had to re-check-in at the desk. As I stood in line, the man approached me again. He became very chatty. At some point, I looked up and noticed that he was not bad looking. In fact, he was sort of cute. And he wouldn’t stop talking to me. Then he touched me a few times — on the shoulder, the elbow, etc. — and called me “pretty lady.” He flirted nicely, without being heavy handed. He was just… I don’t know. Interested.

We were then separated, and I boarded the plane alone. I asked the greeting flight attendant for a seat belt extender as I do on every flight. She looked me up and down — slimming blouse, cute hair, recently flirted-on — and said, “Well, it doesn’t look like you’ll need it!” Of course, I did. But, it was incredible to hear.

Flirty Man and I re-connected at the baggage claim after the flight. He asked how long I’d be on vacation, and let me know his travel plans. I, having a boyfriend, didn’t offer him my number, though now I wish I had. He sensed my hesitation and didn’t ask. Boyfriend and I had just started the long process of fighting and breaking up. Flirty Man was cute. His name was Scott. He was an executive chef. Chefs are hot.

So was I, that day, apparently.

I’ve now gained back about 15 of those original pounds, and it showed on this week’s flights to and from my parents’ house. On the first, I had an aisle seat (my preference, since I can hang out any, er… extraneous body parts into the aisle until the food service cart comes by and not be such a hassle to the people seated next to me), but that wasn’t quite good enough. The young couple occupying the row looked up when I pushed my carry-on under the seat. They then exchanged a wordless look (which I’ll mercifully refrain from interpreting), and promptly traded seats with each other. This put the bigger, muscle-ier, wider male next to the window, and the slight, wispy female in the middle, next to me.

“Whatever,” I thought. I then engaged my seatbelt extender and proceeded to twist and contort my limbs in such a way throughout the flight that I hoped I would appear or feel or, I don’t know, smell less offensive. I also threw out my back in the process. Owie, and welcome home.

On the flight back, I realized at check-in that I was stuck in the middle of the row. Through the wonders of modern technology, I then learned that there were 4 similar seats still available on the flight, and one window seat next to an empty middle. Further investigation revealed this window seat to be on an exit row — which I’ve always heard offer more legroom — and, at 6′1″ tall, I thought that might be a nice compromise.

It was, until I realized two things:

1. The armrests in exit rows don’t lift up and out of the way of my fluffy, fat ass.
2. The window-side armrest was bolted into the emergency door in such a way as to resemble a forest fungus or otherwise awkward-ly placed ledge. It was superbly uncomfortable.

Is it really possible that this is the difference 15 pounds can make? On a 330-pound frame, does 15 pounds really make that big of a difference? Or is it just that I walked, talked, dressed, and acted like a thinner person? Was it my attitude that led to being hit on and complimented by people? Was it my attitude that led to my later frustrations?

How much of this is in my head? How much of it is in the airline industry’s corporate policies? How much belongs to the greater society at large and how much belongs to the power of my own positive (or negative) thinking?

I know that airplane seats are uncomfortable for all but the slimmest of folks. I know that I am not alone in this airplane problem, but it is a good illustration for me of the changes that have occurred in my body in the 4 months since I’ve been actively mindful about food and exercise. It’s not just the 15 pounds that have returned — it is my old attitudes and thoughts and frustrations.