Why I Regained 80 Plus Lbs.

This is really hard for me to admit, but I’ve been in kind of a bad place the past few weeks.  I’ve done my best to hide it from you all – maybe I succeeded, maybe I didn’t.  Maybe it shone through anyway.

There are many reasons for it – some measurable, that I can pinpoint to a specific cause, and some not.

Based on the subject of this post, you may choose to believe that it is solely based on the weight that I’ve regained.  Part of it is.  Maybe part of it is the reason I regained over 80 pounds.  I’ve been trying to figure those things out along the way, and am just now trying to put those ideas into concrete words.  So bear with me.

One day when I was out walking on one of my favorite trails – this was when I was just barely starting to get back on track – I was once again contemplating what in the world could have made me gain so much weight to begin with.  I’ve never quite been able to figure it out.  But I had a sudden realization that day, that my thoughts always seem to circle back to one idea.  I don’t fit in.

I’ve never once in my entire life felt that I “fit.”  Even as a young child, I never felt like I fit in anywhere.  Even with close friends, I’ve often felt that they were just tolerating me.  And this is definitely not a reflection on them (okay, maybe on a few), but on my good friends, this is entirely on me.  I wondered that day when I was strolling along if maybe, at some point, my subconscious made a decision to make the outside of me literally, physically “not fit.”  It made my outside a reflection of how I felt on the inside.  Perhaps it gave me a reason to explain why I didn’t fit in.  I’m fat.  I don’t fit in physically – into airplane seats, restaurant booths, etc.  I’m fat.  I don’t fit in, because I’m different than my friends, than society as a whole.  Once again, giving a physicality to what I was feeling on the inside.  It gave me a physical reason that I could blame for why I didn’t feel good enough.

I know that I’ve mentioned how much I admire and respect the author Brené Brown.  Recently, she announced that they were releasing a DVD of one of her presentations entitled:  “The Hustle for Worthiness:  Exploring the Power of Love, Belonging, and Being Enough.”  Score!  It took me a few days to justify the cost (it’s $25 for a 50 minute presentation), but I finally broke down and ordered it.  I mean, seriously, I’ll spend $20 on Harry Potter for God’s sake.  Why wouldn’t I spend $25 on trying to understand myself better?

I watched it tonight at work (it was a fairly slow night) and loved it.  Words can’t express how much I support it.  But there are so many ideas that really struck me – nearly knocked me down – that I’m still trying to wrap my mind around them.  Perhaps I’ll write more about it soon.  But one of the things that she mentions is the difference between “fitting in” and “belonging.”  What I’ve felt over the years, while perhaps at first was a fear of not “fitting in,” what my weight was really masking was a fear of not “belonging.”  As she explains, they are different.  Over the years, especially throughout high school and early college, I really learned how to “fit in.”  Entirely too well.  I became whatever someone wanted or needed me to be at the time.  Whatever friend I was with, I did my damnedest to be just like them (minus the whole physical issue of weight, of course) and agree with whatever opinion they had.  If I didn’t, they might make fun of me (*gasp*).

Of course, this could all feed back to elementary/middle school where I was made fun of relentlessly for my weight.  See the chicken vs egg issues I’m having?  Like I said before, it’s a rolling ball of twine.  It’s all tied up together.  But really, what I was most afraid of was not belonging – not having that group that I could be myself with and not having those people in my life that totally “got” me and accepted me for who I was.

Ms. Bitch Cakes’ most recent post really hit home.  I never had a lot of friends growing up.  Okay, I did have a few friends, but no one really that I could tell my dreams and hopes and secrets to.  Not until I met my best friend, Abby, in high school.  Even then, I was scared to share too much with her until later on in high school.

And because of this, I don’t really know how to relate to people well.  I spent a lot of time by myself reading, watching TV (this was before the internet).  Even to this day, I’m most comfortable when I’m by myself.  Most social situations tend to freak me out – mostly grounded in the fear of making a fool of myself or being thought of as a freak.  Things that might make a normal person slightly embarrassed are sources of abject mortification for me that I relive day after day, year after year.  Even today, I can remember something I might have said or done 20 years ago that embarrassed me, and feel just as much humiliation now as I did then.

At times, I’m either not trying hard enough or trying too hard to make that connection.  I’ve never learned that balance of being able to “just be me.”  I’ve finally gotten to the point of where I can express my opinions on things.  I now have no problem with telling you what I like and dislike and if I disagree with you.  If someone is hurting, or a friend really needs a friend (either to laugh or cry with) I’m totally there.  Without hesitation or doubt.  But if it is myself that needs the friend, whether to laugh or cry with, well, I have a much easier time with the laughing part, but I still don’t feel comfortable with the asking.  Somewhere along the way (and I believe this part also has a lot to do with my brother’s death), I learned to laugh over anything that might really be bothering me or shrug it off with dry humor.  I don’t know how to share that part of myself anymore.  I think part of it might be due to having a few people in my life at one point that would merely respond to something I was struggling with with an “mm-hmm” or some other noncommittal remark.  And that’s it.  I think I learned that I was talking too much about myself, they were bored and uninterested and to just stop.

As I grew up, I was sure that getting thin would fix everything.  The birds would sing, the sun would come out, I’d be surrounded by best friends who would totally love me for who I was, guys would be lining up to date me, and all would be right with the world.  Ha.  Of course, as I got older, I came to realize that most of that was baloney.  As Popeye would agree, I was what I was and am what I am regardless of what I weigh.

I think I just wasn’t prepared for how little would actually change.  Sure:

• I felt lighter on my feet
• Didn’t get out of breath as easily
• Could fit into smaller clothes
• Was more willing to go out in public
• Could sit in my car without my stomach touching the wheel (which I’m proud to say that I still can, even with my weight gain)

But there were things I wasn’t prepared to deal with:

• At my lowest of 179-180, I still felt hugely fat at times, which I think had more to do with the numbers and the loose skin than anything else.  You see, I was still comparing myself to everyone else.

• I didn’t feel that much better physically, and am starting to believe that my doctors were right in thinking that my anxiety levels have a lot to do with it.
• My PET, which had gradually gotten worse as the weight went down, was making my life a living hell.
• I was still disgusted by my body which hadn’t changed – all the contours, shapes, rolls were the same, just smaller.  Of course, I’m even more thoroughly disgusted now at my current weight.
• I didn’t have my weight as an excuse anymore to hide from the world.  It was like, “oh crap, now I have to start dealing with things.”  All those things that I promised, swore I would do or deal with when I got thin reared up and smacked me in the head.
• And I got scared.  There were things that I would potentially have to start dealing with that I wasn’t comfortable dealing with or even thinking about.

So all of those are multiple things that I think led to my weight regain, along with:

• I just freaking like to eat.  I love to eat.  I love food.  I love eating whatever I want whenever I want – savoring the flavor, texture, etc.  As Neil says in “Lbs.,” “I love food.  I am freaking happy when I’m eating food.  I love it.”  (You had to know I’d sneak a “Lbs.” reference in here somehow.)
• Because of that, I was tired of what felt like serious deprivation.  I truly believe that food can be a serious addiction, and when I just couldn’t take it anymore, I went on about an eight month ice cream and pizza bender.  I guess you could say I relapsed.
• As I mentioned on Tuesday, I did get cocky.  I started having a little bit of a cheat here and there, a few uncounted Hershey’s kisses here, an extra piece of pizza there, and really, it didn’t affect my weight too badly until it got out of control.
• It didn’t help that knowing my weight history, my doctor still put me on a medication that is notorious for causing ravenous hunger and weight gain (off of it now, thank God).
• And seriously, if I was going to be that thin and still be miserable?  Then why not eat and enjoy it?

After reading this, you probably imagine that I spend 100% of the time beating myself up inside for not being good enough.  Not entirely (maybe only 75%).  There are parts of myself that I really like: I know that I’m compassionate, and I have a lot of love to share.  I know that there are things that I’m really good at.  But still, I find myself comparing myself to others and falling short.  Constantly, it’s “I wish I was more like her; I wish I was more like him; I wish I had thought of that, I wish I was….I wish I had….”

When I was growing up, I wasn’t afraid to dream big.  By the time I was my current age, I was going to be ruling the world – own my own international business, been to the moon, won the Nobel peace prize and the highest literary and poetry prizes in the world, be happily married with 12 kids (perhaps a slight exaggeration), have traveled to exotic locations all around the world (don’t you love how going to the moon came to mind first?), I’d own a mansion that my kids could run around in, would take care of my parents so they wouldn’t have to worry ever again, I’d be a black belt in karate, have studied with the Dalai Lama, etc., etc., etc.  There were so many things that I wanted to do, but was afraid to pursue – weight gave me a concrete excuse for avoiding the risk of humiliation, ridicule that I expected.  And when the weight was there, it gave me one more reason to fear trying for those things.  Again, chicken or egg?  I don’t really know.

And when the weight came off, I couldn’t use that as an excuse for why I wasn’t brave enough to go after the things I wanted.  I also couldn’t hide anymore from the fears that my life would never be “normal” regardless of my weight (whatever the skewed image of a “normal life” was that I had).

There are times when I feel like I’ve boxed myself into this life that I didn’t want and can’t escape from.  I know that the only way is to start taking baby steps.  This blog and starting to open up about my weight were the first steps, but it’s been two years, and minus 160+ pounds and plus 80+ pounds and minus 18 pounds, and my life hasn’t changed one iota.  Except that here I am.  Baring my soul to the world risking ridicule and yes, humiliation.  Especially since people that know me in my “real life” are reading this.

Perhaps there has been some progress.

So here I am, laying it all out on the line in the hopes that someone somewhere might relate to even a little piece of my story.  As Brené says in her DVD, I’m trying to own my own story and find the worthiness within it.

A while back, I added a couple of Brené’s badges to my sidebar declaring that I’m choosing to live authentically and wholeheartedly.  I’m trying to live up to that.  On her DVD, she declares that “authenticity is about the courage to be imperfect” and that it means “I am enough.”  That’s what I’m striving for here.

And I’ll leave you with one more quote from Brené:

The dark does not destroy the light; it defines it.  It’s our fear of the dark that casts our joy into the shadows.

So this is me.

This is my story.

And yes, I am worthy.  I’m working on trying to believe that at all times.  And am refusing to fear the dark at this point in time.

Please be gentle.