I used to think I was fat. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw this blob of a girl with wide hips, a round face, and calves that must be made of lard. What else could it be, muscle from running in soccer? Surely not. I was reminded constantly by my brother, by my parents of how I needed to lose weight, how pretty I would be if I lost a few pounds. Looking back on it, I wouldn't say that is what started my self image issues, but it was probably the biggest contributor.
My stepmom used to joke that when I was in elementary school she could always find me in a crowd because the other kids didn't even come up to my shoulders. As a high school freshman, I finally stopped growing. At 5'10, I weighed 180 pounds, which for my big German frame, wasn't actually that bad. The BMI says it's still a bit big, and I had a hint of a stomach, but nothing terrible. I was convinced that I was the fattest girl that ever lived, a whale, a dump truck, and looking at my older sisters who had these tiny frames with long, elegant limbs, I told myself that if I lost weight I could be just like them. I began to wear baggy clothes to hide what I was convinced was my beer gut, or since I had never had a drink of alcohol, root beer.
Yup. So fat...
That began my yo-yo dieting. I was fourteen. For a while I tried Atkins with my sisters and my stepmom. It lasted about two weeks. And the various diets started coming through a revolving door. None stayed for long and another was there just as fast to take its predecessor's place.
When I was fifteen, right before Christmas in 2004, I was on my way to Barnes and Noble to get a friend a secret santa gift when I was hit and run over by a school bus. I thought I was going to die. I blacked out as he came towards me, and I awoke to his front right tire on top of my lower back and legs. I screamed with as much breath as I could muster. I was convinced I was going to die, that he was going to continue to drive. To my relief he stopped, and I carefully rolled myself over. A man, the driver maybe though I never found out, came and held my head as I cried underneath that monster, it's pipes and engine emitting angry heat over my body, as if to say, tempt me. I'll do it again. The paramedics came, stripped my clothes and began to poke me with IVs as they strapped me to a board. I was air evac'ed to the hospital where doctors put me through all manner of tests and machines to make absolutely sure nothing was broken and I wasn't paralyzed. I was in and out of the hospital within seven or eight hours, no bones were broken, though I did end up injuring my shoulder a bit and have scrapes on my knees, legs, and lower back. My weight gain skyrocketed. I had severe depression and several symptoms of what now could be recognized as PTSD. In case you're curious, the diagnosis criteria for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder according to the DSM-IV includes the following symptoms I exhibited:
-The person has experienced...or been confronted with an event or events that involve actual or threatened death or serious injury, or a threat to the physical integrity of oneself....
-The person's response involved intense fear,helplessness, or horror.
-Recurrent and intrusive distressing recollections of the event, including images, thoughts, or perceptions -Intense psychological distress at exposure to internal or external cues that symbolize or resemble an aspect of the traumatic event
-Efforts to avoid activities, places, or people that arouse recollections of the trauma
-Inability to recall an important aspect of the trauma (I to this day do not remember him hitting me, though I know he did. My memory blacks out as soon I began to see him turn)
-Sense of foreshortened future (though I wanted an eventual college education, family, future, I never saw it. I never expected to live long enough. The universe wanted me dead and I was counting down the days until that happened)
-Difficulty concentrating -Irritability or outbursts of anger (though I'm sure my parents might fight me on this one, I have always been a very emotional person, but I personally noticed it getting worse after the occurrence)
And it is considered chronic if duration of symptoms is three months or more
I began to eat more than I ever had and my physical activity lessened. My bed was my new best friend.
In February of 2005, just two months after the event, the church youth group was doing a weekend retreat up north. I was so petrified of the charter buses, just being near them, their enormous tires threatening to mow over me at any second, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I was completely and utterly paralyzed. I had my first panic attack and as I wept, my father yelled, demanded I get on the bus, and "get over it already." Still I couldn't move, and I was determined to stay in that parking lot if it killed me. I would not and could not get on that bus with the other kids. Luckily, I ended up having extremely understanding leaders who were taking a truck up, and offered to have me to ride with them. At that moment though, I knew my parents were a source of comfort I would never have, and I began to shut them out. I felt they were completely insensitive to what I was going through and I needed to find some other outlet. A cookie wouldn't judge me, it doesn't care whether or not my breathe stops every time I hear a siren, or have nightmares of being hit, it's just there to taste good and fill my belly. It and all its friends.
I was eventually put on antidepressants as a "fix" that didn't do much of anything except add to my weight. The shrink they took me to tried to focus on other abuses that had happened to me when I was younger, but never truly focused on what was right there. The stress and anxiety of being a middle child, of being number five of ten, and the insecurities of the middle child "syndrome." She never wanted to focus on the teasing I suffered through or get to the root of anything but those abuses, and frankly it made me uncomfortable. I eventually stopped seeing her and my parents pulled me off the drugs cold turkey, which if you know anything about antidepressants, is not a good idea. In fact, it can be fairly dangerous.
Between the yo-yo dieting, anti-depressants, increasing lack of social interaction, depression, anxiety, failing grades, teenage hormones, and teasing, by the time I reached senior year I had gained a staggering 45 pounds. I was miserable. I had gone from a size 10-12 (I have hips remember) to a size 16-18. Nothing I did, no diet, no attempt at self control worked.
In June 2007 I moved to Flagstaff. No longer did siblings tease me about my weight, I wasn't judged for my fear of school buses (I gradually got better with charter and city, but school to this day frighten me), I walked and biked to work and around town. I had a sister/roommate who was respectful of me and my space, would laugh with me, watch What Not to Wear with me when we would come home from class for lunch. She expected me to better myself but was never pushy and the amazing thing was, I wanted to. I wanted to be someone she could be proud of, I still do. Her opinion of me mattered more than anyone else's, and despite working at IHOP sometimes seven days in a row, eating there almost daily, I lost weight. From June to December I lost a good 20-30 pounds.
The one thing my sister couldn't do was replace my friends. I hadn't made many in Flagstaff and the ones I did make were.... interesting to put it politely. So I packed my things and moved back to Gilbert.
And I gained weight.
When I was 21, I was officially diagnosed with PCOS, though my family physician had always suspected it. My gyno didn't tell me much other than, hey, you have cysts on your ovaries, good luck with that. It explained my periods, which would and can get so bad I get cold sweats, puke, and sometimes become so weak I can barely pick up my head. I just took her word for what it was and like that I just said okay and continued on.
That is until my oldest sister became pregnant in 2011 and broke the news that she too had PCOS. Curiosity eventually got the better of me and I began to look into what exactly PCOS is and what it does to your body. I came to find it's not as simple as cysts, which are actually just a side effect of the disorder. It's an endocrine disorder, and without careful monitoring, gives you more of a chance of developing diabetes and heart disease than most people, even if you are doing everything you should. It can cause infertility, and it causes cravings for carbs and sugars higher than that of a normal person because your body has such a hard time digesting them. It also can make it extremely hard to lose weight. Of all the material I have read on the subject, if a patient or their testimonial is mentioned, without fail there will be a woman who has done everything she can, diet, exercise, and still cannot shed the pounds. Doctors will nods their heads and say "Sure you are, whatever you say. But seriously, diet and exercise" because it is so misunderstood and they don't take the time to research and educate themselves on just how bad this is.
Now it's 2013, and I weigh a whopping 250 pounds. My cravings for breads specifically, and sugars, are constant. Drinking tea helps me a bit, but only temporarily. I understand the cravings now. I understand what I have to do. With the purchase of my very first smart phone I've added a food journal app and I've been diligent about adding entries daily. I haven't started my lifestyle change cold turkey- I know better. I allow myself small indulgences, but I try not to get carried away. I've begun working out more, I've met with a personal trainer who wants to help me. Call me a sucker, but the compassion she has for me, how genuine she is, I feel it's more than just wanting another sale, she really means to help me in any way she can. Kickball now consumes my Thursday nights.
My motivation, what keeps me on track, what makes this time different, is health. It's wanting to look in the mirror and know that my beauty is something I am always proud of, not just when I have a cute outfit on. It's wanting to climb Kilimanjaro with my best friend. It's wanting to climb the stairs to my apartment and not feel winded if I happen to go to fast. It's wanting to be able to keep up with my future kids, should I be lucky enough to have them. It's having the physical strength to punch a guy out should he ever try to take advantage of me again, instead of laying there in fear.
My motivation is me. Being skinny isn't important, if I wanted that I just wouldn't eat. What is important is not developing diabetes, not developing heart disease in my twenties (which is the biggest killer of women- bigger than even breast cancer), so I have started this blog to help motivate me, to motivate others, to let them know no matter what happened in your past, it doesn't have to be your future. I know this will be a struggle, this will be something I will struggle with the rest of my life, I'm not just going to lose the weight and have it be over. While I am overwhelmed and frankly a bit scared by the thought, I'm also okay with it. My metabolism isn't the fastest but I will work to improve it, make the best of it, and not let it hold me back.
~Kate
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