Doctor, can you help me?

Mythbusting

One of the arguments about obesity that makes my blood boil the most is the one where people insist fat people are a drain on health care. They have obviously not tried and failed to get quality health care.

My experiences range from the benign to the "I should gone after his license".

1. Dr. 1. When advised her my menstrual cycles were getting out of control, she patted me on the shoulder and told me I had to expect more blood because I was "bigger." It took me SIX more doctors to get the ultrasound I needed and guess what, ENDOMETRIAL HYPERPLASIA. The average women's uterine lining is 5-6 mm. Mine was TWENTY SIX. I got a very painful biopsy I wasn't prepared for and a birthday present of a trip to the local cancer hospital because, at that level, my risk for cancer was 20%-30%. Luckily the doctor I was assigned there was fabulous, but at that point, the only treatment available to me was basically chemically killing my uterus before it killed me. So even though I wasn't planning, at least not at that moment, to have children, I now can't. Thanks to that doctor.

2. Dr. 2. This asswipe saw me once every three months for a routine blood check and a fresh prescription . When I had the nerve to mention a new health problem, he told me he would only treat existing conditions until I learned to "train." I questioned him a couple of times about what exactly he meant, but he just kept going "You know." He knew what he was doing and I believe he chose "train" because it was the least offensive word he could use and not get in trouble. P.S. He didn't actually ask me ANY questions about my physical routine. P.P.S. He's not my doctor anymore.

3. Dr. 3. An emergency room idiot. I still want to punch him. I saw this one in between Dr. 1 and the guy who helped me kill my uterus. I showed up in the emergency room in the middle of a FIVE month long menstrual cycle, throwing clots the size of nectarines, hysterical, with a garbage tied around my waist. Despite it being WELL documented in my file that I had been on and received benefit from Depo Provera, he said he would only give me oral contraception and only after I dragged my blood soaked butt across the hospital to get weighed on a special scale. This, he said, was necessary because he was only going to give me 3 months worth and I would have to come back in three months and prove to him I hadn't gained weight. I still haven't been able to tell Dr. Clueless I lost THIRTEEN pounds and where in hell he got his degree.

4. Dr. 4. This is actually a group of doctors that include the shmuck I previously named Dr. 2. I reported to my local hospital with a considerably high fever and a past history of infection. I was sent home with the wrong medication. I know this because it made things worse and I had to go back a second time. At that point I am still not completely sure what happened because I was still feverish and my brain was being baked and not in a good way. It was only on the third night, when I showed up with boils all over both of my legs and unabashedly let them drain onto the floor of the emergency room waiting room that I got treated. But, because they let it go on for so long, this meant an admission and a bucketload of IV drugs. They actually ran out on the morning I was sent home. Shmucky Dr. 2 admitted to me at one point he LOST the swab so we're still not positive what kind of infection it was. Plus now, I have lymphedema, so hurray 7 years old school.

We don't go to the doctor as much as you think for basically the above reasons. But when we do go, because we basically have to be bleeding from the eyeballs to get taken seriously, that's when it starts to get expensive. See how that works?

One Look

This is one of the images I spent a fair amount of time sharing this weekend. I like it because I think it's sassy without being particularly mean.

I don't go out much. There's a little bit of social anxiety involved but a lot of the time it's because social activity usually involves food. A couple of the last times I went out with one friend in particular were the ones that basically broke the camel's back. The first time we went out, we were in a weird, artsy-ish mall, and there was really only one place to stop for a drink, coffee for her and whatever for me. The place also served dessert. After we chose a table, I went to the bathroom. When I came out, it was very easy to tell something was bothering my friend. She proceeded to tell me that, while I was in the bathroom, some Nosy Nellies at a nearby table thought it would be appropriate to shame HER for bringing me into an establishment that served cake. I was flabbergasted.

It was a while before we went out again. This time she was on some type of elimination diet and so we ended up in a food court at a more traditional mall, and we chose a restaurant whose menu was full of salads. So we got out salads, sat practically in front of the place, and despite enjoying the meal and each other's company, I managed to look up and catch a couple of passersby staring at our table with looks of disgust on their faces. Again, flabbergasted. I mean seriously, I am out in public, dressed in what I thought was a reasonable manner, and eating what everyone seems to think I should be eating and I still get dirty looks? Plus I felt bad for my friend, especially after she had been such a champion at the cake and coffee place. I get those looks all the time and although I shouldn't, I'm really sure she didn't need that kind of bias heaped on her.

I've been out a couple of times since. But I chose. And if it's out out, then I chose the place. Someplace small, quiet, out of the way, and usually at an off time, like lunch at 1 p.m. or dinner late, like 7 p.m. It keeps the dirty looks down. And sometimes you get to try some interesting food!

That being said, don't come at me regarding this graphic. I will not be nice. You can try telling me you can tell more than that, but I've heard it. You don't know what I'm putting in my mouth on a daily basis. You might stand a fair chance of guessing what I used to eat, but now? No. Stop. You also really can't tell me you know how much I work out. If you're going to keep insisting you can, I'm going to file a report against you for stalking. 

Fight on your own terms

I spent the weekend on a FB page fight the bigotry and vitriol of fat shaming. I was buoyed at first because I made some salient points and a few people actually saw them. But at the same time I get tired of letting those concern trolls control the narrative.

There are so many movements I don't know that I support one completely. I do, however, like much of what HAES - Healthy at Any Size has to say as I truly do believe it is possible for a person the establishment considers obese to be healthy. But then I do believe that healthy is a subjective term. Once upon a time, sure, it meant something like without disease. But between what's in our air and what's in our water and the sheer volume of people on psych meds these day (I don't judge, I'm on them, too), I think the unhealthy greatly outnumber the ones who claim they are healthy. I mean my grandmother had a tumor removed from her head and yet she claimed she was never sick a day in her life. Okay Old Lady, if you say so.

I also like quite a bit of the Body Positivity movement, too. Do I support the glamorization of obesity? This is how I feel about that: if you've got your body in a place where you love it and you want to show it off, if you can do it in a way that makes you feel like a goddess, go for it. If you want to get in someone's face and insist they should reform themselves to look exactly like you, then hell no, step off. 

Together and apart

One advantage of being the fat girl is you can blend into the background and get a bird's eye view of, well, everything. So I watched all sorts of relationships come and go throughout high school mostly. It didn't seem the thing to do in junior high although I do remember, as a schoolyard supervisor in the 6th grade, having to bust up kissing games amongst the first graders.

What I saw the most of was possession. "Love" would take over and the person would disappear. The most prominent case for me involved a boy in my inner circle. When he started dating a girl outside the circle, we parted and made room for her, but as their relationship developed, he pulled away. We only saw him in the class we all shared, he moved into a locker near hers and everytime we saw him our buddy looked absolutely miserable. At least compared to how he acted with us. But - he was in love.

I was horrified. This was love? I looked around at the boys in my circle and was not attracted to any of them. My heart did break for one though when he found out the girl he wanted was dating a boy who owned a cherry red Corvette. Our guy drove a truck. But it wasn't long before it was cherry red, too.

Crushed

Noticing the other sex is a right of passage. Although I am told I was "engaged" at a young age to a neighbor in our hometown, nothing came of it and my first moment/man was a very blond young man in the fourth grade. He was somewhat obsessed with drawing tanks. I would "decorate" them. Kind of warped but then so are most of the things done by one sex to impress the other.

The boy I gave my heart to, of course unbeknownst to him, in the fifth and sixth grade recently came back into my life. Electronically. He's about three hours away. We had a nice conversation and he tossed out an invitation to come see him. He hasn't spoken to me since. Who says childhood is over?

I went through most of the school years with mad crushes for all sorts of boys. Most had some sort of athletic ability and a Cassidy-esque mop of hair. The only other thing they all had in common is they were never really much interested in me. I like to think it was not without effort on my part. I am uncomfortable flirting with someone I really really am attracted to, most likely because I know there's not a hope in hell. I do better in that regard if I am moderately interested in the person. However the first time I gathered steam to make a bold attempt, the object of the flirtation campaign laughed. A year later he was dead. I am not sure why I mention the latter because he was troubled and it wasn't my fault. He didn't want the attention or the possible comfort or connection being with me might offer. But I always remember he laughed.

Behind the picture

You're not going to find a picture here. That's not the point I want to make. It's not important what I look like. It's not even important what you look like. Well it is, but only because "we" made it that way. I am trying my damnedest not to care.

I do have a picture on my Facebook account. Through their "Social Me" application the most frequent tag I get is "happy." Now through this application you can thank people for calling you something. I don't thank any of the people who call me happy. I get what they are saying. The picture was taken at a great time in my life. I was with good people enjoy them and what I was doing. Or at least trying to.

But, as with most things, I did become unhappy with my life at that time and what was going on. But, as it was not the first time, it did not surprise me. I think it would surprise me if I found true bliss (should it actually exist). So why would someone want to go through life unhappy? It's a great artistic muse. Beyond that, I somehow think bliss exists once you step off the cliff. And I don't like to fall. Figuratively or literally. So I have cloaked myself in suit of protection and that is why I choose not to show you my photo. Whatever you see in it - will it be happiness like the others? - it's not the truth. This is.