I was still smarting a couple of days later when her nurse called and suggested I find a general practitioner. It seemed this doctor only wanted to see me for ob-gyn issues. I cried even more, but I was also mad. Who the hell did she think she was? In my mind, she had such a God complex. “No! You can’t have it!” I imagined her saying cruelly, yanking away my one shot at losing weight.
If I’m being honest, I can’t really blame her. She’d warned me she wasn’t a huge fan of the drug, and that I would have to play by the rules. I hadn’t, so she stopped playing. But where did that leave me? I felt as though she’d abandoned me and I had nowhere to turn.
The nurse suggested a general practitioner, and I made an appointment. Maybe this doctor would give me a script for phentermine—maybe if I explained everything, she would understand! Clearly I was deluding myself. The medication had stopped working, but I still thought there was hope, that the only way I was going to lose weight was with that kind of help. As I waited to see the new doctor, I gave myself a pep talk. Don’t be too anxious, I told myself. Play it cool. Let her come to the conclusion so it won’t look like that’s what you’re shopping for.
The doctor seemed perfectly nice. I explained to her my history, how I’d gained the weight after I’d gotten married, and how I had tried any number of ways to lose it over the years, with minimal success. I almost couldn’t believe it when I started really opening up. I tearfully told her that sometimes I felt like I was losing my mind, that all I thought about was how to stop eating, stop abusing food. I felt stuck in an endless cycle—with no way out—and I was helpless. She seemed to really listen, really hear what I was saying. She made it easy to be honest about my feelings.
When I’d finished, she expressed her sympathy and concern. She said she wanted to go get something for me off her desk, and she excused herself. I dried my tears and waited for her to return, feeling really hopeful for the first time in quite a while. This doctor was going to hear me. She really got what I was trying to say.
The doctor came back in with papers in her hand. “I printed for you a copy of the Food Pyramid,” she started. My jaw dropped to the floor as she continued. “I want you to see what your goals should be in terms of what kinds of food you should be eating.”
I almost expected her to burst out in laughter and say, “Just kidding!” But as she droned on and on about the importance of a balanced diet, I slowly began to realize just how serious she was. And I was angry. I was seething. Hot, angry tears seared my vision. My heart pounded so loudly in my chest, I was sure she could hear it.
Was she insane? Had my words meant nothing to her? I had poured my heart out to this woman, admitting that I thought I was addicted to food and that I might be a little crazy. Her answer was for me to look at the Food Pyramid and try to eat a more balanced diet?! Seriously?
But wait, she wasn’t finished. “I also think you should look into this faith-based organization. It’s called TOPS, or Taking Off Pounds Sensibly. They have several meeting locations in this area. I found one within a couple of miles of your zip code.”
She handed me the sheet. She had made an effort, although a horribly stupid one. I couldn’t criticize her intentions, I supposed. But I also couldn’t believe that a medical doctor couldn’t see what a real mess of a person she had before her, and how could she possibly think my answer was the Food Pyramid and a church support group? Was she an idiot?
I swallowed hard, trying my best to restrain my emotions. I was mad, but I wasn’t about to give up on what I thought was my only hope. “Thanks for this,” I said softly. “I was wondering … what do you think about phentermine? The few times I’ve had success, it was because of medication,” I said, rather weakly.
She nodded. “Well, I think it’s definitely an option for us,” she started, and my heart immediately lifted. Maybe she wasn’t so bad! Maybe she wasn’t so clueless!
“But,” she said, “I would have to see you successfully complete a three-month plan of a good diet and exercise before I could prescribe that for you.”
I was sure I hadn’t heard correctly. I indicated so, but she repeated the same thing. If I was floored before, I was absolutely flabbergasted now. Three months? I couldn’t even put three days together! Why in the world did she think I was there? Why was I seeking her help if I could do it on my own?
It became real clear, real quick that this doctor wasn’t going to help me, and I was incredibly sad. How could she not understand? How could no one understand what I was going through? And if that was the case, how was I ever going to solve the problem?
I knew there wasn’t much research about how phentermine affects the body. I knew that the whole fen-phen fiasco had made doctors skittish. But really, what’s the alternative? Walk around with an extra two hundred pounds, letting it wreak havoc on my heart? I had diabetes and high blood pressure—I was marching toward an early grave. If I knew something worked—something would help me get the weight off—didn’t it make sense to do it, whatever the cost?
That same argument would come up in the not-so-distant future.
For right then I decided to try one more doctor. My husband had a general practitioner whom I’d seen for minor things and who’d invited me to become a regular patient. I gave myself the same pep talk while I waited in his waiting room: Play it cool, Jennifer. Don’t be too anxious. As I sat on the exam table, I calmly told him about all my efforts to lose weight, mostly to no avail. And then I laid my cards right on the table: “I’ve had the most success when I’ve taken phentermine, and I’d like to try it again,” I said firmly.
This doctor, a man, was busy writing notes in my chart, and he didn’t look up when I stopped talking. “I’m not sure those are effective,” he said, still writing.
“Why not?” I shot back before I could help myself.
This time, he looked up at me.
My face felt hot, and I looked away. “I mean, nothing else is working and I am desperate here. I’ll try anything, just please.” I met his glance again, sure that I had pleading in my eyes.
He nodded. “Yes, we can try it,” he said casually.
No lectures, no God-like stance, no threats. He gave me the medicine. I could have kissed him.
I was determined not to waste this go-around. I didn’t know if I’d get the chance again. I took the medicine enthusiastically. I got the familiar buzz right off, and I was so happy. I was on my way.
The hunger punched through before lunchtime.
It was over. The medicine didn’t work anymore.
What in the hell was I going to do now?
7
Sex and the Fat Girl
DECEMBER 31, 2006
I’m hiding again. This time I’m not sneaking around in order to eat (although let’s face it—that is sure to come later). No, this time I am hiding from my husband. Michael wants sex. He’s been dropping hints all day: an extra long hug from behind as I wash dishes at the sink, a whistle and a grin as I walk by with a load of laundry. After thirteen years of marriage, I know the signs, and my husband is letting me know that today is the day. He will wait no more. He must have me now.
Every time I think about it, my stomach turns in knots so big I can’t breathe. My skin crawls, like ants setting my flesh on fire. I want to cry, but my sobs stick in my throat.
I should be dropping to my knees, thanking God profusely for giving me such an unbelievably wonderful husband. Why he didn’t leave long ago, when the weight began to pile on and my psychosis really started to fester, I will never understand. Any other man would have run for the hills. Not only is the weight gain a physical turnoff, but the accompanying behavior is also unbearable. Mood swings, crying jags, defensiveness up the wazoo. And the lies! Lying about what I’m eating, where I’m going, how I’ve spent our money. How could he remain by my side when I am pushing him away with all my might?
But stay he does. And he still wants me. This I will never, ever be capable of comprehending. I weigh more than three h
undred pounds. I am revolting. My body is a disfigured mess. I am covered in stretch marks—some a silvery, translucent color, others bright purple and rough to the touch. My swollen belly has so many layers, you could lose small appliances in it. My breasts, never anything to brag about in the first place, are now unrecognizable blobs that hang due south. I haven’t seen my vagina in years. I assume it’s still there, but I have no firsthand account of its existence, let alone its appearance. My skin is scaly, my hair is ratty and thinning, and I have questionable body odors.
Yeah. I’m a lover boy’s dream.
When he touches me, I can’t sit still. I want to jump out of my skin. I change the subject. I create an emergency that I must tend to right away, anything to get away from being held. How can Michael not do the same? How can he desire me? Is his love that blind?
Or is he pretending for me? Yes, that must be it. How could it be anything else? There is no way he wants to make love to such a horrible beast of a woman—no way he could choose to be with me—if it weren’t for his sense of duty, of obligation. He’s taking pity on me. He’s honoring our marriage vows, even though he must want desperately to find the out clause. We have children, after all; he can’t leave now. He’s too much of a stand-up guy for that. And I do believe he loves me, based on what we used to be. He’s making the most of a bad situation, I suppose. He is still a man. He still has needs. And I am his wife—I should meet those needs. I should want to meet those needs.
But every touch reminds me of what I have become. When he tries, and fails, to wrap his arms around me, I think of what an odd-shaped pair we make: I am more than twice his size. That’s not right! It isn’t natural! I am supposed to be the dainty wife, the little woman. Sadly, I’d have to date Goliath in order to fit that description.
When I’m with him, I can’t concentrate on my love for him or on trying to rekindle that physical desire. All I can do is wallow in self-pity, wondering how I allowed this to happen. Images of what our physical relationship used to be engulf me, and I push away even harder. I know those days are gone because I can’t get a grip.
I have ruined us.
He’s still here. So finally, when I can’t avoid it any longer, we have sex. About once a month I grit my teeth and force myself to go through with it. It’s like facing a firing squad. I try to pretend to like it, and sometimes for a little bit I manage to fool myself. When he kisses me, I faintly recall the burning desire that enveloped us in the early days of our relationship. We were insatiable. We made love anytime, anywhere, all the time. Because I knew how much he loved me, I was confident and uninhibited, and our sex life was as active and as satisfying as it could be. Now I close my eyes and try to think of that time, and I momentarily get lost in the memory of what we once were. I return Michael’s passionate kiss and, for that brief moment, I can’t wait to consummate our love once more.
And then, like a bolt of lightning slamming into the summer sky, I remember the cold, hard reality of my situation. I can’t make love the old-fashioned way. My self-consciousness takes over, and I won’t allow my husband to climb on top of me. My big belly is too much of a distraction; I’m way too ashamed to allow it to come between us. I stop Michael so that we can reposition ourselves. He reluctantly complies, and remorse and regret threaten to pull me under yet again. Good thing I’m not facing him. Even in the pitch-dark bedroom, he would detect the tears that have sprung to my eyes. If he were allowed to hold me properly, he would know the grief I feel. It’s better this way, I tell myself. Better for all involved.
For the last ten years, we’ve had sex in only one position. I won’t be so crass as to come out and say which one that is; you can probably figure it out. It’s the one where my huge stomach is the least obtrusive.
Our intimacy suffers. There’s no kissing, no stroking of each other’s faces, no holding him in my arms. It’s a purely mechanical move, a physical means to an end. Yes, the outcome for both of us is a biological victory. Climax is achieved, usually on both sides. But I miss the closeness that used to accompany our passion, the togetherness we felt alongside the physical pleasure. The minute, no the second, it’s over, I’m racked with silent sobs. I feel so guilty for allowing this to happen to our marriage. I am solely responsible, and it is devastating.
What kind of woman am I? I binge eat, stuffing myself with so much food that I am sick. I don’t try hard enough to find clothes that fit me, and look like a royal mess most of the time. And I can’t maintain a proper physical relationship with my husband. I am a failure in every sense of the word. I try to do something about these things; each day dawns with a new plan for me to take control, trying to implement ways to get back to the woman I once was. But I always fail, doomed to suffer in this seemingly self-imposed exile for what feels like eternity. I am trapped, and I am suffocating.
Love is supposed to hurt. That’s what I have always believed, no matter how hard Michael has tried to change that for me. Growing up, I didn’t have the greatest example of how men are supposed to treat women, what girls should expect from boys. My dad, while not outright abusive to my mom, was an absent husband. He worked hard and provided for his family, but he fought his own demons and they kept him away from us most of the time. He drank heavily and would “go to bed” early in the evening, which I would later learn meant he would pass out in his room. He never took Mom out, never maintained a social life with her as a couple. She hardly ever took vacations; she rarely attended events with friends. She was ashamed to show up without a husband, so she simply didn’t attend. He wallowed in whatever drove him to self-destruct, and she paid the price, year after year. Boy, does this sound familiar.
My dad never treated me unkindly. He always picked me up from school when he was supposed to, and he provided for any need or want that I had, whether it was clothes for school or a new bike for my birthday, even a car when I turned sixteen. But he was, for the most part, emotionally absent as a father. I knew that he loved me, although he rarely said so. He grew up with parents who showed virtually no affection, and so he never felt comfortable doing so himself. I remember one time telling my mother that I didn’t know if my dad loved me because he never told me. The next morning, there was an awkward silence as he drove me to school. You could tell he was trying to find a way to say something but was having great difficulty. When the car stopped, he looked down at his hands and very softly said, “I love you.” Even at such a young age, I could tell how hard it was for him to say it, and it meant so much to me, I have never forgotten. A couple of years later, I was leaving to spend two weeks with my cousin in Virginia Beach. My dad had to leave for work before I got up, and he wouldn’t see me before I left. There was a note from him on the kitchen table, in his gorgeous handwritten script. He told me to be safe and to have a good time. And he wrote, “I love you.” I saved that little piece of ruled notebook paper for years, finally losing it when I went away to college. I was devastated when I couldn’t find it; that note meant the world to me.
I loved my father with all my heart, and we did have a closer relationship when I became an adult. He died several years ago, and I miss him every day. But if a young girl learns how to expect a man to treat her from how her father treats her, then I was sorely lacking. Yes, he loved me and provided for me, but I had to work so hard to get even a scrap of real demonstration of that love. I was constantly trying to wring it out of him, impress him enough so that he would be bowled over by me. I was too young to understand that he gave me all that he could, that he was incapable of showing me how much he cared. All I knew was that he never told me I was pretty, never acted as though he thought I was very smart or very good at much of anything. He never shared any of my interests—or pretended to—as most parents are forced to do from time to time. I was his daughter, and for that he loved me, but there was nothing about me that terribly impressed him. That’s what I took from growing up, and it was devastating for my self-esteem.
What didn’t help was that I had two older br
others who did have my father’s attention. My father loved sports and my brothers excelled in sports, so they bonded endlessly over baseball and basketball. I sucked at sports. I had no coordination and no real desire to try and learn. While I was being dragged to every youth athletic event in the state, you would find me on the bleachers with my nose in a book. My dad could not relate to this, and that was a fatal flaw in our relationship. I would watch him connect with my brothers, and I would feel hurt and confused. Why couldn’t he talk to me like that? I was always trying to get his attention, connect with him with one thing or another, but it never worked. Once, I remember him taking me and my brothers to a store and letting us pick out whatever we wanted. I felt giddy riding in the car, not only from the pending purchase, but from being included with the boys, spending some bonding time with my dad. I picked out a baby doll that drank a bottle and wet her diaper. My brothers picked out a basketball goal. We went home and my dad and brothers spent the rest of the afternoon in the backyard, building the goal and putting it into the ground. I stayed in my room and played with my doll, alone. My window overlooked the backyard, and I could see them working together, laughing, and then playing once they were finished. I felt like a complete outsider.
If I thought my relationship with my father was somewhat lacking, my relationship with my brothers was downright destructive. They were mean, and they were cruel. They admit that now, although they question if it was quite as bad as I make it out to be. It was. We were never, ever close, and I really don’t know why. My mom grew up with four brothers, and she says when she saw my brothers tease me, she chalked it up to normal sibling rivalry. It was not normal. They called me “fat bitch” on a daily basis, probably from the age of eight. I was hit and punched quite regularly, by two older brothers who were always bigger and stronger and who often ganged up on me. They made a sport of embarrassing me in front of others, whether it was to call me names in front of their friends or physically attack me in front of mine. Yes, I called them names. Yes, I tried to hit them back. But I was outnumbered and out-powered. They called me ugly, fat, smelly, bitch, dumbass—you name it. I heard every insult imaginable and then some.
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