What a Shame

During the week, a noted bioethicist (here’s the link ) came up with the brilliant idea that fat people should be shamed into losing weight.

What a novel idea-making fun of fat people! Because that has never been done before. For whatever reason, fat people in our size-zero obsessed society are easy targets.

Yes, there is an obesity epidemic, but shaming isn’t the answer.

From the time I was thirteen, I was made to feel ashamed of myself for being a little bit overweight (seriously- 128lbs on a 5’3” frame). It wasn’t just from complete strangers shouting caustic remarks for all to hear but also from supposedly ‘well-intentioned’ people who were supposed to love me. Some family members felt they were doing me a favor by pointing it out  (all under the guise of constructive criticism) and telling me things like ‘you don’t want to be the fattest one in the wedding party’ or my all time favorite: 'no man wants a fat woman, that's just the way it is'. Then there were the 'boyfriends' who preferred it if you looked like your sister or worse, offered to pay for a fat camp when you hit 160lbs in order to ‘save’ the relationship. (And no I didn’t go- it was just easier to break-up).

Not once did any of the shame lead me to a better path of taking care of myself. In fact, quite the opposite happened. The constant focus on my weight and the subsequent shame of it ballooned quite literally into chronic weight gain and an eating disorder. At the end of all that shame, you’re left battered and bruised and eventually you are unable to separate your self-worth and your identity from the number on the scale. It becomes an inverse relationship: the higher the number goes on the scale, the worse you feel about yourself until you reach the stratosphere of not caring at all. And even if you do manage to get your weight under control, you still have to deal with the feelings of worthlessness and low self esteem, for that is a by-product of continual shaming.

This is what you learn when you are made to feel ashamed about your weight: nothing matters; it doesn’t matter what you do in your life, what you accomplish or what you achieve; or how good or kind you are. It means nothing because you are fat. That is both the message and the corrosive nature of shame.

What I've Been Doing

I read a book last year that made a lot of sense to me. Personally I’m against diets and I think that everybody just has to find whatever it is that works for them in an effort to lose weight and keep it off. I read Wheat Belly by William Davis, M.D.  and it was a compelling indictment on modern-day, genetically- modified wheat. (I’ll do a more in-depth post on this book later). So last March, I tried it. I lasted 2 weeks. It was going well until a tragic death in our family and I immediately-without a thought- turned to food for comfort. As a wise friend pointed out to me: all that overeating did not change a thing; it did not bring my cousin back. It took me another eight months before I tried it again. I started November 21 and listed a set of things that I felt that I had to do in order for me to be successful. I said goodbye to my old friends: bagels and cream cheese and I got a quickie divorce from the family-size Galaxy bar that I consumed on an almost daily basis at a cost of 700 calories! I went cold off of everything white: sugar, flour, pasta, potatoes, etc and everything wheat. Within forty-eight hours, I noticed the cravings had diminished and there was a definite increase in my energy levels. Gone was the mid-afternoon carbohydrate slump that had my eyes at half-mast and required a two hour nap to snap out of it. I actually tried to nap but found that I just wasn’t tired enough.  Even when another cousin died unexpectedly at the beginning of December, I managed to hold it together. However, Christmas rolled into town and I completely went off the rails. However, I have managed to stay off of the bagels and the chocolate bars. But I’m determined to get back on track and get this right. I’m going to keep trying until it clicks; even if that means I’m still posting on this blog when I’m eighty years old.

I'm Back!

Saturday, the 19^th was my 47^th birthday and I woke up thinking I’m still fat, broke and unpublished. I could actually feel myself starting to slide into that black pit of depression. I haven’t been there since January of 2009 when I got so depressed I stayed in bed for 3 weeks. Eight months of therapy and anti-depressants eventually pulled me out of it. But it came at a cost: I put on close to forty pounds as a side effect of the medication. I’m still struggling to get that weight off.  Depression is a place that I am determined not to revisit. Anxiety is usually my constant companion and over the years I have learned to manage that through meditation, distraction and deep breathing. However, last week was a bad week, with one thing after another and the anxiety got the better of me, overwhelmed me and opened the door for depression. I’ve examined the state of my affairs closely. Yes, I’m still unpublished and my dream of becoming a paid writer is still just that: a dream. But I am doing everything I can to make it happen: I’m writing. A lot. And I’ve learned a lot about the writing process in the last seven years. I just need to hang on and continue what I’m doing. As for being broke, I’m doing everything I can short of moving back to the US. The unemployment rate in this lovely country is close to 15%. My husband as a carpenter, has become a victim of this recession like so many other tradesmen. But even my field, healthcare, is taking a hit. A bastion that I had once considered ‘safe’ is no longer as I watch both my hours and base pay get cut over and over again. Again, I’m doing everything I can: taking any kind of work where I can find it. Now for the part about being fat: my attempts to get to grips with the thing that I actually have the most control over is haphazard at best. There have been small changes and as you can see from the stats, I’m still not where I need to be, but thankfully, I’m not at my all-time high.

So, I struggled through my birthday, in a really dark place. I went for a fifteen minute walk (that’s all I could manage) and used some tools that I learned in the past. I kept busy. It was hard day. I was sliding all day. But it didn’t get any worse. When I woke Sunday, I felt a little bit better and went for another fifteen minute walk. Yesterday, I felt like I was back on track. Ready again, to tackle my weight. I have limited control over the last two things, but I certainly have control over the first. I must keep trying.