Sunday, October 31, 2004

Bariatic Surgery 1

Last week I went to a preliminary meeting about getting bariatic surgery.
It was pretty scary.
I'm not much into scare tactics. (That's why I hate Bush. He & the repulican party are all about fear. John Kerry is all about Heinz ketchup, the best ketchup, the ONLY ketchup there is. Fear? Ketchup? Fear? Ketchup. Hmm who should I chose?)
But these were probably necessary.
First the doctor scared us all by saying just by being this overweight, we are FOUR times more likely to die, of anything, than a thin person.
Four times.
That's enough to put anyone off their feed, even a person who throws up or poops out everything like I do.
He talked about how diets don't work, 95-98% of the people gain their weight back, or gain even MORE back. (been there, done that)
Exercise works, but only if you keep at it. And who does, when just walking up the stairs puts you out of breath?
It was strange to be at a meeting full of severely overweight people. Some were overweight couples, some were half and half. A few people were immense. A few seemed too thin to be there (although they were still large).
The BMI cutoff for surgery is 40, or 35 if you have co-morbiditys (isn't that a nice term) like diabetes, high blood pressure, etc. (Mine is well over 40.) The doctor said he had just operated on someone whose BMI was 92. I figured out that if that person was my height, they'd have to weigh 535 pounds.
Once he got everyone so frightened they were ready to go under the knife immediately, lest we all die walking out to the parking lot, he started talking about how insurances are no longer paying for the surgery as of THIS MONTH. And of course mine's one of them.
Then he started talking about the surgery itself. The stomach is reduced to the size of a MARBLE. A fucking marble. The intestines are re-routed to the marble, and another bit is re-routed to the base of the stomach to get the liver, spleen & pancreas digestive juices. He said one benefit of doing that is the sense of hunger is completely lost. Eventually, over a couple of years, the marble-sized pouch extends to the size of a golf ball. That's not a lot of food, is it?
He talked about the other surgery, the lap band, that I originally wanted but my insurance doesn't pay. He said it's only good for certain people, & those people do as well with that as with the bypass. It didn't seem like I'd be a good candidate. The weight loss is a lot less too. If I'm going under the knife, I want maximum return for my pain. With a bypass, you can lose 75% or more of your excessive weight in a year. That means if you should weigh 120 and you weigh 300, you are 180 lbs overweight. You can lose 90+ lbs in the first year. He said most people lose an entire PERSON's worth of weight- 150 or more lbs.
So I have to attend Monday night meetings for at least a month, starting tomorrow. I have to list every diet I've ever been on, and if I lost any weight. (started that already--what a list). My appointment for a personal consult isn't until December so we'll see what happens. I told the lady I'd cancel if my insurance would run out before 4 months (min time 3 months between intial consult & surgery, and consult is a month out) but she said not to, that they can work miracles with insurance.
It's horrible that I look at overweight people and say "am I that fat?" because sometimes in my heart I know I am. I am that fat. I am so gross. I get so discouraged. How does one break out of this fucking downward spiral?
Do I want surgery? Hell no, I'm terrified. I'll have to have IV's, IN MY VEINS. I'll have to take out my piercings. (I can see you all shudder at the thought of an overweight woman with piercings. Well, fuck you. I have tattoo too.) I'll have to sleep in a strange bed. I'll have to give up drinking diet pepsi. I've already given up ice cream and chocolate milk. I want my pepsi.
So fucking childish of me. Would I die for Pepsi? No, but that's the choice I see myself making. So fucking STUPID.
I am starting therapy this week with a very nice lady who thinks she can help me without surgery. The program is ten weeks long (or ten sessions, which might take more than ten weeks). I have SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) and maybe she can help with that too. It's hard not to be depressed when you're this fat. And I have other problems, family illness & lack of money, that I'm not even getting INTO in this blog. It all drags me down.
Okay, so I can't exercise. I eat as little as I can (so I'm fucking up my already fucked-up metabolism even more, no doubt). And I'm afraid of surgery. What's next? I guess I change myself or I change the way I look at the situation or I die.
I don't want to die.
It's Halloween and the veil is thin. It's the time when spirits come through to talk to me. They say that I don't want cause of death to be "morbid obesity" on my death certificate.
I could go in the corner and just cry, cry, cry. I want to scream. I can't do any more for myself. Someone has to help me. I know it's codependent or some such psycho babble. But I am putting this out to the universe. I cannot do this on my own. I need support. I need help.
I don't want to die.

Saturday, October 23, 2004

Bumples,"What the Bleep" movie, Reiki & more

So what DO you call those things, those little bumples of fat, that are just above the boob but not quite in the armpit? I was looking at mine this morning. Mine actually aren't that big. (The bumples, not the boobs.) I've seen thinner women with bigger bumples. Must be a hereitary thing, where the fat sticks to your body and where it doesn't. On me, it sticks everywhere. I guess I should be grateful that I have one part that isn't as fat as it is on others.

I saw that metaphysical movie, "What the Bleep do We Know" this week. ( It was interesting. The girl spent a lot of time drawing happy things on her body with eyeliner-hearts and flowers and stuff. This was because of that water study done by Dr Masaru Emoto who found that water reacts differently to different emotions. It forms a pretty crystal if you say "thank you" or "I love you" but if you say "I hate you" it makes an ugly crystal. is his web site.

So yeah, I've been drawing happy things on my fat and trying to think happy thoughts. Will it work? Who knows? But it doesn't hurt to try, right?

I was in a shoe store the other day looking at boots. Lots of very sexy boots out there with stiletto heels. I'd not be able to walk a step. And they are so narrow. My calves and ankles wouldn't even fit into them. And the pointy toes. Where the hell is your instep/toe area supposed to go? These boots were like a lethal weapon. I bet you could kick someone with those pointy toes and kill them. (I once read a story, a long long time ago, where a person was stabbed with a stiletto heel and the wound looked like a bullet hole. Possible? Who knows?) If they only fell down writhing in pain from your near-lethal kick, you could then stomp on them with the micro-thin 5" heels of the boots, puncturing their organs and finishing them off.

Well, that made me feel better. Mr Emoto, take that.

You know what? I am suspicious of his name.

It seems too pat that he's called "emoto" which is close to "emotion" in English, and he takes pictures of emotional water. If I was writing a book about him, it would look like a tag name, like the burning world in that recent Vin Diesel movie being called "Crematoria."

I'm not sure I'm suspicious enough to do any reseach, though. NaNoWriMo is coming up, after all. . . .in just over a week. And I have NO CLUE what I am going to write. I just saw a notice when I logged on to Blogspot that they're doing a NaNo thing here too. But I don't want to post my unpublished work here. Sorry.

I had a Reiki treatment last week. Massage tables are not made for overweight people. My arms were literally hanging off the edges, very uncomfortable, and the Reiki person did not like energy to "cross" meaning she didn't want me to place my hands on my abdomen. So I had to hook my thumbs into my pants pockets and allow them to take my arms' full weight. Kind of annoying. The energy was nice, but I felt like I need another treatment (from a chiropractor) to unkink my body after being flat on that table for over an hour.

It's hard for me to lay on my stomach because my boobs are big. My spine can't be flat so I arch back, with my chest higher than my hips. This leaves my head dangling from my neck like a wilting long-stalked flower, and creates a "crick" (well, what else would you call it?) in my lower back. So what's the solution? I turn over, of course, and lie on my back.

Some very interesting things happen then. First, my boobs, which are normally hanging down around my solar plexus, reverse direction and eagerly crowd my neck. So I feel like I'm suffocating, and it's not very comfortable. Plus, my butt is so large that I can't really lie flat (or lay flat, I can never figure out the lie/lay thing and who cares anyway). My lower back ends up arched far away from the table, which increases the gravity pull on my breasts, sending them even more toward my chin.

Just not cool, okay?

Reiki people take note: make sure your clients will #1 FIT on your table and #2 be COMFORTABLE while you work on them! No one wants to pay $80 to be in pain from reclining on a too-small/narrow table. And can these tables have some PADDING please? Go to Walmart/Target/Kohls and pay $10 for an eggcrate-type mattress topper and throw it on the table. If you're making $80 you can certainly afford it. Or better yet, some of that memory foam. Yeah.

It's ridiculous how these people are so concerned about putting fresh sheets on the table in between clients but not if the clients are comfortable. I couldn't care less if there's sheets on the table, it's not a bed. Wipe it down between clients, don't waste water washing sheets. Seesh.


Thursday, October 14, 2004

"How to Get Really, Really, Fat" or, "Inside the Fat Suit"

Yeah, I was thin once. So how did I turn into the human equivalent of the good year blimp?

Beats me.


I don't exercise much. I'll take a walk, but that's about it. I like to lift weights. I tried aerobics, back when it was "in" and didn't like it much. That was when I went to a women-only gym. They had a rule that you couldn't use weights or lift weights until you were within FIVE POUNDS of your goal weight. I thought that was bullshit, and that's why I didn't stay there.

So I'd say, my lack of exercise is a big one. But I work, and I write, and both of those require sitting on my butt in front of a computer. I clean my house, and that's about all I have time for. I know a lot of people who walk, but I can't. I literally can't. I get out of breath going to the end of the street. I used to walk in a circle through my house (living room-dining room-kitchen) but I made the mistake of telling someone I was doing that for excerise, and that person was very mean about it. I was rewarding myself by watching favorite movies on DVD while I walked, but this person went on and on about how one's stride is different when walking inside and/or for very short distances, and how it wasn't helping at all, that I should walk outside. Well that took away my reward, of watching the movies, and I stopped doing it. And I was up to 45 minutes at a time.

This is why you shouldn't share your dreams lightly.

Other people stomp on them.

"So what's the secret to being really, really fat?" you ask impatiently. "I'm a skinny person and I envy your ability to go outside in the winter without a coat."

Well, first, make sure that everything you enjoy doing is done sitting down. Computer games, watching TV, going to the movies (excellent because it combines eating greasy popcorn with sitting down, not so excellent because you have to walk through the parking lot and that's like exercise), writing, reading, drawing, working in an office. . . You get it.

Buy your pants with elastic waists. Sweatpants are perfect for when you're not at work. Stirrup pants are good if you're female.

Try to combine eating with your sitting activities. It really doesn't matter what you eat. I believe if you want to be fat bad enough, you can get fat eating that goddamn rabbit food iceberg lettuce.

The most important part of getting fat is the mindset. Constantly think of yourself as fat, as ugly, as bulbous. Think about the immense gravity you now have, and how it attracts more fat, more food, more flesh to you. At the same time, this unique fat-gravity repells people & exercise equipment.

Eventually you'll get into a beautiful downward spiral. That's where I am, and I didn't even do all the above steps (aren't I special).

The spiral works like this: your metabolism becomes totally fucked up. Starving yourself paradoxically causes weight gain.

Walking past a Krispy Kreme store without going in becomes impossible. You take the free sample and a whole box to go.

So now you're really really fat. Your stomach hangs over your pubes. Your thighs hang over your knees. Your upper arms are bigger around than your head. There's a weird thing on your lower back above your butt crack, some kind of bulge like you're growing a tail. There's a hump of fat on the back of your neck so you look like Quasimodo. The skin over your skull is thick and rippled--your HEAD is fat.

Your waist is a distant memory; it's just another roll of fat around your middle with a belly button buried deep inside. Sometimes you smell peculiar, although you shower and wash everything you can reach. What you can't reach, you ignore, hope the water will wash it good enough without soap or scrubbing, or you get a long-handled scrubber. Wiping your butt has become something that requires contortions you simply aren't capable of doing in the shape you're in. (Which is, of course, ROUND.) You are as wide as you are deep, which means there are spaces you can't fit through even if you do go sideways. Chairs with arms cause you anxiety. You don't fit in restaurant booths.

You've done it.

You're fat. You're obese. You're a beast. People stare at you when you waddle down the street, your thighs chafing, the elastic of your underwear cutting into your leg, your breath heaving, your rolls of fat bobbing, your face red. You cannot stand with your feet together because your thighs are so fat. But since you probably can't see your feet, who cares?

Now what? What do you do with your new-found lack of freedom?

Nothing. You can't do anything. All you can do is sit in one place. Don't even THINK of climbing the stairs. Or running for the bus.

Now that you've got what you wanted, you suddenly realize you don't want it anymore. You want to trade the ability to go outside when it's 12 degrees fahrenheit without a coat for the ability to look good in a bathing suit.

So you think, I'll just reverse what I did to get here.

Oh, is that so?

You decide to eat less, but that doesn't do anything but make you nauseated, dizzy and stupid. You try the diets, Atkins, Pritkins, South Beach, Weight Watchers, they don't do much.

You are spending more money than ever on half the food you used to eat, or less, but the number on the scale doesn't move. That is, if your scale even registers how much you weigh. Some only go up to 250 or 300, so you look down at a scale which says 40 or 50 or 100 lbs and think "hey I'm doing great" but you have to add on those other numbers, don't you? Your goal becomes to weigh less than the maximum weight of the scale. Forget about being thin, forget about the bathing suit. You don't want math to be involved with your daily weigh in.

But still your body is bulbous, your breath is labored, your lovers have left you because your genitals are buried in fat to the point of being non-functioning. You can't reach yourself to masturbate, but that's cool cuz you aren't really horny anyway.

The depression sets in. "I am a big fat failure," you think. You sprawl on the couch, or in the bed. You cannot see over your belly so you roll over onto your front to see the TV, but then your back is unnaturally curved and starts to ache. This makes you aware of your other aches. Your ankles, your knees, your chest. How long have you been in pain?

Emotional pain, physical pain. It's all the same. One leads to the other.

You say, "I will take a walk. I will walk to the end of the street and back." but you can't bend over to tie your sneakers. You can no longer reach your feet. You try to remember when all your shoes became slip-ons.

You decide to take a walk in your slip-on shoes, the ones with no support for your arches so your feet ache before you're all the way down the driveway. You peer down the block. It seems so far. Already you are breathing heavily, and sweat pools in your lower back and all the other folded places of your body.

Is it worth it, this walk to the end of the street?

All the pain, the agony, the stares. Teenage boys honking at you and screaming mean things out their car windows. Taking up the whole sidewalk so the kids coming home from school have to detour into a driveway to let you pass.

The thought exhausts you. You droop, your shoulders sagging. The moisture on your face might be sweat, or maybe you're crying. A big fattie in slip-on shoes and gigantic blue sweatpants and a XXXXL football jershey, crying in the driveway, the shirt already damp with sweat and you've barely gone ten feet. How pathetic is that?

You go back into the house, grab a bag of Halloween candy, and slump onto the couch. You pick up the remote and turn on the TV. You dump the candy into your lap and begin to unwrap them. You ball all the wrappers together, and when the ball is big enough, you put it into the bag. In less than an hour, the candy is gone. You can't remember eating it. You can't remember enjoying it. The taste of chocolate is in your mouth, and the bag of balled-up wrappers beside you, so you must have. There's no one else there to have eaten it. You can't remember what was on TV either.

You feel sick to your stomach. The sweat-wet shirt is making you cold. You realize that you are trapped in this fat suit, hundreds of pounds of flesh pressing you down, holding you back. You can't hide how you look under a baggy shirt or with a clever haircut. You have become an object of pity.

You have lost your humanity, your sexuality. Even if you're a man, you have hanging boobs. No one wants to have sex with you. You wonder how you get into one of those fat people calendars you've heard about, or even seen on the internet. You always laughed at them, or cringed. Now you look in the mirrow when you change your clothes and realize some of the hot fatties are thinner than you. And just what makes a fattie hot anyway? You're always hot, sweaty, longing for cold water, but somehow you know that's not what they mean.
Summer is coming (in nine months) and the just the thought of walking from your house to the car, from the car into work, makes you sweat. When the sun is burning overhead, you long for the cold. Why would anyone go to the tropics on vacation when it's so hot in North America?

The realization hits you:

You have become the person that thin people point to and say "if I ever get that fat, shoot me."


PS Not all of what I've chonicled above has happened to me directly, but it's happened to people I know. It's all real. And if it makes you want to cry for me, for us, think about how much worse it must feel to be inside the fat suit.

Disease-Related Bulimea

I've been sick for a few weeks (another reason for the long gap in posts). I'm coughing a lot. The coughing makes me vomit. And I am sensitive to all foods, so what I don't puke up, I shit out within an hour. I figure it's a kind of disease-related bulimea. (You know, I looked that word up and it STILL doesn't look right.)

So should I eat, and hope I get some nutrients before it comes gushes out one of my orifices? or should I say screw it and not eat anything? I'm not hungry most of the time and when I am, if I wait long enough it goes away.

Now, if I weighed 120 lbs, everyone would be so concerned over this. But because I weigh quite a bit more than that, no one really cares. Fat people can be malnourished, you know. A fat person can starve to death. It's not all about being thin. It's about getting NOURISHMENT. Yeah, my body will consume fat for energy, but I still need vitamins, minerals, etc. And I don't think that those things can be metabolized out of fat.

There was a time, a few years ago, when I was clinically depressed over the loss of someone close to me, and over the course of five months I lost 60 lbs. First, no one around me noticed my depression. (It was before I was married.) All they saw was my weight loss. They complimented me on it. I felt so betrayed, like they were complementing me on the loss of my loved one. Yeah, it was nice to lose some weight and be thinner, but I'd much rather have had that person back who I was missing so badly. Insensitive. Again, if I had started out thin and lost 60 lbs, someone would have clapped me into a hospital or at least encouraged me to go to the doctor's office.

I honestly don't know if I've lost any weight since begining this purge (no binging). I don't weigh myself. That number has more meaning to others than it does to me. I don't even look when I'm at the doctor's office.

Why is that number anyone's business? It's not. I don't ask my skinny friends how much they weigh, or my fat ones. If someone's on a diet, I might ask how much she's lost; I might ask a pregnant friend how much she's gained. But even that's none of anyone's business.

One of my friends said if your stomach area is soft and squishy when you're overweight, you're losing weight. If it's hard and firm, you're gaining weight. Mine tends to be squishy. I've noticed that men's potbellies are usually very firm. But since I just found out about this phenomena recently, I can't say I've ever noticed if my stomach has been firm. I think it has been. It must have been, right, if my friend is correct, because once upon a time I was thin.

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

"Nothing Special" Book --to the comment-leaver

There are several books on Amazon that are called "Nothing Special"--which book are you recommending? Do you know the author's name?


Boobs (& response to comment)

-posted via email

I was thinking about boobs yesterday. Not in a lesbian way, just in an annoyance way.

Even when I'm thin (and yes, I have been, I weighed 114 in college), I have big boobs. Big floppy boobs. I never had lovely upright perky boobs. They grew out and down, never up.

People who want big boobs are stupid. Boobs get in the way. For instance, if I am sitting straight up, with good posture, I cannot see my feet. or my navel. All I can see are BOOBS. It's like I have arms, attached to my boobs, and other than that I just kind of float. No legs. Feet? What are feet? Actually I can kinda see my knees when I'm sitting, but that's all.

So this is me eating, crammed into a booth where the booth doesn't move and neither does the table. I am forced into an upright posture. My boobs are either resting on the table or slightly above it (depending on the height of the table--Applebee's has realy high tables, for instance, so my boobs are on the table). To get food to my mouth, I have to convey it up and over the mountains of my boobs. I need a ski lift that I could put the food in and at the top it would
dump into my mouth. Ugh that makes me sound like a pig, doesn't it? If I drop the slightest speck of food, it stains my shirts. That's another reason why I like to wear dark colors. I have a light shirt on today and sure enough there's a little salsa stain on my left boob that didn't come out in the wash.

How I LIKE to eat: I like to push my chair away and lean over, so my face is above the disk and not above my cleavage. However, because my body is so thick, my chair ends up being like 3 feet away from the table and no one can walk behind me. Sometimes when I get up I am amazed at how far away I've pushed the chair. But that way i save my clothes from being perpetually

Pizza grease is the worse. I cannot get pizza grease out. Actually it's the cheese grease (I'm not much for lots of toppings, I like it just cheese). It's like indelible ink, it just sinks in and destroys the piece of clothing.

And the worse is, when I get dressed, I do check my clothes for stains. But when I get outside, all of a sudden there's stains. They show up different in sunlight. And in florescent light, like at work. Damnit. I feel like I should carry a change of clothes in my car.

So that's all about BOOBS. Boobs are such a pain.

I won't even get into the napkin in the lap thing. I just don't do it. Why bother. The food is NEVER going to reach my lap unless it slides down my mountainous boobs first. I like to put the napkin under my chin. Why not? That's where the food's gonna hit, not on my LAP. Didn't I already discuss my lack of lap in another posting? I believe I did.

Someone actually posted a COMMENT here. I would have liked to respond to him/her directly but that person left no reply address. I am going to call the person a "she" rather than a
"they" (which is bad English)--if you're reading this and you're a "he", I'm sorry.

She wrote that I am too hard on myself and trying too hard to fit society's molds. I am being very honest here, which is one of the reasons why I am anonymous. If honesty is harsh, so be it. I've never been one to shy from the truth.

I wanted to post a real portayal of what it's like to be fat in America. This is for other overweight
people to read, so they know they are not alone, and for non-overweight people to read, so they can perhaps feel some compassion.

It's ridiculous how overweight people are portrayed in movies and on TV. There's alwasy some gimmick, they are never just regular people who happen to be round in shape instead of flat or hard. I was disapointed by that Jack Black movie where he falls in love with a fat girl. I thought it would be a portrayal of how fat women are people too, but it turned everything into a
laugh. I read somewhere that the actress went out in her fat suit shopping and came back in tears because of how mean people were to her. I wonder if it changed her at all? I haven't seen her advocating for treating overweight people better. So I guess she just took off her fat suit and went home, grateful that she remained thin and beautiful underneath.

Well, some people CAN'T take off their fat suits.

This BLOG is for them.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004


-filed via email, a new trick!

Just read an interesting word, in the latest book by Patricia Cornwall: panniculus. That's the technical name for what I've heard called the "apron"--the belly fat which hangs over the pubic area and upper thighs.

It's an unpleasant enough body part to have, this hanging thing. I wish I could retract it, hoist it
up, tuck it in. It's very soft & malleable, not at all like the fat on my thighs. Why couldn't I girdle it up somehow? Because it would fall out of the bottom of the girdle, I think.

I was hanging out with some pregnant women and one of them was talking about belly bands. These are for woman who can't support their belly. Wimps. Try lugging around a couple of HUNDRED extra pounds. No one fawns over you & gives you a goddamn belly band. What's a baby weigh? 6, 7 pounds, plus a couple pounds of placenta & fluid? And you need a BELLY BAND?

But if it's truly designed to hold up, not just in, what a great thing. Where do I get one? I hate it
when I'm wearing a shirt that isn't really long and my stomach is showing under the shirt, just hanging there. Not naked or anything, it's inside my pants, but still, it's bulky and ugly. To hoist it up and out of the way, well wouldn't that be nice. To have a lap again for kitties and puppies and small children to sit on.

Because I'm writing about my "apron" I'm very aware of it. It's warm on my thighs. Mine does hang, I admit that, but not that far--it barely covers my pubes. But when I sit, it rests on my upper thighs and it's hot. It makes me sweat sometimes. And it's a gross sweat, anywhere that's folded over and moist is just nasty. Anything that needs to be relocated to clean behind/around it is nasty too. I include breasts and penises in that list. My boobs hang everywhere like great floppy melons. I can't imagine dealing with a set of frank and beans as well.

I have a friend who goes to the same doctor as me. He keeps telling her she should get her stomach done. She doesn't even weigh enough--you need to be more than 100# overweight. Me, at lots of pounds over 100# over, does he ever mention it to me? Nope. Maybe he figures I'm a lost cause.

I actually don't go around thinking about how fat I am. That's why I hardly ever post here. Only when something has drawn my attention to my fat, such as the word "panniculus" do I think of it, and even then I don't always write. If this e-mail thing works out without revealing my true identity (yeah, I'm really a skinny blonde, haha), then I might post more often.

Not like anyone's reading this, though, are they? Well, at least, no comments yet. How do I drive
traffic to a blog when I don't want anyone to know it's mine?