Over a year ago, I found myself in the hospital with a series of weird things. When I left the hospital, I wasn’t the same. I felt like I’d run a marathon, all the time. My muscles always hurt, sometimes just opening a cabinet or holding the cell phone was exhausting.
I finally went to the Mayo clinic and they diagnosed me with an unknown autoimmune system. Clearly something was going on, they just didn’t know what.
Since then nothing has really changed. Some days are worse than others, but I’m nothing like the person I was. I’m clumsy, slow, easily tired. I gained 40 pounds.
I just moved back home and I go to my primary care doctor here to catch him up. Now I normally love him, and I’ve always been fat (real fat) the entire time. He’s always been good about it.
This time, he spent an hour telling me I didn’t have an auto-immune disease, that I’m just fat. He told me to lose weight at least six times, including his last words as he walked out the door.
I’ve been lectured by doctors about my weight since I was 8. I have always been fat. Always. You know when I lost weight? When I was in a job I loved, with friends and a social life and in a happy relationship.
Since then I’ve lost that job, my friends are all married and gone, and that relationship ended forever ago. I can’t dance. I can’t swim. I don’t have anyone to hold me when I’m scared. You know what I have now? Food.
So I’m sitting there crying and apologizing for being a manatee and he’s just all, so what are you doing for exercise? I don’t know, walking up the three flights of stairs to my apartment is exhausting.
Anyway, I left his office and sat in my car and cried and then went and got: gnocchi with bechamel sauce, potato chips, 1/2 cheesecake and chicken salad. Oh and ice cream. Because this is what happens when I feel horrible about my weight - I just eat EVERYTHING.
Ok, I just had the pasta. And a salad.