The Fate of Fat

Mood Disorders Association of British Columbia

The Fate of Fat

I am overweight. OK, I’m obese. Well, morbidly obese actually. I guess that means that my weight could actually kill me. That’s the destiny of too much chocolate and too many ice cream cones. My fate, the fate of my fat: eaten to death.

Ever since I was a young girl, weight has been an issue for me. Yet while I spent most of my life chubby, it wasn’t until after I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and began an anti-psychotic medication well-known for its substantial weight gains that I started to spiral down into obesity, plus-sizes, and a shortened life. I promised myself that if I hit 200 pounds, I would go off the medication. That’s an easy promise to make, but when I reached that point, the reality was that the medication was working for me. It came down to a decision of preserving my physical or mental health, and when I compared the enduring, despairing darkness of my mental illness with the transient disgust I felt when I looked in the mirror, the decision made itself. I chose my mind and my moods. Staying on the medication meant my weight continued to increase.

Now, my small 5’2” frame is carrying twice the amount of pounds that it was designed for. There are two of me then: one that walks around and another that I have slowly wrapped around me. Day after day, I carry this extra person with me everywhere I go and in everything I do. You would suppose that this constant lifting would have made me strong. Instead, it has made me weak, tired, and breathless.

Food is everywhere, especially food that is rich, sweet, gooey, filled with millions of tasty calories that satisfy and thrill and soothe and…where was I going with this? Oh, right, the prolific presence of food. Realizing the profitability of junk food, many retailers have jumped on board, offering gum, chocolate, and pop at their checkouts. Even such diverse sellers as hardware, electronic, and clothing stores have joined in on the desire to offer more of these impulse items to the public.

Imagine a typical mall, but replace every bit of food and every sweet treat with bottles of liquor. The food court becomes a smorgasbord of bars and pubs. Now imagine a newly sober alcoholic living daily in this environment. To a person fighting a food addiction, this is what the world looks like: an unfriendly place filled with snares, traps, and ambushes. I am not saying that alcoholism is an easier addiction to cope with—all addictions involve unique challenges—but I do envy that alcoholics can quit completely. We don’t ever get to just stop eating.

What are the social implications of being morbidly obese? People judge, as they judge those with other addictions. It is one last area that political correctness has not yet enveloped. We watch our tongues when we speak of gays or lesbians or fellow Canadians who have different ethnic backgrounds, but fat jokes are still in fashion. We are acceptable targets because we have done this to ourselves; no one has force fed us or replaced all of our vegetables with chocolate during the night. To many who have never experienced addiction, the answer is simple: don’t eat it; don’t drink it; don’t take the drugs. For me, there is nothing simple about my food addiction. It is a complicated subject filled with layers upon layers of social messages, stress reactions, and feelings of inadequacy and unworthiness.

Physically and socially, my obesity is causing problems. Ascending even one flight of stairs can leave me winded. On a recent trip to the beach, I found to my embarrassment that I was too heavy to join in the kayaking fun. I’d like to go horseback riding, but I don’t think there are any pampered trail horses that would want to carry me around for an hour. Doors are closing around me. Ironically, I rush to fill up the disappointment and tears with more sweets that will soothe away my failure.

I have diabetes. It is a side effect from that same anti-psychotic medication I take, but now that it is here, it is here to stay. Going off the medication, if that is even possible, will not reverse the illness. To be precise, the pill causes weight gain, mostly the nasty, visceral, belly fat that leads so easily to insulin resistance and diabetes. Was this a wake-up call? You can bet that the diagnosis got my attention, but if knowledge were all it took to fix the problem of obesity, I wouldn’t be addressing you now. Instead, I’ve been treating all of the fear of complications and mortality with, you guessed it, more food.

My body is disgusting to look at. Unlike when I was merely overweight and could dress to flatter myself, there is no way to disguise this huge stomach that hangs down to my thighs. I stand in front of the mirror looking at the rolls and cellulite, and there is something unreal about the image. Inside, I am still a pretty, normal-looking person, and I cannot reconcile that with this bulky, grotesque example of gluttony. Even when I’m happy and bubbly, no one ever says anymore, “You look good today.” That’s because I don’t look good—not in pretty clothes, not with makeup on. Those things are for smaller “big girls,” not for someone whose fat is killing her. My problem is out there for the entire world to see. In fact, it is the first thing that most people notice about me. The snap judgments I feel—fat, lazy, no self-control—may be accurate in their way, but it’s the real me that I wish people were seeing: my keen mind, my love of reading, my humour, my conviction to treat others well.

So what is the answer? I could tell you that regular physical activity and a sensible low-fat, low-sugar, low-calorie diet will result in weight loss, but we already know that. Just like the alcoholic who knows that not taking that next drink is the only way to stay sober, we see that knowledge alone is only the tiniest, first key. The reality is that, making even small, lasting changes requires an enormous amount of effort and planning. For example, I decide to drink more water and less pop, but when that seems settled, I decide to cut out my granola bars. The desire for something sweet sends me scurrying for pop, not water, and it feels like one step forward, one step back.

In this, my journey to recovery and health, my mental illness and the medications I take for it again throw themselves into the fray, further complicating what was never a simple situation. The difficulties I have with concentration and memory make it hard to make plans and follow through. My medications cause significant sleep problems, which leave me chronically tired. When I am going through my day battling fog and fatigue, there is so little energy left for cooking or exercise. Instead, my food comes out of boxes and cans—sugar- and salt-laden, high in fat, and low in nutrients—and I am more likely to nap than go for a walk.

I have heard that the way to quit smoking cigarettes is to never quit quitting. That’s my approach to restoring my body to health. I’m going to keep trying to drink more water, eat more vegetables, and get more exercise, and each time I mess up, I’m going to try again. When I make a mistake, I need to remind myself that it is just that: a mistake. It isn’t a failure, and it needn’t bring those feelings of hopelessness and embarrassment that crave soothing. How do you make a journey of a thousand miles? You place one foot in front of the other. How will I shed half my body weight and give myself the best chance for living? I will make one small choice at a time.

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