Designated Fat Girl
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Authors: Jennifer Joyner
DESIGNATED FAT GIRL
DESIGNATED FAT GIRL
A Memoir
Jennifer Joyner
Guilford, Connecticut
Copyright © 2010 by Jennifer Joyner
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission should be addressed to Globe Pequot Press, Attn: Rights and Permissions Department, P.O. Box 480, Guilford, CT 06437.
Skirt! is an imprint of Globe Pequot Press.
Skirt! is a registered trademark of Morris Book Publishing, LLC.
Designed by: Sheryl P. Kober
Layout artist: Joanna Beyer
Project manager: Kristen Mellitt
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
978-0-7627-9625-0
For Emma & Eli,
Michael & Mom
3: I’m Jennifer Joyner, and I’m Not on TV
5: Vanity Is a Luxury I Can’t Afford
It is December 2006, and it is actually a pretty good day. For the first time in quite a while, I’m not obsessing every minute of every hour about when and what I will eat next. I have somehow convinced myself to take the day’s events as they come—to finally give myself a break—and the freedom in that is exhilarating. I actually notice and enjoy my surroundings. I take an extra moment to play on the floor with my one-year-old son, Eli. He is just starting to walk, and it’s fun to watch his face as he attempts steps, his brow furrowed as he tries to figure out his next move. I stop in the middle of getting dressed to read a story to my almost three-year-old daughter, Emma, something I never do because I’m always in such a rush in the morning. I hum a little to myself as I drive the kids to preschool. I stop to appreciate all the Christmas decorations as I travel through the neighborhood. And after school drop-off, I decide to do a little shopping in my favorite children’s boutique, something that always makes me smile.
It is a good day.
As I stand in line to pay for my purchases, I chat with the owner of the store. She is mostly retired, but she hangs out to have something to do, and I’ve talked with her several times on my near-weekly visits. I ask her if she sells waterproof bedsheets—I am desperately trying to get Emma potty trained before she turns three, and my mother has suggested I go cold-turkey on the diapers, even at night. The store owner shares
with me her theories on potty training, having raised three kids of her own and watched her many grandchildren grow up. She advises me to not force the issue, that Emma will use the potty when she is ready. “Just like you’ll lose weight when you’re ready,” she adds matter-of-factly.
I feel like a sledgehammer has scored a direct hit on my apparently bulging stomach. I open my mouth to speak, but I have to suck in air immediately, my breathlessness saving me from firing back against this poor woman, who is probably only trying to be helpful. She has no idea that for once I’m having a good day—for once I’m not torturing myself about my weight and about food. She doesn’t realize she has just brought reality crashing down on me, leaving shards of self-loathing and revulsion slicing me into a million pieces. I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod and smile faintly. Mercifully she gives me a knowing smile and pats my arm as she walks away.
I don’t remember paying for my stuff—I check out at the register in a daze and then head to my car. At the McDonald’s down the street, I attempt to stuff down the incredible pain and sorrow.
This was going to be a good day,
I tell myself. It’s hard to cry and eat at the same time, so I choose to eat. Like I always do.
In the grand scheme of things, this wasn’t a huge embarrassment. In my many years of battling obesity and morbid obesity, I have suffered much worse in terms of pain and humiliation. But this event sticks out in my mind for two reasons. First, it speaks to how very public a battle with weight is. When you
are fat, you can hide from no one, everyone knows you have a problem; there is no getting away from it, not even for a second. You can pretend to be happy, you can even convince yourself, momentarily, that life is good and all is well. But people know the truth. All they have to do is take one look at you; your body screams of the agony you face each and every day. There is no escape.
The other thing that makes me remember this day is one of the real reasons I wrote this book. “You’ll lose weight when you’re ready.” Isn’t that what we always hear? “When you’ve finally had enough, you’ll be able to fix it.” “When you hit rock bottom, you’ll fight your way back up.” “Trust me, you’re a-ha moment will arrive and you’ll know what to do.”
But what if your “a-ha moment” never comes?
What if while waiting for lightning to strike, you give yourself a heart attack or a stroke, and you die?
Will that be your rock-bottom moment, once you’re dead?
When I weighed 336 pounds, I was desperate to do anything to stop the vicious cycle I was on, anything to save my life. But I couldn’t do it. I had all the tools: I read all the books, and I knew what to eat and what exercise I needed to do. I set out each day with a new plan for how I was going to beat this problem, once and for all.
But I always failed miserably. Self-doubt would creep in, no matter how hard I tried to beat it back. Temptation would take over my will, and I would find myself eating, and I couldn’t stop. I consciously knew that my actions were going to cause my death, and yet I couldn’t force myself to abstain. I was slowly killing myself with food, and I knew it.
The lady in the store seemed to think I wasn’t ready to lose weight. Oh, really? Let’s see. Just a year before, I’d given birth to a twelve-pound, seven-ounce baby because I’d been unable to get my gestational diabetes under control. It seems drinking a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew every day isn’t really good for one’s blood sugar. Did I want to cause my unborn baby harm? Of course not. Did I want to die and leave my two young children without a mother? Desperately, no! I cried and I prayed and I begged God to please give me the strength, to please show me the way. Over the years I sought help from medical doctors, advice from therapists. Sometimes they brought a little success. Most of the time I was left with more failed attempts and broken promises to myself. Was I ready to lose weight and finally put the misery behind me? HELL, YES! But that didn’t mean it happened. For sixteen years, it didn’t happen. I grew fatter, my health deteriorated, and my already low self-esteem careened into oblivion. I felt so worthless, so helpless.
I surmised over the years that I was the problem. I was lazy. I didn’t have discipline, self-control. I was weak. How else could I explain my inability to do something about my weight, to change my circumstances, to save my life? I blamed myself, and that certainly didn’t help me solve the problem. It only heaped on more self-hatred, and I was collapsing underneath the weight of it all. Miserable doesn’t even come close to describing how I felt.
I wrote
Designated Fat Girl
for those out there who are battling the same thing, who feel so trapped in this vicious, self-destructive cycle. I want you to know you are not alone and you are not crazy. Sometimes you can’t solve the problem yourself
and you need some help. And that’s okay. Saving your sanity and your life is so much more important than saving face.
I also wrote this book so that others may somehow begin to understand that most obese people are not fat because they love food too much or because they are lazy and undisciplined. Many are addicted to food, just like an alcoholic who can’t stop drinking, even if it is ruining their lives. I honestly feel as though our society does not recognize food addiction as a legitimate, serious condition. I am here to tell them, through my story, how very real and devastating it is. My hope is that others will see that it is not about the food.
My journey with morbid obesity spanned sixteen years; but I can’t remember a time in which food was not an issue. I was a fat child and a chubby teenager. In high school I lost weight and convinced myself that yes, I could pursue my dream of being a broadcast journalist. I went away to college, met the man of my dreams, and landed a job on TV. My life was almost too perfect.
That’s when the weight started to pile on. Within a year of getting married, I weighed 200 pounds. I quit my TV job because I thought the station would fire me for being too fat. The next ten years were filled with broken dreams: I couldn’t pursue the career I wanted, and I felt too heavy to have the children my husband and I desperately desired. Eventually we did have two beautiful children, but the joy in watching them grow was about the only happiness I could find. I was depressed, I was hurt, and because I couldn’t stop abusing food, I believe I was suicidal. I knew that my health was hanging on by a string, and I still was unable to help myself. I was going to die if I didn’t do something. And finally I took action.
Some of this is hard for me to write. A lot of it may be difficult to read. But I vowed at the beginning of this process that I would be honest, no matter how uncomfortable. My hope is that someone hanging on the edge like I was will read this and feel hopeful. And that those who have loved ones who suffer from food addiction will gain some insight into this hideous disease. Sharing my story has been very helpful to my healing process; if it helps others as well, then my success is that much sweeter.