Designated Fat Girl (11 page)

The cost was rough, but I figured I had to do it. Michael and I were both working, and we didn’t have kids at the time, so I felt we could make the financials work. Thankfully the weekly visits to the therapist
were
covered by insurance, and my first visit to her occurred before I started taking the diet pills.

I had been down this road before. As a teenager I’d suffered a pretty major breakdown and my parents, at my request, placed me in a mental health treatment center. I was so tired of fighting the abusive boyfriend and so sick of feeling helpless to do anything about it. I figured taking such drastic measures would be a major step toward curing me. Only, it wasn’t. I checked in on a Friday and didn’t see a doctor the entire weekend. I was told I would start seeing a therapist on Monday, but by that time I’d talked myself out of the need for inpatient care. Truth be told, I missed the boyfriend so much, I was already over the whole idea. So I convinced my mom to check me out, and I never went back. Thousands of dollars in bills and the legacy of having entered a mental facility, and nothing to show for it.

As I became an adult, I had a few appointments here and there with therapists, always a part of my latest plan to “get well” and “fix my problems.” I never made it past the first meeting with these folks, though, because they almost immediately
brought up the possibility of antidepressants. How could they know I needed something like that before they even knew me? I wasn’t opposed to medication, really; I just felt that we should do some exploring first and if we reached that conclusion, then okay. I was turned off by the fact that they were suggested right off the bat, and I subsequently didn’t go back to the counselors who were offering them.

I was a little less incensed when my medical doctors suggested antidepressants over the years. At least they knew me and had a great deal of information about what my problems were doing to me physically. I even agreed when my ob-gyn suggested I try a particular drug. She explained that it was used to treat mild forms of depression and one of the side effects was weight loss. Sounded like a win-win to me! I still wasn’t crazy about the notion, but I agreed to try. Five days into taking the pills, Michael demanded that I cease and desist. I cried nonstop. I couldn’t even function. Maybe I should have given the drugs more time. Perhaps I should have consulted with my doctor about the dosage. But I didn’t, and that was my one and only experience with antidepressant medication.

I hadn’t had the best of luck with mental health professionals. But for some reason I was optimistic about this latest appointment. Maybe it was because I knew I was getting medical help, and I just figured therapy would be icing on the cake. Whatever it was, I went into that meeting with a positive outlook—and I wasn’t disappointed. The therapist acted genuinely interested in me and helping me find a solution. She asked great questions, and from her follow-ups, I could tell she
was truly listening. And she never once mentioned antidepressants. I was feeling good about the prospects.

When I finally got the phentermine, I was ready for action. The night before, I ate to my heart’s content: three plates of spaghetti, topped high with meat sauce, and garlic bread. Chocolate ice cream for dessert. And tons of Mountain Dew. I knew the next day would mark a new era, so I figured I better get it in while I could. Some crazy ways of thinking never change.

I ate a big breakfast and waited a couple of hours before taking the phentermine, when I arrived at work. In about fifteen minutes, I knew I would be just fine. The pill put me on such a high, I was knocked out, but in a good way. I found myself smiling uncontrollably, despite myself, as though I had some sort of secret. I called Michael and told him I felt GRRRREAT! And I didn’t eat a thing for the rest of the day. It was glorious!

This was a new experience for me. Each day I felt my mood alter when I took my medication. It sort of “evened me out”—I just felt steady all day long. The stress of my job didn’t affect me as much, and because my eating was in control, I felt more than fine. It wasn’t long before some of the weight came off and people began to notice. I was getting compliments, and I was feeling in control. Life, once again, felt good. I was full of promise.

After several months on this new regimen, I’d lost sixty-five pounds. Again, I felt as though the drugs were my saving grace, exactly what I needed to get going with my weight loss. When I went to see my ob-gyn for my annual checkup, she was
thrilled to see I’d lost weight, and she asked how I’d done it. I happily told her I was seeing a weight doctor who put me on phentermine. She stopped short, looking at me with a cocked head. “Is that working for you?” she asked, somewhat skeptically. Obviously, yes—the scales didn’t lie! I explained to her that I felt in control, my moods were great, and I was no longer obsessed with hunger all the time. She nodded thoughtfully but didn’t really have much to say. I could tell she was a bit wary. I was puzzled, but I didn’t press it.

What I did want to talk to her about was getting pregnant. I was approaching thirty, and I felt as though time was running out. Michael and I would soon celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary, and our families were starting to wonder if we would ever have kids. At my heaviest, I was told I probably couldn’t get pregnant, that a morbidly obese woman rarely ovulates. Now that I was losing weight, my mind inevitably turned to when I would be able to have children.

I expected this doctor to say once I completed my weight loss, I should be good to go to get pregnant. But she didn’t. She asked me why I was waiting. “I’ve seen women much heavier than you have perfectly healthy babies,” she said. “Why would you deprive yourself?”

This floored me. It went against what every other doctor had told me. Yes, I’d lost sixty-five pounds, but I still had a long, long way to go before I was considered healthy. Didn’t I need to finish that mission first?

But then the other side of the argument started to make sense: How long would it take for me to lose all the weight? Another year? I wasn’t getting any younger, and besides, why
would I want to lose all of my weight just to turn around and gain a bunch with a pregnancy?

I so wanted to have a baby; I had wanted to be a mother almost from the moment I’d married Michael. I felt more than ready, and I knew Michael would make a terrific father. He was scared to death even at the thought, but he allowed me to take the lead on this one. I figured I would go ahead and stop birth control pills, thinking it would take several months to get pregnant. In the meantime I could still continue the medication and continue with my weight loss. You know where this is going.

Yep. First try.

And so that ended my second round of diet drugs. Lots of success, only to be stopped abruptly before I was finished losing the weight. This time, though, I had only myself to blame.

My pregnancy also stopped my going to therapy. Even though it was going well, I viewed having to visit a shrink in direct correlation with needing to lose weight. Since I was no longer trying to shed pounds, I reasoned that I could put therapy on hold. I promised myself I would go back once I gave birth and started back on track to getting healthier.

I had a beautiful baby girl and didn’t gain a whole lot of weight. When Emma turned one, I was pregnant with her brother. After I had Eli, the twelve-pound newborn who suffered because I couldn’t get my eating under control, I knew I was done having children and ready to finally put the weight battle to rest. My health was starting to be a major concern, and I now had two small children to consider.

This time I didn’t waste efforts on other plans. I went to my new ob-gyn and asked for phentermine. She was a little
wary, saying in her experience it wasn’t that effective, and she wondered about the long-term risks. I convinced her that I’d done really well with it, and that I was desperate for something, anything, to work. I was more than three hundred pounds, and once again found myself at that hopeless stage. The doctor gave me a month’s prescription, saying she had to see me in four weeks. I’d better show progress, she warned, or I wouldn’t get the pills again from her. Relieved, I filled the script and readied to take it the next day—which of course means I ate my brains out that night!

That old, euphoric feeling came back as soon as I took the pill the next morning, and again, all felt right with the world. Once more I was struck at the mood-stabilizing effect the drug had on me, and it made me wonder if I did indeed need some sort of antidepressant. It just kind of took the edge off. After taking the medication for about two weeks, though, I noticed it wasn’t lasting me all day like it used to. I at first brushed it off, thinking I was imagining things, but I secretly began to wonder if the medication was losing its effect. Still, I lost twelve pounds that first month, and my doctor was thrilled, praising my success. She happily wrote me a new prescription and told me to be back in a month.

One week into the new prescription, it was undeniable: The pills weren’t working. I’d have a couple of hours of good feeling/no hunger, but then that wore off, and I was starving. Without much resistance I would binge eat, justifying my overeating by vowing to change the way I took the medication the next day. Surely I could adjust it and do better, right? I played this game for the rest of the month, torturing myself daily with
should-I-or-should-I-not-eat arguments that always landed me at the drive-thru. I wound up gaining back five pounds.

My doctor nodded patiently as I explained (lied) to her that it had been a tough month. I told her I forgot to take my medicine a lot, and I was sure it would work again once I got my act together. She showed no emotion whatsoever as she told me she was not giving me a new prescription and that I would have to get my act together on my own. I tried not to look so desperate, but I dissolved into tears. She seemed pretty unmoved, and I felt as though I’d been punched in the gut.

I was still smarting a couple of days later when her nurse called and suggested I find a general practitioner. It seemed this doctor only wanted to see me for ob-gyn issues. I cried even more, but I was also mad. Who the hell did she think she was? In my mind, she had such a God complex. “No! You can’t have it!” I imagined her saying cruelly, yanking away my one shot at losing weight.

If I’m being honest, I can’t really blame her. She’d warned me she wasn’t a huge fan of the drug, and that I would have to play by the rules. I hadn’t, so she stopped playing. But where did that leave me? I felt as though she’d abandoned me and I had nowhere to turn.

The nurse suggested a general practitioner, and I made an appointment. Maybe this doctor would give me a script for phentermine—maybe if I explained everything, she would understand! Clearly I was deluding myself. The medication had stopped working, but I still thought there was hope, that the only way I was going to lose weight was with that kind of help. As I waited to see the new doctor, I gave myself a pep talk.
Don’t
be too anxious,
I told myself.
Play it cool. Let her come to the conclusion so it won’t look like that’s what you’re shopping for.

The doctor seemed perfectly nice. I explained to her my history, how I’d gained the weight after I’d gotten married, and how I had tried any number of ways to lose it over the years, with minimal success. I almost couldn’t believe it when I started really opening up. I tearfully told her that sometimes I felt like I was losing my mind, that all I thought about was how to stop eating, stop abusing food. I felt stuck in an endless cycle—with no way out—and I was helpless. She seemed to really listen, really hear what I was saying. She made it easy to be honest about my feelings.

When I’d finished, she expressed her sympathy and concern. She said she wanted to go get something for me off her desk, and she excused herself. I dried my tears and waited for her to return, feeling really hopeful for the first time in quite a while. This doctor was going to hear me. She really got what I was trying to say.

The doctor came back in with papers in her hand. “I printed for you a copy of the Food Pyramid,” she started. My jaw dropped to the floor as she continued. “I want you to see what your goals should be in terms of what kinds of food you should be eating.”

I almost expected her to burst out in laughter and say, “Just kidding!” But as she droned on and on about the importance of a balanced diet, I slowly began to realize just how serious she was. And I was angry. I was seething. Hot, angry tears seared my vision. My heart pounded so loudly in my chest, I was sure she could hear it.

Was she insane? Had my words meant nothing to her? I had poured my heart out to this woman, admitting that I thought I was addicted to food and that I might be a little crazy. Her answer was for me to look at the Food Pyramid and try to eat a more balanced diet?!
Seriously?

But wait, she wasn’t finished. “I also think you should look into this faith-based organization. It’s called TOPS, or Taking Off Pounds Sensibly. They have several meeting locations in this area. I found one within a couple of miles of your zip code.”

She handed me the sheet. She had made an effort, although a horribly stupid one. I couldn’t criticize her intentions, I supposed. But I also couldn’t believe that a medical doctor couldn’t see what a real mess of a person she had before her, and how could she possibly think my answer was the Food Pyramid and a church support group? Was she an idiot?

I swallowed hard, trying my best to restrain my emotions. I was mad, but I wasn’t about to give up on what I thought was my only hope. “Thanks for this,” I said softly. “I was wondering … what do you think about phentermine? The few times I’ve had success, it was because of medication,” I said, rather weakly.

She nodded. “Well, I think it’s definitely an option for us,” she started, and my heart immediately lifted. Maybe she wasn’t so bad! Maybe she wasn’t so clueless!

“But,” she said, “I would have to see you successfully complete a three-month plan of a good diet and exercise before I could prescribe that for you.”