Designated Fat Girl (13 page)

Of course it didn’t work. This boy, much like my father and my brothers, couldn’t be changed, at least not by me. I spent five years with him, and the damage took my already fragile self-esteem and pulverized it beyond recognition. He used me, cheated on me, and rarely acknowledged me in public as his girlfriend. He also had a very hard time showing affection, and he rarely gave me compliments or told me I was in any way important to him. I knew he treated me poorly, and I knew about the other girls. I didn’t like it, of course; I fought him, cried, begged, and threatened to leave him constantly. I always came back, though, after every public embarrassment, every humiliation. I thought if I tried harder—if I bought him things, if I lost weight and looked better—I would finally be enough for him, I would win him over for good. Of course that didn’t happen.

It’s so easy to look at this situation from the outside and say,
Why didn’t I just leave him? Why did I put up with someone who clearly didn’t want me?
When I was thinking rationally, I would ask these things of myself. But most of my thinking was not rational. I generally thought that I couldn’t do any better, that this was the kind of man I was destined to have and it was my lot in life to make the best of it. Every night I would cry over a missed phone call or a forgotten date, begging God to please get me out of this nightmare. But the next morning would come and I would have thought of a new plan to try to win him over, to get him to realize I was the one for him. It was the same destructive pattern I would later use when it came to my weight.

I knew what a god-awful situation I was in. My parents were furious and demanded that I end the relationship. I couldn’t. My friends, tired of hearing me cry for years and years, told me I had to dump him or I would lose them. I wouldn’t end it; I felt like I couldn’t live without him. I lost friendships. I knew it was wrong, but I felt powerless to stop it. It was a situation I wanted to end, most of the time, but I felt too weak to let it go.

That New Year’s Eve in 1990, when my bingeing was born, was all an effort to finally convince him that I was worth loving. I had had enough. I broke it off with him, and I managed to stay away for a few months. I lost weight and looked great. He heard about it and sought me out, saying all the right things to get me back. Of course I went back—he was the reason I’d lost the weight in the first place. But I was surprised when he started trying to get me to eat more. He never came out and said it, but I figured out he didn’t like the fact that I had lost weight. I
think it threatened him and the hold he had over me; suddenly he realized I could be attractive to others. Does this sound like a man who loved, cared for, and wanted the best for me?

I was still in this destructive relationship when I went away to college. I thought the distance would make our relationship stronger, that he would realize I had other things going for me and he better get smart and appreciate what he had. What I didn’t count on was meeting the man of my dreams—and having him like me, too.

Michael had a girlfriend, and I had a boyfriend. But that didn’t stop us from finding each other. When he showed interest in me, I literally couldn’t believe it. He was cute, smart, funny … and he was really, really nice. How could he like me? What was the catch? I was head over heels for him, but I knew he was involved with someone else. He was clearly torn: He liked me and wanted to be with me, but he had been with her for a long time and felt obligated to her. Their relationship was not a good one, but he didn’t want to hurt her; he never wanted to hurt anybody. I (stupidly) told him that if he wanted to stay with her and still see me, I would understand and do whatever he wanted. This really speaks to my low self-esteem and what I thought I was worth. I just assumed that no man would find me worthy of a sacrifice. Thank God Michael wasn’t the kind of man to take advantage of a girl who didn’t think much of herself. He broke it off with his girlfriend and pledged his love for me. I was over the moon, but I still couldn’t believe it. He did that for me? He wanted to be with me, just me?

Needless to say I kicked my destructive boyfriend to the curb. I had to laugh to myself at how hurt he was when I told
him I had found someone else and that I was leaving him. It was like he chose that moment to realize I was a good catch. Talk about too little, too late. I marveled at how easy it was for me to say good-bye to him after all those years of hurt and struggle. I viewed it as Michael saving me from that bad situation; he was the one to give me the strength that I had needed for so long.

I never gave myself any credit for ending the relationship. On the contrary, I viewed myself as weak and unable to help myself. It was only after Michael loved me that I found the strength to cut the abusive boyfriend out of my life. This warped way of thinking would repeat itself later in my life.

To say I was on cloud nine with Michael is a huge understatement. I finally had what I had been seeking for so long: a man who truly loved me and cared about me. And he was quite demonstrative of that love. He called me “pretty” several times a day, and I blushed profusely. He constantly stroked my face or put his arm around me. I loved the affection, but I had a really hard time with it—I wasn’t used to someone showing me how much I mattered to them. I craved the attention, but I had a hard time returning the love. I didn’t really know how. I could count on one hand how many times my father had hugged me. The destructive boyfriend could be somewhat affectionate in private, but never, ever when we went out. When Michael grabbed my hand and held it as we walked across campus, I squirmed. I was embarrassed. Did he really want people to see him holding my hand? Wasn’t he worried what others would think? Of course he wasn’t, but that was the low opinion I had of myself. Michael recognized my struggle, and he assured me
constantly that I was someone he could be proud of being with. I tried really hard to believe it.

Ours was a whirlwind romance. We were married a year and a half after we got together. He was funny, we shared the same interests, and he loved me unconditionally and unabashedly. I never, ever thought I would be so lucky.

Gone was the everyday struggle I’d had while in that abusive relationship. I had known I was in a very bad situation, but I was unable to get myself out of it. With Michael, that no longer existed, and I felt so very happy. For the first time in my life, I was constantly reminded how much I was loved.

And all of a sudden, the weight started to pile on.

I quickly gained back all the weight I’d lost in high school. At first I wasn’t too worried about it; I chalked it up to my being in love and focused on Michael and not as vigilant as I should be about what I was eating and how often I exercised. But for the first time, it didn’t stop there. I kept gaining weight, and as our wedding approached, I was tipping the scales at 180, bigger than I had ever been. If Michael noticed, he didn’t mention it, but I could sure tell. I couldn’t figure out why I was having such a hard time. I’d finally gotten the love and affection I had always so desperately wanted. Why did I feel the need to overeat?

Looking back I truly think the weight gain started as a way for me to self-destruct. There is something in my makeup that wants me to be unhappy—something inside me that is convinced I don’t deserve good things in my life. Low self-esteem led me into that destructive relationship and kept me there for five years. When I finally managed to break free from that and find someone who truly loved and wanted to be with me, I had
to find another way to self-sabotage. I had found true love, I was on an exciting career path, and things in my life were going swimmingly. All these good things didn’t sit well with the little voice deep within me, the one that constantly reminded me I was worthless and stupid and ugly. I had to try to find a way to ruin it all. The beast started to rear its head.

Of course it took me years to see the pattern and figure out what was happening. At the time, I panicked over the sudden weight gain and tried desperately to stop it from getting worse. I failed. On our first wedding anniversary I was well over two hundred pounds, and it only grew worse from there. The giddiness I had over my relationship with Michael was replaced with a sinking, quicksand-type existence. I was desperate to stop the downslide, but powerless to make any real change stick. My career dreams were dashed, my relationships with friends and loved ones suffered, and, most devastatingly, my marriage struggled. I had fought so hard to get a man who treated me wonderfully, and all I could feel was misery. Trust issues popped up and our intimacy took a beating. And it was all my fault. Not only was I powerless to fix it, I couldn’t even explain the problem. Why was I so hell-bent on ruining every good thing in my life? And would I ever be able to stop it? I never completely lost hope, but optimism was a rare and fleeting thing.

Wow. I know things are pretty dire, but there’s nothing quite like reading it in print. My initial application for life insurance has been denied because I am too fat and the chances of my
dying are too great. You would think receiving a letter like this would be the a-ha moment I’ve been looking for, the rock-bottom place I’ve been trying to find for so long. My health is too much of a risk for the company to take on—I could die at any moment. I better do something right away to save my life, before I prove them right.

It’s a sobering notice. I cry when I read the letter, stuffing it into my purse before Michael can see it. I’m ashamed and embarrassed. Too fat to insure? Too much of a chance that I will die prematurely? I’m twenty-nine years old! For two days I keep the news to myself, wondering how I’m going to tell my husband about this latest humiliating rejection. When the insurance agent calls, I swallow hard, waiting for him to reiterate the company’s decision, but he has different news for me: They
will
offer me coverage, just at double the rate they are charging for my husband’s. So … I am insurable? I’m not too much of a risk? I knew it! I can’t be that bad! Never mind the coverage is going to be unbelievably expensive—that I will have to pay so much more than the average person my age. That doesn’t matter to me at this moment. All I can focus on is that I do indeed qualify for life insurance—I have not been rejected.

At this point in my life, my weight is still mostly an issue of vanity. I hate having to scour the misses sportswear area of the department stores, hoping and praying something will actually fit. I desperately want to be an on-air reporter, and I know it will never happen unless I find some way to shed pounds. My
weight makes everyday breathing harder, and it compromises my ability to perform any sort of lengthy physical activity. But I’m just not ready to consider that my very life is at risk. For me it’s all about looking better—and feeling better about the way I look.

All of that will change soon enough.

In the meantime I simply nod when my doctors warn me about what my future could hold. I’m already prediabetic, meaning if I don’t do something soon, I could develop the disease. I have a family history, and my weight is also a major risk factor. The doctors tell me what life is like for a person with diabetes: medication for life, possibly having to have daily insulin shots, difficulty with pregnancies. I listen and nod, and then I promptly forget what they say. I’m in my twenties, after all. I have years to worry about stuff like that. Besides, I’m not going to keep this weight on for long! My plans will finally work out and I’m going to be slim and trim in no time. No need to worry about that health stuff, I reason. The real risks are years away, and the weight will be long gone by then.

I’m not ready to consider my health with any great urgency, but I’m more than willing to pin my problems on it. The doctor I’d gone to see in 1997, the one who initially put me on fen-phen, also ordered a round of tests to see if there was any medical reason for this huge weight gain. She called me a couple of weeks later—when I was in the middle of taking the diet drugs and loving the effects they were having—to tell me that my blood levels were borderline for hypothyroidism. She explained that it could be the reason for the weight gain, and for the hair loss. She wanted to send me to a specialist for further testing, but
was hopeful for a diagnosis—and that would mean medication, and hopefully, some improvement in my symptoms.

I was overjoyed.
It’s not my fault! This didn’t happen to me because I’m lazy or gluttonous. I have a medical condition! There’s a reason … and medicine!
I was so excited by the news, and so relieved to get what I thought was a definitive answer from a person with authority.

Of course, I was getting ahead of myself. The doctor wasn’t sure, and that’s why she was sending me to an endocrinologist. Still, her phone call couldn’t have come at a better time. In the bathtub earlier that day, I’d noticed my first stretch mark. It was an angry crimson color, and it streaked its way down my abdomen, gnarling my skin with ragged bumps, toward my navel. It was a bright ugly reminder of what was happening to my body. I was never a fan of my naked image, and now I felt even more ashamed. I could get rid of extra pounds, but would the scars ever go away? I felt marked for life.

With much hope and anticipation, I made the appointment with the specialist, traveling more than two hours to see him the following week. His office was a two-room dump of a space, with his wife acting as both his receptionist and his nurse. I looked around skeptically as I waited. This was the answer to my prayers? More doubt crept in when I actually met him: He was no younger than eighty, with wispy, white hair standing up all over his head. He looked like a mad scientist. Still, I had a lot of respect for the doctor who recommended him, so I decided to give him a chance.

He did a brief physical exam and noted that I was starting to get “the stripes.” I was confused for a moment, until I
figured out that he was referring to the new stretch mark.
Great,
I thought.
I’m striped now.
He was odd in a few other ways, asking me about the water bottle I carried with me. I told him I thought drinking water would help me lose weight, and he laughed at me. Laughed at me! He said all it would help me do was go to the bathroom more.

His wife/receptionist/nurse drew blood for a new test, and I got the heck out of there. He was strange and rude, but I still hoped he could help me. You can be quirky, but still brilliant, right? A diagnosis would mean that not only would I get the medical help I needed, but also that I could possibly start to forgive myself for letting things get this bad.

The call came a week later. My blood level was normal; I did not have hypothyroidism. You would think I would have been devastated, but I wasn’t. I was mad. I thought the guy was a quack, and there was no way he could be right. I had the weight gain! I had the hair loss! Of course I had hypothyroidism! I had to!

I couldn’t accept what this doctor had to say, so on my own I went to see an endocrinologist at Duke University, sure that the experts there would uncover the truth. I saw a normal-looking doctor with an average-looking office, and I underwent another blood test. But the answer was the same: My blood level was normal, and I did not have hypothyroidism.

Now I was devastated. Why did I go through all of that, only to be disappointed? I had hoped to learn that I was not the lazy, undisciplined freak I was starting to convince myself I was—I had almost been ready to give myself a break. I felt like all that hope had been ripped out from under me.

What saved me from being taken under by this turn of events was the fact that I was still losing weight, thanks to the fen-phen. I could face anything as long as the scales were going in the right direction. Still—it did mark how I would treat such events in the future.

In early 2001, after I’d stopped taking fen-phen and had gained all the weight back, the thyroid issue popped up again. This time I was heavier than I’d ever been and despondent about my inability to do anything about it. At my yearly physical my gynecologist ran a routine blood panel. I didn’t even allow myself to hope for an answer—I couldn’t go there. So I was truly surprised when I got the phone call from her office a few days later: My blood levels showed I clearly had hypothyroidism. No borderline results, no further testing needed. I would be starting medication right away.

I fell back onto my bed, dissolving into tears. I cried because deep down I still hadn’t believed those doctors when they said my tests were normal. I had convinced myself that my problems were medical in nature. And finally, years later, I was being vindicated. But most of all I cried with relief. I was weary from the fight, and I was finally going to get some help—assistance that would not be yanked away from me without notice, a real solution that would help rid me of this problem for life. I wasn’t bitter at what I considered to be a misdiagnosis for all those years; I was just grateful that the wrong had been righted and I was going to benefit. Finally I was going to be fixed.

The nurse called to tell me about the medication she’d phoned in to the pharmacy. She explained that it would take a little while to see any real changes, but I would eventually notice my energy level increase, my hair loss subside, and, yes, some weight loss. I choked back tears, thanking her profusely before heading out right away to pick up the medicine. I didn’t want to waste any more time.

After taking the medication for two weeks, I didn’t notice any improvement. Hair was still clogging the shower drain, my energy was almost nil, and I was just as heavy as I’d been before. I called the nurse, and she assured me that the pills would work; I just needed to give it more time. I was starting to worry a little, but I quickly brushed those concerns aside.
Don’t do this to yourself, Jennifer,
I said.
This is the break you need.

For once, let yourself off the hook. Enjoy!

Sadly, it wasn’t what I’d hoped for. Two months went by, and there was no change. I went to see the doctor, and she was stumped. She agreed I should have seen an improvement by then, so she increased the dosage. I waited for signs of improvement, but they didn’t come. A new blood test showed the higher dosage was too much, and the doctor had to dial back my medication. The blood work did verify that my thyroid was being helped by the medicine; the pills were working. But my symptoms were as bad as ever, and now there was no way of knowing if they would ever be helped.

I truly didn’t know what I was supposed to do with this latest failure. Again all I could think of was how the medication was supposed to help me lose weight and stop the hair loss. If it wasn’t doing that, then why take it? I was angry and I
was bitter … and I stopped taking the medication. What was the point? It was just empty promises to me, and I was done.

In later years, during my pregnancies, I’d read about the importance of taking medication for hypothyroidism and how if you didn’t, you could put the baby at risk. So I took the medicine religiously, every day for nine months, with both pregnancies. While the weight loss wasn’t a factor, I noticed my hair loss did not improve, further convincing me that the medication wasn’t doing me any good. As soon as I had the babies, I stopped taking it.

Any reasonable person would ask why I stopped the medication. Sure, there was no physical evidence it was helping me, but there also weren’t any negative side effects. Why not do what my doctor asked and just take the stupid pill? I really have no explanation for this—it makes complete sense that I shouldn’t go off on my own and make these decisions without any factual basis. I just didn’t want to take them—having to take a pill every day made me feel like I was sick. I knew there was something wrong with me, for sure, but if I were going to have to take maintenance drugs, then I would have to see a physical benefit. Period.

In 2007, when my health was reaching a critical point, I had a doctor question me about my latest blood work. “Are you taking your Synthroid?” she asked. “Because your levels are really low.”

Usually I would just make up a lame excuse, not wanting to admit to a doctor some of my rogue ways of thinking. But this time I was full-on depressed, and just jaded at the whole medical community. “No, I don’t take it,” I said bluntly. “It doesn’t do me any good.”