writegirl
Work in Progress
**Caution, long AF post ahead**
I know most of us have dealt with fat shaming, body shaming and/or food policing at some point or another in our pre-op lives. Although I am only just 4 months post-op, I had hoped that after going through the six month pre-op diet, having body-altering surgery, and losing 71+lbs, that the fat/body shaming and food policing I've endured from my own mother would have stopped, or at least lost its demeaning edge. I think this will be a forever issue, no matter how much weight I lose. My mom is one of those naturally thin women who was beautiful in her youth and who has grown old gracefully. In fact, she's even thinner now than when she was younger.
Imagine her disappointment at having three daughters who all developed weight problems, two of whom sought WLS surgeries to "fix" their obese bodies. I wasn't always fat, but my mother has always made me feel fat. My first recollection of her telling me "suck in you stomach" is from when I was 6 or 7 years old. I was a rail thin and wiry kid. I remember that one day, I was with my mom at this town-run recreational facility called Brookwood Hall. She was signing me and my brother up for summer camp. While we were walking the hallway to the sign-up table, we passed by several rooms where girls were taking ballet classes. I watched them as my mom signed us up for camp. Their bodies were beautiful, lithe, capable--they were leaping and two of them were in toe shoes in front of a mirror, pressing up to their tippy toes. I didn't know that was referred to as pointe, but I knew I wanted to do that.
When my mom was finished she came over and I told her, I want to take dance lessons. She smiled and wagged her skinny finger at me, "You have to be thin to be a ballerina, besides I signed you up for guitar lessons."
I hated the guitar lessons. I'm not even sure how long I took them, but each time we arrived for lessons, we had to walk down the hallway where the dance lessons were happening. I would always peek in the doorways. My mother would always coax me along, "You're going to be late for guitar." Guitar lessons consisted of me alone in a room with this man who made me feel self-conscious, with two guitars between us. I was just a kid, but I remember I didn't like him. Everything about the guitar in my hands felt foreign and cumbersome. Even the shoulder strap was too big for me. I never "got" guitar. My hands were small. I also never got dance lessons. I wasn't thin enough for dance lessons.
As a teenager, I thought I was fat. I must be fat, I thought because my brother is allowed to call me "fat ass" and my mother doesn't intervene. She laughs. Sometimes she tells me I should stop eating. I develop bulimia as a way to cope with not being thin enough. I was 5'3 and weighed 105 lbs. By the time I got to high school, my saving grace was that it was the 80's and fashion made it easy for me to hide my body--the body I thought was fat--the body my mother always confirmed was fat. My weight hovered between 102-108 lbs. The idea of getting to 110 lbs gave me fits of anxiety. I did tons of cardio and I took to waking up in the middle of the night to exercise. Roller skating was "in" back then, so I spent every weekend at the rink, speeding around in circles, dancing with my friends, pretending I was an adult. I got into horseback riding. Horses were a godsend because their bodies were big enough to conceal my weight. English style lessons made me giddy. I loved all of it--the caps, the fancy riding crops, the skinny saddles, the braided manes on the horses, and the straight proud way riders seated their steeds. I didn't love the riding britches, at least on me. When I tried on britches and jackets at a local tack shop, my mom mentioned that I'd "really have to suck in" while wearing them. I stopped taking lessons soon afterward, but remained active in horses, even getting one of my own that became my best friend. I switched to western style riding. No britches were necessary.
Throughout high school, I wore a long black very fashionable half-cape with fitted emo-sleeve arms and enough material that it hung well past my "fat ass." When the weather got too warm for the cape, I would switch to billowing shirts. I never wanted anyone to see my butt. It was offensively fat. I overheard two of the boys in class "rating" the girls. One, talking about me, said "I bet she has a nice butt, but I've never seen it." That was the first time in my life I had ever heard anyone make any kind of statement indicating that my body might not be totally offensively huge.
My oldest sister kept getting heavier. She had a son, and gained tons of weight during her pregnancy. She never lost the baby weight. One afternoon, she was standing in the backyard talking with one of her friends. Their kids were having a play date. They walked over to pet my horse. He came over and let everyone fuss over him, then he returned to his pile of hay in the middle of his paddock. It was a lazy summer afternoon. My sister was wearing a sundress. She and her friend rested their arms against the paddock fencing, watching the horse as they talked. My mom, my brother, and I were across the yard. My brother whispered about my sister, "Her ass is as big as the horse's!" and my mom laughed. It didn't matter that it was true, I didn't find it funny. I was repulsed. I said, "But her dress looks pretty" and my mom said, "It looks like a moo-moo. Like curtains." And, my brother started making low mooooo moooo sounds, mimicking a cow. They both cracked up.
As an adult, my mother would comment on my body at every opportunity. Before a family party, I asked her if I looked okay. I bought a new dress. It took me hours to find the right one that would balance out my fat bottom with the rest of me. She said "You look assy." I didn't eat a thing that night. I weighed 106 lbs.
When I did start getting earnestly fat, my mother's body shaming evolved into full-on fat shaming and food policing. During the past few years, I have dreaded every visit to my parents' house. There is a reason I live two states away. They would survey every morsel I put into my mouth. They would always have a comment about my body, always offer a new fad diet they'd hear about. Always.
So, last night, talking with my mom on the phone I figured that, now, it would be safe to discuss my progress with her after everything I have gone through--the six month medically supervised diet, the pre-op 800 calorie diet that I stuck to like glue, the surgery to reroute my intestines, reduce the size of my stomach, and give me severe lifelong malabsorption, and the recovery during which, I've dropped over 55 lbs (in four months). I am 71+lbs lighter than my starting weight, so when she asked how it's going, "it" always refers to my weight loss, I decided to tell her that I am down six pants sizes, I've lost 71 lbs, I feel great, my surgeon's office is satisfied with my progress, etc. She countered with "What size are you now?"
I don't know why I did it, because I stopped talking to my parents about my weight loss after my dad took to beginning every conversation with "How much did you lose now?" I've been telling him that I don't weigh myself, that I wait for my doctor's office to weigh me. But, I broke and told my mother my pants size and told her that sometimes that size is still not quite right. Sometimes, the cut means it won't work on my hips because my weight is mostly in my backside, hips, and upper thighs. She then said to me, "You know you're never going to lose your hips and ass. That's just your shape. Big." She then continued, "You're a thick girl." I then changed the subject to talk about my daughter and I visiting during Thanksgiving weekend and she interjected, "Am I going to have to buy special food now?" I explained that, no, they always have plenty of meat in the house and that she always makes a meat for dinner, so as long as I have that, I have all I need. I did tell her that I need to snack on protein foods throughout the day "I eat all the time now," I said. "You always did eat all the time," she laughed, "that's why you got the way you did."
It doesn't even matter that what she said is categorically untrue. I ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I would sometimes grab an afternoon snack if I had a long day. At their house, I would eat that snack because they don't eat dinner until 8:30-9:00 at night and I am used to dinner around 6 PM.
But, none of that matters. I will always be fat in her eyes. I will always have a body that is unacceptable to my mother. It doesn't matter that I've combated severe dyslexia and dysgraphia to succeed in school even thought I was told by an advisor that I would never get through college. It doesn't matter that I accelerated my studies, finishing 4 years of university in 2.5 years, and graduated summa cum laude. It doesn't matter that I then went on to earn a Master's degree and then a Doctorate. I will never be good enough because my body will never be acceptable. I will always be the thick girl. I will always be fat in my mother's eyes and she will always police my food.
And I no longer give a fuck.
I know most of us have dealt with fat shaming, body shaming and/or food policing at some point or another in our pre-op lives. Although I am only just 4 months post-op, I had hoped that after going through the six month pre-op diet, having body-altering surgery, and losing 71+lbs, that the fat/body shaming and food policing I've endured from my own mother would have stopped, or at least lost its demeaning edge. I think this will be a forever issue, no matter how much weight I lose. My mom is one of those naturally thin women who was beautiful in her youth and who has grown old gracefully. In fact, she's even thinner now than when she was younger.
Imagine her disappointment at having three daughters who all developed weight problems, two of whom sought WLS surgeries to "fix" their obese bodies. I wasn't always fat, but my mother has always made me feel fat. My first recollection of her telling me "suck in you stomach" is from when I was 6 or 7 years old. I was a rail thin and wiry kid. I remember that one day, I was with my mom at this town-run recreational facility called Brookwood Hall. She was signing me and my brother up for summer camp. While we were walking the hallway to the sign-up table, we passed by several rooms where girls were taking ballet classes. I watched them as my mom signed us up for camp. Their bodies were beautiful, lithe, capable--they were leaping and two of them were in toe shoes in front of a mirror, pressing up to their tippy toes. I didn't know that was referred to as pointe, but I knew I wanted to do that.
When my mom was finished she came over and I told her, I want to take dance lessons. She smiled and wagged her skinny finger at me, "You have to be thin to be a ballerina, besides I signed you up for guitar lessons."
I hated the guitar lessons. I'm not even sure how long I took them, but each time we arrived for lessons, we had to walk down the hallway where the dance lessons were happening. I would always peek in the doorways. My mother would always coax me along, "You're going to be late for guitar." Guitar lessons consisted of me alone in a room with this man who made me feel self-conscious, with two guitars between us. I was just a kid, but I remember I didn't like him. Everything about the guitar in my hands felt foreign and cumbersome. Even the shoulder strap was too big for me. I never "got" guitar. My hands were small. I also never got dance lessons. I wasn't thin enough for dance lessons.
As a teenager, I thought I was fat. I must be fat, I thought because my brother is allowed to call me "fat ass" and my mother doesn't intervene. She laughs. Sometimes she tells me I should stop eating. I develop bulimia as a way to cope with not being thin enough. I was 5'3 and weighed 105 lbs. By the time I got to high school, my saving grace was that it was the 80's and fashion made it easy for me to hide my body--the body I thought was fat--the body my mother always confirmed was fat. My weight hovered between 102-108 lbs. The idea of getting to 110 lbs gave me fits of anxiety. I did tons of cardio and I took to waking up in the middle of the night to exercise. Roller skating was "in" back then, so I spent every weekend at the rink, speeding around in circles, dancing with my friends, pretending I was an adult. I got into horseback riding. Horses were a godsend because their bodies were big enough to conceal my weight. English style lessons made me giddy. I loved all of it--the caps, the fancy riding crops, the skinny saddles, the braided manes on the horses, and the straight proud way riders seated their steeds. I didn't love the riding britches, at least on me. When I tried on britches and jackets at a local tack shop, my mom mentioned that I'd "really have to suck in" while wearing them. I stopped taking lessons soon afterward, but remained active in horses, even getting one of my own that became my best friend. I switched to western style riding. No britches were necessary.
Throughout high school, I wore a long black very fashionable half-cape with fitted emo-sleeve arms and enough material that it hung well past my "fat ass." When the weather got too warm for the cape, I would switch to billowing shirts. I never wanted anyone to see my butt. It was offensively fat. I overheard two of the boys in class "rating" the girls. One, talking about me, said "I bet she has a nice butt, but I've never seen it." That was the first time in my life I had ever heard anyone make any kind of statement indicating that my body might not be totally offensively huge.
My oldest sister kept getting heavier. She had a son, and gained tons of weight during her pregnancy. She never lost the baby weight. One afternoon, she was standing in the backyard talking with one of her friends. Their kids were having a play date. They walked over to pet my horse. He came over and let everyone fuss over him, then he returned to his pile of hay in the middle of his paddock. It was a lazy summer afternoon. My sister was wearing a sundress. She and her friend rested their arms against the paddock fencing, watching the horse as they talked. My mom, my brother, and I were across the yard. My brother whispered about my sister, "Her ass is as big as the horse's!" and my mom laughed. It didn't matter that it was true, I didn't find it funny. I was repulsed. I said, "But her dress looks pretty" and my mom said, "It looks like a moo-moo. Like curtains." And, my brother started making low mooooo moooo sounds, mimicking a cow. They both cracked up.
As an adult, my mother would comment on my body at every opportunity. Before a family party, I asked her if I looked okay. I bought a new dress. It took me hours to find the right one that would balance out my fat bottom with the rest of me. She said "You look assy." I didn't eat a thing that night. I weighed 106 lbs.
When I did start getting earnestly fat, my mother's body shaming evolved into full-on fat shaming and food policing. During the past few years, I have dreaded every visit to my parents' house. There is a reason I live two states away. They would survey every morsel I put into my mouth. They would always have a comment about my body, always offer a new fad diet they'd hear about. Always.
So, last night, talking with my mom on the phone I figured that, now, it would be safe to discuss my progress with her after everything I have gone through--the six month medically supervised diet, the pre-op 800 calorie diet that I stuck to like glue, the surgery to reroute my intestines, reduce the size of my stomach, and give me severe lifelong malabsorption, and the recovery during which, I've dropped over 55 lbs (in four months). I am 71+lbs lighter than my starting weight, so when she asked how it's going, "it" always refers to my weight loss, I decided to tell her that I am down six pants sizes, I've lost 71 lbs, I feel great, my surgeon's office is satisfied with my progress, etc. She countered with "What size are you now?"
I don't know why I did it, because I stopped talking to my parents about my weight loss after my dad took to beginning every conversation with "How much did you lose now?" I've been telling him that I don't weigh myself, that I wait for my doctor's office to weigh me. But, I broke and told my mother my pants size and told her that sometimes that size is still not quite right. Sometimes, the cut means it won't work on my hips because my weight is mostly in my backside, hips, and upper thighs. She then said to me, "You know you're never going to lose your hips and ass. That's just your shape. Big." She then continued, "You're a thick girl." I then changed the subject to talk about my daughter and I visiting during Thanksgiving weekend and she interjected, "Am I going to have to buy special food now?" I explained that, no, they always have plenty of meat in the house and that she always makes a meat for dinner, so as long as I have that, I have all I need. I did tell her that I need to snack on protein foods throughout the day "I eat all the time now," I said. "You always did eat all the time," she laughed, "that's why you got the way you did."
It doesn't even matter that what she said is categorically untrue. I ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I would sometimes grab an afternoon snack if I had a long day. At their house, I would eat that snack because they don't eat dinner until 8:30-9:00 at night and I am used to dinner around 6 PM.
But, none of that matters. I will always be fat in her eyes. I will always have a body that is unacceptable to my mother. It doesn't matter that I've combated severe dyslexia and dysgraphia to succeed in school even thought I was told by an advisor that I would never get through college. It doesn't matter that I accelerated my studies, finishing 4 years of university in 2.5 years, and graduated summa cum laude. It doesn't matter that I then went on to earn a Master's degree and then a Doctorate. I will never be good enough because my body will never be acceptable. I will always be the thick girl. I will always be fat in my mother's eyes and she will always police my food.
And I no longer give a fuck.
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