By Sparkly Jules: check out her blog, All That Sparkles! I've never forgotten her kindsness in visiting me -- a person she knew only online at that point -- in the middle of Nowhere, CA, when I was recovering from duodonal switch weight loss surgery 5.5. years ago.
Thanks, Jules, for the contribution!
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I was a Tomboy growing up. I climbed trees, went fishing with my dad, hiked, roller-skated, skateboarded, ice skated and sledded when we lived in Illinois & Colorado, and even ice skated down hills a couple of times; walked to school and back and to my friends’ houses, and rode bikes, everywhere. But after a few out-of-state moves, and few more post-parents’ divorce moves, I got tired of being the new kid, and so did my sister. But I’m getting ahead of myself. My sister and I, we were always outside, playing. And this was in the days when my mom would tell me “when the street lights come on, come home,” and I would leave in the morning with my bike and not be back until dinner. But then my bike got stolen. A friend talked me into leaving it outside of May Co when I was eleven, and, just as I predicted, it was stolen.
After the split and two moves, that Christmas my dad bought me a new bike. I was twelve. My old bike was metallic purple with a white banana seat with flower-power flowers on it, and the long handlebars. The new bike was what I called “a grandma bike,” and I was too embarrassed to ride it, and definitely not to school where I was, again, the new kid, constantly stared at and a topic of gossip.
I’m sure right around in this time was when the depression and anxiety that runs rapaciously through our family started to kick in a bit, and I started staying in the house more and more. Coupled with a move to my paternal uncle and his nutty first wife’s house when neither one of my parents could cope with me anymore (depression, anxiety, anger, and ADHD, I really don’t blame them, but it was still f*cked up to do that to me). My uncle took me off of my Dexedrine first thing, and which I had been taking for seven years and was then shocked, shocked when I went from a size 9 to a 16 in less than one year and had behavior issues. *roll eyes*
And then I grew breasts. I wanted less and less to be out in public. When I would walk to high school with my best friend Tammy, we would get yelled at, nearly every day, by young, and old men, from their cars, and usually it was about either her or my boobs. And I developed paranoia about being stared at. And even though my sister and I never lived together after I was 13 and she was 9, she developed the same paranoia. Odd. For me, it would eventually become debilitating enough that I couldn’t go into stores alone> I would drive to the store, and sit in my car, shaking. But I got a job with good insurance and started counseling and medication therapy. Prozac enabled me to go back to college and get my AA at 36.
But, after high school, I stayed in more and more, rode bikes less and less, stopped climbing trees, swimming, etc., because I was getting fat. There was no way I wanted anyone to see me in a swimsuit. Hell, I didn’t want to see me in a swimsuit. And the older I got, the less I exercised/played, and the fatter and more depressed I got.
By the time I was 37, I was a Type II Diabetic. It was only a matter of time—it runs on both sides of my family, and, actually, the first person diagnosed with it was my paternal uncle, the same one, who had been a long-distance runner and string bean most of his life. He was pissed. My overweight dad didn’t get diagnosed for another 10 years. Actually, I diagnosed him at his house with my meter, and then he went to the doctor.
So my point, and I’m getting to it, is that it ultimately became not only difficult, but painful to do anything. A back injury at 17 and then a knee injury in 2004, exacerbated by the extra weight, and it hurt for me just to move around. So I did less of it—less moving, less pain. It was a circular trap I was in—I needed to exercise for my health, but it just hurt too much, so the fatter and more depressed I got. And I became real fat, Jabba the Hut fat. Not chubby, not husky or tubby, but holy cow,” it’s moving towards us” fat. So after the doctor told me that losing weight would improve the diabetes, I lost 50 pounds in about six months. And I kept it off for eight years—until Actos: A horrible, awful diabetes drug. Actually, Actos did introduce HD and I, so I have that to thank it for, otherwise it was completely, no, less than useless.
So in early May this year, I decided it was time to take some weight off, because the sixty-pounds I had been gaining and losing for the last five years was back, and I felt lethargic, depressed, and useless. I had nothing to get up for in the morning except some kind of food. I didn’t eat constantly, but I ate the wrong thing and I ate too much of it, mostly carbs. In a way, I think it was a kind of slow suicide. I was hoping, secretly, that one night I’d go to sleep and just never wake up.
So I lost a little weight. I started counting Weight Watcher points and eating more vegetables and fruit, and added milk back into my diet. I lost some more weight. I lost enough weight that my back didn’t hurt constantly. Then it got warm enough that our complex opened the pool and we started walking to the pool (a ten minute walk, each way), and both my husband and I would do laps in the pool for 45-minutes to an hour. Then, walk back. And as the days passed, I started feeling more energetic. I gave my kitchen a spring cleaning; I cleaned the patio off after the long winter and moved the furniture and other items out there around; I did some gardening; and then last night, I got some WD-40 and had my husband, R, squirt down our bike chains, pump up the tires, and wipe off the cobwebs so we could go “ride bikes.”
I was a little shaky first, but once I got going and headed for the driveway, the wind in my hair, I started grinning. I felt like I was 12-years-old again. I felt free, and powerful, and confident and happy. Really, really happy. So I shouted to R, “let’s go around the block!!” And we did, and I was sucking wind going up a slight incline, but I did it. Until we got about 2/3s of the way and I jammed up my gears—I shifted to fifth from first when I meant second—, hey, it’s been a long time since I rode a bike. *grin*
And lying in bed last night, I was thinking about all the places I wanted to ride that bike, you know, when I get better at it. There’s a Starbucks less than two miles from our house. A grocery store about a mile away. I should get a basket/ a light / rear lights/ a helmet. And I should walk and swim more so I could ride that bike more and further.
I’m happy. I don’t have a job and no prospects. I’ve applied for every job I’m qualified/over-qualified/under-qualified for and still, nothing. I’ve even applied out of state. Places like Rhode Island and Virginia.
My vacuum died about a month ago and the rug is gnarly throughout the house.
My cats need to go to the vet.
I can’t afford to gas up my car.
I have a bloody nose every day.
But none of these things is getting me down. I’m still happy. Eating right and exercising has done for me what no anti-depressant or anti-anxiety medication (which I still take) could ever do for me. I don’t think it’s a coincidence. I’m sure there is research to back up my beliefs. I just had to get past the fear—the fear of not being able to eat what I want; the fear of people staring at me (look at that fat broad puffing away LOL), and mostly, fear of pain, and although not unreasonable, was crippling. At night, my legs would throb from sitting on them all day and keep me awake. I endured months, years of this before getting motivated. No matter what I did, I was in pain.
I had to lose a bit of weight first before I could make my body do the things it used to do, and there is still a long way to go to be at my optimal health, but it’s all good. I feel excited about getting exercise, now. I want to go places, do things, and I’m planning on a few hikes for later in the summer when I can really get out there and walk (no hills—the poor knee just can’t take it).
My brain feels clearer, also. Not having all that syrup running through my veins making me feel lethargic, stupid, and numb has made a difference. I imagine little brooms made out of vegetables and whole wheat bread sweeping my veins, washing away the cholesterol and high blood sugar.
I’m starting a Masters program in August. I was freaked out a bit at first, but now I’m overjoyed and excited about it. I can’t wait to get rolling.
Changing my food has changed my mood. No doubt about it. The fat girl is finally on the right path. Her inner Tomboy is still alive and kicking.
