The Return of My Fat Shame
People say stupid things.
“She’s really filling out those jeans again, isn’t she,” our neighbor said as he playfully punched my husband’s arm.
My face turned beet red. I was confused about whether I was embarrassed or enraged, but I remained silent. His wife was fighting her own battle with cancer and was just now regaining her strength so I tried not to react.
“She’s feeling really good these days. No more restrictions,” my husband replied.
For several days I seethed, but was also filled with anxiety, as I repeatedly weighed myself and checked my reflection from multiple angles. I’d only gained five pounds since I hit my lowest weight after the transplant and my clothes fit better than they had in a long time. But, this seemingly innocuous comment rattled me because I’ve never grown out of feeling like a fat kid.
It started when I was about eight or nine. Unlike my slender parents and siblings, my belly stuck out. My mom bought me a bathing suit with a flap to cover it. I hated that suit. The flap always flew up in my face when I jumped off the high dive. Plus, when it was wet it clung to my chubby stomach. That summer I stayed wrapped in a towel whenever I wasn’t in the pool
My family moved from Shaker Heights, Ohio to Roanoke, Virginia the year I turned twelve. It was a horrible experience from the very beginning. I hated all the snobby girls and was embarrassed by my elastic waisted skirts. Plus my parents continued to express their dissatisfaction with my physique.
Memories from that time are painful. One morning, when it was raining, I asked my dad if he would give my little brother and me a ride to school. It was a long walk up and down hills, but he said, “No, you need the exercise.”
Another time, my mother was helping me with my hair when she stated, “Whew, I’d better get you some sanitary napkins soon.” I had no idea what she was talking about. I thought, not only was I fat, but I must have smelled bad too. My younger brother probably doesn’t remember how he saved me that day. I asked him if I smelled funny. He sniffed and said, “no, you smell regular.”
It was around this time that my mom started taking me to Weight Watchers with her. I hated those meetings where all they talked about was food. The diet was even worse. Opening my lunch bag at school was embarrassing. Each day it was the same thing - two slices of Pepperidge Farm Very Thin Bread with either a slice of American cheese or tuna fish without mayonnaise. The additional treats were carrots, celery and a small apple. I longed to purchase a school lunch like my friends. Sometimes I’d use some of my babysitting money to do so.
But everything seemed to change the summer after I started having my period. While I still hated living in Roanoke, my best friend Kathy, from Shaker, came for a long visit and we ran wild. We swam at the pool all day and played flashlight tag in the neighborhood in the evenings. By fall I’d shot up to my current height and my weight redistributed. I remember someone saying, “you’re now fat in all the right places.”
But I was mortified and I continued to diet obsessively.
Thankfully, my family moved to Richmond, VA where the people were much more friendly. Plus, no one here had ever seen me as a fat girl.
So, I continued my unhealthy relationship with food. All through high school I wouldn’t eat in front of most people. My breakfast consisted of a large cup of coffee with skim milk and Sweet and Low. At lunch, I drank Tab while I smoked cigarettes. When I got home in the afternoons, I’d get stoned with my friends, so by dinner time I’d be starving. More than once my parents would remind me to not eat too much. They didn’t want me to get fat again.
Memories from my college days are fuzzy because I spent most of the time drunk or stoned. It’s a wonder that I ever graduated. I do remember discovering how speed not only helped me study, but kept me from gaining the “Freshman 15.”
After college I was too active, and too broke, to gain weight. I worked as a waitress, bartender, and sales clerk, until I settled into sales management. Then I started going out for all my meals and drank way too much after stressful days. That’s when the pounds began creeping on again.
I was fatter than I wanted to be at my first wedding in 1983, probably tipping the scales at 125 pounds. After we got married, my naturally thin husband couldn’t understand why I’d gain weight so easily. So I’d go on some fad diet or another until I’d lose at least ten pounds. Then I’d gain it back, plus more, before I’d find a new diet.
When I got pregnant with my first child, I practically starved myself. My mother always talked about how they were never allowed to gain much weight in her day. “I always left the hospital in a sheath dress after giving birth,” she said repeatedly.
Each appointment with my obstetrician made me nervous. When my doctor told me that times have changed and I needed to gain some weight for the health of the baby, I was thrilled. I took that as permission to eat whatever I wanted and gained about thirty pounds.
Up and down the weight loss roller coaster has been my never-ending journey. Looking in the mirror always caused me to critically analyze the amount of fat on my body. During my first marriage it was a big problem. I felt like I was never skinny enough for him.
When I married my second husband in 2007 things changed. He seemed to love me no matter what size I was. He was a former football player and always carried a few extra pounds himself. So we both stopped worrying as we lived in bliss.
When I saw myself in pictures from my niece’s wedding three years later, I realized I’d gotten bigger than I’d ever been. So I started back to Weight Watchers and began training for half marathons. It took a while, but I lost over 60 pounds, arriving at my goal weight shortly before my son’s wedding in June of 2013.
Keeping the pounds off after that was a struggle and the Covid lockdown didn’t help. I baked bread and cooked elaborate meals as we lived in isolation. We partied like it was the end of the world.
In January of 2021, we moved to our new home in Mathews, ready to start our retired life. Shortly after the move I was diagnosed with a rare cancer called Myelodysplastic Syndrome (MDS). They immediately started me on a chemotherapy drug called Vidaza. Seven days of shots in the belly followed by 21 days off. This was supposed to keep my cancer from transitioning into Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML) as we searched for a stem cell donor.
This is when I discovered that chemotherapy is an unspoken weight loss drug. During the first months of treatment I started feeling nauseous and found most food unappealing. I had prescriptions for Zofran and Compazine to calm these symptoms, but they made me sleepy and constipated. I was thrilled each time I got on the scale to see my weight going down. Disturbing, right?
After nine cycles of Vidaza, I was admitted to the hospital for the stem cell transplant. It was almost like going to “Fat Camp.” Now I was on two different chemotherapies coupled with a day of full body radiation which destroyed what little appetite I had. Plus, the food service in the hospital was horrible. I subsisted mostly on Ensure and peanut butter crackers. By the time I was released after 25 days, I’d lost about twenty more pounds.
During the months following my transplant I was on multiple medications – anti-viral, anti-fungal, immunosuppressants, antibiotics and high doses of prednisone. The post-transplant diet was very restrictive and most food tasted weird. Nothing appealed to me - except baked potatoes, Cool Ranch Doritos and blue Gatorade.
“Don’t worry too much about nutrition right now,” my doctor said, “It’s all about getting lots of protein and calories.”
But I wanted nothing.
Eventually food began to taste better, even though I was never very hungry. I found I had to set a timer to remind myself to eat. Somedays, the only way I could stimulate my appetite was with THC infused edibles.
Recovering from the transplant has been a roller coaster ride, just like my life long weight obsession. Sometimes I ate well, and others I didn’t. My weight stayed pretty consistent until I got pneumonia last September. Then, the reoccurring bouts of this illness killed all my desire to eat. Once again I subsisted on Doritos and Gatorade.
This aversion to food lasted until this past February when I was finishing the antibiotics and steroids I was taking for my fifth round of pneumonia. I began to feel good enough to go back to the gym and my stomach started growling with hunger again.
I’m now back to eating normal portions. I’ve stopped nibbling on mini meals and focus on three healthy ones. My husband struggles with his weight too, so I cook most of our meals. We try not to eat a lot of processed foods that are high fat or full of sugar.
Each day I weigh myself to help me remember to eat well and get plenty of exercise. The numbers fluctuate within five pounds, but I feel better than I have in a long time.
Until that neighbor commented on me filling out my jeans.
Did he think it was some kind of compliment? Why would anyone think it’s appropriate to say shit like that? Looking back I wished I’d said something bitchy like, “You think I’m fat? Well you’re ugly and there’s nothing you can do about that.” Childish, huh?
Why does this lifelong obsession with my weight still haunt me? I survived a life threatening cancer and a stem cell transplant. I should be able to eat what ever I want. Why do I let myself be a victim of other peoples perceptions?
I guess it’s because I was trained to think this way from an early age. The value my parents placed on my appearance was hard for me to understand, especially since none of my four siblings were targets of their criticism. But as I grew up, I realized my mother had the same concerns for herself. “You can never be too rich, or too thin,” she used to say as she drank her morning Slim Fast shake. This was her breakfast of choice up until the day she died.
Either way, comments made about weight loss or gains aren’t helpful. Even though most people wouldn’t know I carry fat shame, it’s undeniably there. And I know lots of people who feel the same way I do.
The bigger problem is I’ve also shared opinions about other peoples’ body sizes. When I see a celebrity on tv who’s lost weight I’ve make comments. And it’s not just weight I notice. Plastic surgery, hair extensions and skin resurfacing all catch my attention. So I’m like the rest of the world, constantly noticing other peoples’ imperfections.
Physical appearance is on center stage right now. We have a president who must spend hours applying his makeup, hair pieces and Spanx. He also insists he’s taller and weighs less than he actually does. I look at him and think he’s got to be one Big Mac away from busting out of his cheap suit.
I guess I’m just as guilty of fat shaming.
When we were getting ready for bed the night of my neighbors comment, I asked my husband if he thought I was getting fat. He said, “No, I’m glad to see you getting healthy again.”
“So you can tell I’ve gained five pounds?” I replied.
He laughed and pulled me in for a tight hug.
“If you did, it’s all gone to the right places. For a while there your ass was too flat.”
Think I’ll keep him.
But I will have a salad for lunch.
And maybe some Doritos.
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I can so relate to this story.. thanks for sharing and try not to be hard on yourself and I’ll try and do the same! Hope our paths cross one day ..sending you love always xo
Some men need to tape their mouths shut. Cheetos are my drug of choice, with a side of brownies