My name is Melody. I am a recovering alcoholic. I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a woman that is diagnosed as bi-polar with clinical depression, severe anxiety and panic disorder. I am a woman that wears many hats and not all of them are positive. Today, I finally admitted to myself that I am addicted to food.
My entire existence and who I am has centered around food. Food and being fat because of it. I am not a medically reasoned fat person. I know each and every time that I put food in my mouth that I am making the choice. And every time, I sit there and literally ponder what I can cut from my intake in the next day to make up for what I am about to do. It’s a horrible way to live.
How I envy those people that eat to live and not the opposite. How I wish that I could walk away from cookies and cupcakes. How I wish that I didn’t obsess about one particular food for a week. Not eating anything else until I have made myself so physically ill from the consumption. How I wish that after nearing forty years on this earth, I could put down that last bite and be satiated. But, I never do.
At one point in my adult life, I weighed in at 331 pounds. Today, I stand at 168. Last week I weighed 164. Yes, you read that correctly. In one week, I gained 4 pounds. How in the fuck does that happen? Normal people don’t do that, right? Now, most people think that in the scheme of things, four pounds is a mere drop in the pie pan when you compare 331 to 168. Well, not to me. Nothing changed in my life last week. I wasn’t anymore sane or depressed than normal. Nothing changed in my physical activity level (or lack thereof) in the last week. And, it’s not Aunt Flo’s visit. I just gained fucking weight. And, to an extent I can see where 4 pounds is “nothing”. That is until I begin to analyze how that measly four pounds is really going to hurt me. That is when I think about gaining 4 pounds a week for a month. (16 pounds approx.) Then, I think about gaining 4 pounds a week for the seven months that my husband is deployed for. That is where panic ensues.
You know that point when you are eating something and you use KNOW that the last bite(s) are going to make you miserable? You stop eating, right? Nope. Not this girl. This girl sits there with the last bite of food in her hand or on her plate and waits. Waits until it feels like she can manage that one. Last. Bite. Then she gets sick and has to stick her fingers down her throat to vomit because it hurts so badly. This is not normal. This is not the actions of a person that wants to “eat to live” and be happy. Yes, you also read that correctly. I gag myself to vomit if I eat too much.
I am 168 pounds and I am 5’8″. By some accounts, a relatively tall woman. All the charts say that I am overweight. Yet, I have been told that I look “sick” or asked “how much more weight…” do I want to lose. (btw, I am not sick at all and I want to weigh 150) When do I start feeling that my weight is acceptable? When do I start remembering that my husband met me when I was 200 pounds and still wanted to be with me? When do I stop thinking that the rail thin woman is silently scolding me for eating the exact same thing that she has on her plate? Well, apparently not anytime soon since I can’t stop eating.