phatcat
New member
This is my long backstory. I don't know that I've ever shared this to anyone, at least not all at once, and I feel like putting it out there is an important part of owning what I'm doing. I'll justify it by saying I'm not always so wordy.
For the better part of my life, I've been overweight.
I was a chubby kid.
A fat teenager.
And, finally, a morbidly obese young adult.
The short story is, I'm a real fat girl. Not curvy or big boned. Fat. And despite my hidden shame of it, I've had all the habits of a fat girl: I've eaten ice cream out of the carton, delighted in munching on chicken skins, put away candy bars in the multiples, and gleefully dipped my french fries in mayonnaise. Cake? Yes, please.
When, at eighteen, my doctor told me I had a thyroid disorder, imagine my secret pleasure: I wasn't fat because I was fat, I was fat because I had a medical condition. This was just the scape goat for personal responsibility that I'd been looking for. It enabled me to delude myself into believing my behavior was not the cause for my body. I made no real effort to check my eating habits. I never ordered “light” anything, and never looked at the calorie content on food I bought. At best, I reasoned that my portions weren't gluttonous (they often were, but I'd rationalize that as well), so how could it be my fault?
When I was 22, two things happened: The first was my dad got sick. Okay, he'd been sick, but now it was cancer in addition to his pre-existing stroke damage and ongoing heart issues. The second thing was my ex got engaged. My fat, slobby, disgusting, not-too-smart, more-or-less a pig in every sense of the word, ex. I know it's petty, but really, the idea that anyone other than me might ever seriously want to be with him had never occurred to me. And the fact that he could trick some girl into marrying him before I found someone threw me into a fit of rage. I mean, come on. I was smart. I had an arguably decent sense of humor. And gosh darnit, people liked me. Until then I'd never doubted that I was the superior package, but at that moment, something clicked. Slowly, as the days and weeks passed, it began to dawn on me: I wasn't happy with myself. I never had been. I was cripplingly ashamed of my body, and for all my efforts to pretend that didn't matter, it did. I didn't like myself, and I didn't think anyone else should either. Cue Oprah music and fade in to a tear-stained face.
I decided to start making changes.
At first, I just did little things. No more trips to the vending machines at work for soda and candy. And then, no more soda and candy at all. I stopped eating fast food; if it came wrapped in grease-soaked paper with a side of fries I didn't touch it. I began taking lunchtime walks. Slowly, I started to drop a few pounds.
The real change began when I bought a scale. It had probably been six months since I'd been weighed, and at that time I was a ponderous 255lbs. It was June, and my baby-step journey had started in April. I was around 235lbs by this point, and while not quite dainty, the weight was starting to show. Some people get depressed by looking at numbers – and I wasn't exactly proud of mine – but I took heart in having a quantifiable reward for my efforts. So I started counting calories. And it was all downhill from there. I became obsessive with budgeting out my calories – making each one count, looking for the best “deals” (Skinny Cow ice cream, I want to make sweet, sweet love to you) and ruthlessly calculating how little I could make it on. For the better part of six months I lived on about 800-1100 calories a day. I checked the scale compulsively, sometimes two or three times a day. Mornings were best, right after peeing. I considered that my “true” weight. Every time the needle would inch back, I'd feel a small thrill. And when my clothes started hanging, and then falling off me, I wasn't ashamed to drive to the mall and pick out smaller sizes. The first time I walked past Lane Bryant (not just to circle it to work up the nerve to sneak in), I think my eyes teared up a little. Years earlier, I'd had a conversation with an equally obese friend. We'd confided a desire to be size sixteen. If we could just get to sixteen, we'd be happy.
I flew past sixteen.
I went home for Christmas for the first time since I began my lifestyle change. I'd tried to drop hints to my parents – telling my mom about my frequent shopping trips, mentioning how things were always too loose. Even then, I didn't talk about my eating. I didn't want to admit I had a shameful weakness, even when I was overcoming it. So when my mom met me at the airport... well, I'll never forget the look on her face. I was around 200lbs, and several sizes smaller than she'd ever seen me as an adult. The ride home was spent with both of my parents craning their necks around to have a look. It was awesome. And awkward.
It was around this time that I began to notice people treating me differently. My family, for starters. Not so much my parents – my dad had occasionally tried to suggest diets and weight loss pills to me, and that stopped, but overall their attitude remained unchanged. Distant relatives were more noticeably pleased. I wasn't the fat one anymore. I was the out-of-towner, the artist, the whatever. This new role demanded a higher level of respect, which always left me feeling empty and a little sad. Afterall, I was still the same person I'd always been. Don't misunderstand – my family, all of my family, has always been supportive. And I know they've always loved me. But it's a hard thing to come to terms with the fact that your shame was always visible, and was, in some respects, also their shame.
My goal weight was 135lbs. Around 185 I started to stall. I was accustomed to plateaus by this point, but this was different. Instead of those pesky pounds taking an extra week to melt away, they began dragging into months. I wasn't that surprised, or that unhappy – I'd already lost a significant amount of weight, and I could comfortably fit fourteens and even loose twelves. This was about a year after starting out, and while I was beginning to incorporate more vigorous exercise into my routine, I was also less vigilant on my calories.
This is usually the point where the protagonist falls off the wagon and descends into even deeper trouble than she started out in – but that's not what happened to me. Instead, my journey just sort of petered out. Over the next three years I managed to lose another 25lbs, bringing me to my current weight of 160. I've been okay with my weight for a while now. I love going to any clothing store and knowing they'll have my size. I feel comfortable having my picture taken. Sometimes I even find myself feeling cocky.
But here's the thing – I'm still unhappy with my body. Not to the crippling extent I was before, but it's still there. And after giving it a great deal of thought, I've decided to take up the weight loss mantle again. I'm tentatively setting my goal as 127lbs. This is a largely symbolic number – almost exactly half of my original weight. And this time, my strategy is going to have be a little different. Lower starting weight means lower calorie burn rate. And I'm not up for an 800 calorie diet anymore (and it's not effective at a certain point); 1500 is my target range, and I plan to incorporate much more exercise into my routine.
I've never kept a diet journal before. And I've never looked to anyone else for help with my eating troubles (not always to my own benefit). Everything I've done up to this point I've done on my own, and never talked about. But for this next leg, I'd like to feel – publicly – accountable for my actions. By owning up to the anonymous internet, I hope to maintain my momentum and achieve my goal.
I think it's worth mentioning that if you check my profile you'll see I've been a member for years. I've often browsed and looked for inspiration/suggestions on these boards, so it wasn't a hard choice to decide to continue my weight loss journey here.
To summarize:
Lost: 95lbs
Want to lose: 33lbs
Timeline: 4-5 months
Average weekly loss expected: 1.5lbs
Edited
Calories: 1500 day max
Activity: 30-45min cardio 5-6 days a week.
So that's my introduction. If you read all that, then, wow. Really.
Next time: Food Journal! And thoughts on green tea extract.
For the better part of my life, I've been overweight.
I was a chubby kid.
A fat teenager.
And, finally, a morbidly obese young adult.
The short story is, I'm a real fat girl. Not curvy or big boned. Fat. And despite my hidden shame of it, I've had all the habits of a fat girl: I've eaten ice cream out of the carton, delighted in munching on chicken skins, put away candy bars in the multiples, and gleefully dipped my french fries in mayonnaise. Cake? Yes, please.
When, at eighteen, my doctor told me I had a thyroid disorder, imagine my secret pleasure: I wasn't fat because I was fat, I was fat because I had a medical condition. This was just the scape goat for personal responsibility that I'd been looking for. It enabled me to delude myself into believing my behavior was not the cause for my body. I made no real effort to check my eating habits. I never ordered “light” anything, and never looked at the calorie content on food I bought. At best, I reasoned that my portions weren't gluttonous (they often were, but I'd rationalize that as well), so how could it be my fault?
When I was 22, two things happened: The first was my dad got sick. Okay, he'd been sick, but now it was cancer in addition to his pre-existing stroke damage and ongoing heart issues. The second thing was my ex got engaged. My fat, slobby, disgusting, not-too-smart, more-or-less a pig in every sense of the word, ex. I know it's petty, but really, the idea that anyone other than me might ever seriously want to be with him had never occurred to me. And the fact that he could trick some girl into marrying him before I found someone threw me into a fit of rage. I mean, come on. I was smart. I had an arguably decent sense of humor. And gosh darnit, people liked me. Until then I'd never doubted that I was the superior package, but at that moment, something clicked. Slowly, as the days and weeks passed, it began to dawn on me: I wasn't happy with myself. I never had been. I was cripplingly ashamed of my body, and for all my efforts to pretend that didn't matter, it did. I didn't like myself, and I didn't think anyone else should either. Cue Oprah music and fade in to a tear-stained face.
I decided to start making changes.
At first, I just did little things. No more trips to the vending machines at work for soda and candy. And then, no more soda and candy at all. I stopped eating fast food; if it came wrapped in grease-soaked paper with a side of fries I didn't touch it. I began taking lunchtime walks. Slowly, I started to drop a few pounds.
The real change began when I bought a scale. It had probably been six months since I'd been weighed, and at that time I was a ponderous 255lbs. It was June, and my baby-step journey had started in April. I was around 235lbs by this point, and while not quite dainty, the weight was starting to show. Some people get depressed by looking at numbers – and I wasn't exactly proud of mine – but I took heart in having a quantifiable reward for my efforts. So I started counting calories. And it was all downhill from there. I became obsessive with budgeting out my calories – making each one count, looking for the best “deals” (Skinny Cow ice cream, I want to make sweet, sweet love to you) and ruthlessly calculating how little I could make it on. For the better part of six months I lived on about 800-1100 calories a day. I checked the scale compulsively, sometimes two or three times a day. Mornings were best, right after peeing. I considered that my “true” weight. Every time the needle would inch back, I'd feel a small thrill. And when my clothes started hanging, and then falling off me, I wasn't ashamed to drive to the mall and pick out smaller sizes. The first time I walked past Lane Bryant (not just to circle it to work up the nerve to sneak in), I think my eyes teared up a little. Years earlier, I'd had a conversation with an equally obese friend. We'd confided a desire to be size sixteen. If we could just get to sixteen, we'd be happy.
I flew past sixteen.
I went home for Christmas for the first time since I began my lifestyle change. I'd tried to drop hints to my parents – telling my mom about my frequent shopping trips, mentioning how things were always too loose. Even then, I didn't talk about my eating. I didn't want to admit I had a shameful weakness, even when I was overcoming it. So when my mom met me at the airport... well, I'll never forget the look on her face. I was around 200lbs, and several sizes smaller than she'd ever seen me as an adult. The ride home was spent with both of my parents craning their necks around to have a look. It was awesome. And awkward.
It was around this time that I began to notice people treating me differently. My family, for starters. Not so much my parents – my dad had occasionally tried to suggest diets and weight loss pills to me, and that stopped, but overall their attitude remained unchanged. Distant relatives were more noticeably pleased. I wasn't the fat one anymore. I was the out-of-towner, the artist, the whatever. This new role demanded a higher level of respect, which always left me feeling empty and a little sad. Afterall, I was still the same person I'd always been. Don't misunderstand – my family, all of my family, has always been supportive. And I know they've always loved me. But it's a hard thing to come to terms with the fact that your shame was always visible, and was, in some respects, also their shame.
My goal weight was 135lbs. Around 185 I started to stall. I was accustomed to plateaus by this point, but this was different. Instead of those pesky pounds taking an extra week to melt away, they began dragging into months. I wasn't that surprised, or that unhappy – I'd already lost a significant amount of weight, and I could comfortably fit fourteens and even loose twelves. This was about a year after starting out, and while I was beginning to incorporate more vigorous exercise into my routine, I was also less vigilant on my calories.
This is usually the point where the protagonist falls off the wagon and descends into even deeper trouble than she started out in – but that's not what happened to me. Instead, my journey just sort of petered out. Over the next three years I managed to lose another 25lbs, bringing me to my current weight of 160. I've been okay with my weight for a while now. I love going to any clothing store and knowing they'll have my size. I feel comfortable having my picture taken. Sometimes I even find myself feeling cocky.
But here's the thing – I'm still unhappy with my body. Not to the crippling extent I was before, but it's still there. And after giving it a great deal of thought, I've decided to take up the weight loss mantle again. I'm tentatively setting my goal as 127lbs. This is a largely symbolic number – almost exactly half of my original weight. And this time, my strategy is going to have be a little different. Lower starting weight means lower calorie burn rate. And I'm not up for an 800 calorie diet anymore (and it's not effective at a certain point); 1500 is my target range, and I plan to incorporate much more exercise into my routine.
I've never kept a diet journal before. And I've never looked to anyone else for help with my eating troubles (not always to my own benefit). Everything I've done up to this point I've done on my own, and never talked about. But for this next leg, I'd like to feel – publicly – accountable for my actions. By owning up to the anonymous internet, I hope to maintain my momentum and achieve my goal.
I think it's worth mentioning that if you check my profile you'll see I've been a member for years. I've often browsed and looked for inspiration/suggestions on these boards, so it wasn't a hard choice to decide to continue my weight loss journey here.
To summarize:
Lost: 95lbs
Want to lose: 33lbs
Timeline: 4-5 months
Average weekly loss expected: 1.5lbs
Edited
Calories: 1500 day max
Activity: 30-45min cardio 5-6 days a week.
So that's my introduction. If you read all that, then, wow. Really.
Next time: Food Journal! And thoughts on green tea extract.
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