Yes, I did. Well, only the top. In all fairness, I have hated the bottoms since the day I bought them. Besides it’s only supposed to be 78 and well, I just do not feel secure enough to actually wear the whole thing in public.
Yes, it is about my size but specifically my hangup is my thighs.
Since I started this blog, some very nice, loving compliments from dear friends have found their way to one of my many inboxes. They are certainly NOT why I decided to be this transparent with my journey but they are very appreciated. So with that I need those faithful readers to understand I am not, N-O-T fishing for any ego-stroking.
Friends, here’s the thing each one of my thighs is 30, yes thirty, inches. Each one. Together they are bigger than the girth of hips. Not only are they huge and resemble cottage cheese they can cause me great pain.
One of my friends said something about my journey once and it was something to the effect of, “Why do you want to do this? It’s not like your health is in danger.” Tons of things have happened for both of us since that exchange and we never completed the conversation so today I am completing it here public.
(Dear one, we’ve both been busy and some of your questions made me really think. You helped bring me to a greater sense of honesty with myself about what my weight is doing to my body. I hope you do not mind me answering in this way. You know I respect the hell out of you and love you. You really pushed me out of living “almost” honest about what my weight is doing to my body. I cannot thank you enough.)
The truth is the added girth is setting me up for some major health complications.
Most of you know I am a writer but until this moment I have never publicly admitted sometimes I physically cannot sit because the blood vessels in my legs are compressed by the weight of the fat stored on them. Pain, numbness, tingling, and water retention are my reward for writing in those sorts of stretches writers can get into. How serious is it? The complications from the all night two nights ago are still lingering. It may take up to a week or more for them to resolve.
Yeah, I am a writer who cannot sit at a desk to write.
You all know I have fibromyalgia and yes there is pain, fatigue, and all the other goofy symptoms that come with the territory. Here is the absolute gospel of fibro none of those complications will encourage death.
Thirty inch thighs which hamper circulation and compress the blood vessels in my legs to the point the blood stops flowing and my legs go numb as they start retaining water can kill me at any moment. Maybe that sounds dramatic until you consider my family’s medical history.
Of the adult family members back to both sets of grandparents only two have lived past 67 years old. My father’s father died in his 80s. My mother’s father died from an early heart attack in his 40s. The other three were all obese. Their official cause of death: my father’s mother (the one who raised me) stroke; my father, lung cancer; and my uncle, complications of Type 2 diabetes induced by an addiction to sugar and obesity. Though never diagnosed my grandmother and father both displayed the outward, tell-a-tale signs of diabetes before their deaths. My mother experiences severe complications from extreme obesity, smoking and serious mental illness. She is also borderline diabetic. Her normal weighted mother is a victim of Alzheimer’s Disease but is still going strong at 95 years old. My other uncle (half uncle) suffers with Type 1 diabetes but knows he has to maintain a healthy weight to manage his disease. Two grandparents on opposite sides lived past 67. Just two. Both were a considered normal by the weight charts.
This is my health legacy.
At this moment, my thighs are so fucking massive they are pushing against the arms of the chair to the point I know I need to move and I am retaining six pounds of water from sitting too long finishing my project.
It’s not dramatic. This is my life and if I do not look to the example of those who have died before me then I am an idiot.
It is my truth.
I am not the least bit afraid to admit it because that is how deadly serious I am about addressing my weight, my obesity.
The truth is I have a list of things wrong with me and only one is fatal. Interestingly enough, it is also the only one I have the power to change.
At this point I could tear off on a huge rant about the difficulty I have had finding a medical professional to take my failure to lose weight even half as seriously but I will spare you partially because I do need to move. I am fast typist but my legs are starting to tingle.
If I make it to the beach tomorrow, I will wear my shorts and my tankini top along with my sunglasses as I expect the beach to be an emotional, tear-filled experience for more reasons than just my thighs. However part of my truth is I know me well enough to know I will be sitting there wishing I had normal sized legs. Truth is it is one of my greatest, life-long wishes.
If I don’t make it to the beach, because frankly I am totally exhausted, I might just wear that tankini top anyway because it’s the California thing to do and for now, feeling half empowered and rocking that top is so much better than desperation and hopelessness because I am kicking that straight to the damn curb. I know this is my time to get this right once and for all. I do not just have “a plan;” I have multiple plans and a myriad of options so if something fails to yield the desired results another plan is waiting in the wings.