I guess I can begin with the basics. After all, I have no idea who will be reading this blog, or if anyone will even notice. I think this is more a place to get the thoughts out of my head, where they can fester and be poisonous. And you never know, I may even amuse someone.
I'm Carlene, 41 years old, married, no kids. I live in Denver and currently work in residential property management. I've been fat all my life. I have photos of my 2 year old rosy, chubby self on the back of an evil-looking pony, taken somewhere back on the grandparents farm. Sure, I was cute then. All blonde hair and green eyes, how adorable. Blech.
My mom was fat as a kid. When she hit her junior year of high school, she morphed over a summer into this gorgeous, slim, blonde bombshell that every guy suddenly lusted after. Pooh on all those untested young men - she chose my father, after dating his brother and finding my dad 10 years older, gorgeous with jet black hair, snapping brown eyes, and already doing the thing she wished for most - getting the hell out of Kentucky. They married, settled in Southern California, and began the American Dream.
But that fat gene was lurking, and it passed to us - myself and 2 younger sisters. Horrors.
My mom dieted all her life. Yo-yo should have been her middle name. The cabbage diet, the egg diet, the fish diet - you name it, she did it. And at around 13, I started getting dragged into it as well. My mom was a hairdresser, which was extremely profitable and glamorous to her backwards relations in Kentucky, and you paid the price with image, you see. Hairdressers had to look the part, be thin, perfect makeup, gorgeous hair, natch...or who would come to be made pretty by them? How often do you see a fat hairdresser? Not too often.
I think my mom was also tramatized by her own experiences as a fat child and tween, and she didn't want me to go through it. I wish I hadn't. But gawd, one of the worst memories I have are of my mother promising me as many pairs of Jordache as I wanted if I could just fit into them. I couldn't, and by 13 I couldn't even fit into her clothes. So on the diets I went. I think I managed to get enough weight off to get a pair of Jordache at one point, but within weeks had burst out of them again.
I have two sisters, much younger than I am. I think this weight issue must be harder for my middle sister, Jayne - she was really skinny (took after Dad) up until she hit junior high, and then gained weight. Lacy, the youngest, was always chubby like I was. I imagine it was hell for her that she had a sister only 2 years older that was tanned, skinny and gorgeous. By then I was out of the house and living with my husband. Both of my sisters have a weight problem, but I'm the worst.
It was during a screaming match during a very hard time in my life, when I had left my husband of 7 years and moved back home while trying to find a job that a lot of baggage came out. I was 27, still overweight, and thought I'd get a job at a local salon as a receptionist until I went back to school or figured out what to do with myself as a single woman. In front of my Dad, who was sitting and doing his best to studiously ignore the entire conversation by watching TV, my mom told me I'd never find anyone to hire me because I didn't project the image a salon needed, being so overweight.
I snapped.
I told her that I was sick and tired of hearing about my weight. That is was her fault I was overweight, by stressing me out since I was a child with yo-yo dieting and that there were people out there that liked me just fine. I'd managed to find a husband, have a good job, and wasn't shunned like a leper. I believe that my face was red, the veins were standing out in my neck and forehead, and I was screaming this at the top of my lungs. Jayne and Lacy were standing there, mouths dropped open, my dad cringed, and then my mom said something that just about imploded my entire family.
My mom screamed back at me that she had always had to struggle with her weight, and she dieted all her life because my dad told her when they got married that if she ever got fat he'd divorce her.
Oh boy. Mom burst into tears, collapsed on the sofa, and my dad looked thunderstruck. "I can't believe you have held that in all these years," he says. "I was young and didn't realize you took that so seriously, I would never..." I was frozen at the bottom of the stairs, Jayne had rushed to my mom and Lacy literally sat down where she stood. It was beyond momentous.
So from that moment on, I swore to myself I would never diet again. Never-never-never-ever again. If people didn't like me for me, then screw em. If I was fat, so be it. I was going to be happy, and love myself no matter what.
But of course, I didn't. I am not happy. I don't love myself like I should. It's been 14 years since that scene went down, and my mother died from lung cancer 6 years ago. God, I miss her. Don't get the idea that I hated my mom - she was fantastic, and my best friend, and things changed after that screaming match. She accepted me for me, and always gave me great advice and was there through thick and thin, always my champion. Watching her die from that horrible disease was the worst thing I have ever been through in my life, and I still talk to her in my head. I still cry for her too.
About 10 years ago I found the Atkins diet and thought it was the answer to my prayers. I lost 60 lbs, went to a convention feeling great and full of confidence and sass, and met my husband. Within 18 months I had gained it all back and more, but still had my husband.
I've had to compensate for my weight. I've become funny, smart, respected (for the most part) by my employees and my supervisors, I have good common sense and I'm good at what I do. I've been successful at work and for the most part have been happy with what I've accomplished.
Except the weight. It keeps getting worse, and I now realize that I have issues. The biggest issue I have is a skewed body image of myself. It's like those bulimic people who look in a mirror and think they are fat, when they are a walking skeleton - mine is the opposite. I think I developed it when my mom was putting me on diet after diet - I can look in the mirror and I don't see anything wrong. Somehow I have spent years ignoring what I see and telling myself I look great. Sure, I keep going up in sizes. Yeah, the upper arms are starting to look like half hams, and the belly actually hangs over to the point that there's a permanent crease underneath there. My ankles swell when I stand or sit for too long of a time, or fly in an airplane. But I was still strong, I was active, I could walk through a farmer's market and not pass out, or go to a concert and boogie all night.
But age is now starting to creep in. I broke two bones in my right ankle four years ago and a year after that, broke all the cartilage in my right knee when I twisted it coming down the stairs. Neither has come back full force, and now they ache with all the weight on them. My face has no definition anymore, and recent photos horrified me - I have chins. As in multiple, not looking down or anything, but looking straight ahead. I don't let anyone take photos of me, because then it blows my lovely skewed self image and I see how large I am, especially when standing next to a normal sized person.
And I hear my mom in my head, urging me to do something, anything, just do it before I die young like she did (at age 56) and I haven't even really lived yet.
Two years ago I was with a group of my co-workers and we went on a tour of some apartment communities in Philadelphia and Harlem. We flew from Denver to Philly, stayed in a hotel, had to walk miles and miles in both cities. I would come back to the hotel at night and literally cry with the pain of my legs and feet. When you are supporting 350 lbs on your feet, they just can't take this much abuse. The cramps at night would keep me awake, pain sizzling in my calves and feet like someone was holding sparklers to the skin. That was it - that was when I hit rock bottom.
Halfway through the trip, I called my husband and just sobbed. I told him it didn't matter what it took, if I had to borrow, beg or steal, I had to have surgery and had to get my weight down. I hated getting on an airplane and asking for the seatbelt extender, and having the seat arms dig into my thighs, cutting off circulation until I could barely walk when the flight was over. I hated the way I was being looked at by my co-workers when I would fall behind, huffing and puffing, legs screaming, praying to myself that it would all end soon. I couldn't continue this way, it was time to act.
Insurance won't cover my surgery. I have to pay for it out of pocket. It's taken me two years to save up, but I finally have my date - April 5, 2011. I've just purchased a weight set, a treadmill, and arranged for time off of work. It's finally going to happen....and I can see my mom, clapping her hands, cheering me on, smiling at me.
