I have always been overweight. In elementary school there used to be a day every year where they weighed you in gym; I think it was at the same time that they did the scoliosis test. I don’t ever remember a year where I wasn’t afraid and embarrassed to step on that scale. My parents tried to get me involved in sports to help control my weight and I played little league soft-ball and soccer, but it didn’t keep the pounds off.

By the time I was 12 and heading off to junior high, my parents were even more concerned about my weight and the implications it would have on my social life. That summer they shipped me off to fat-camp. I lost about 25lbs that summer and gained about 50 the following year. During junior high I joined the cross country and track teams and ran for miles--albeit very slowly--but no matter how many pounds I ran off, I ate more on. I tried plenty of diets: Weight Watchers, Atkins, I met with nutritionists, I even gave bulimia a stab. I went to a psychiatrist to help me deal with my issues with food and managed to get my binging and purging habits under control, but the obsessive over-eating continued to plague me.

When I went away to college my daily exercise decreased and my eating--with all you can eat cafeterias, and no parents on my case--increased. I gained even more. The first time I remember weight-loss surgery coming up was my senior year. My parents wanted me to do it but I wasn’t ready--it scared the bejesus out of me. One night, after discussing it with my parents on the phone, I decided I needed something drastic. I headed off to Walmart to buy some of those stupid, dangerous, Ephedra, over the counter weight-loss pills. I was depressed and desperate for something to help me. I needed these to work. I never even really got to give them a chance. Just buying them gave me a panic attack. It was probably the scariest experience of my life. It was about as close to an out-of-body experience as I can imagine getting. I felt very far away from all of my surroundings. My heart was pounding and my breathing was sharp and shallow. My head was racing, but it was the same thought over and over again--I had to move. I paced the store, my hands shaking. Stupidly enough I got behind the wheel of my car, but managed to make it home safely. The panic attack was still going strong. By that point it was about 11PM on a Friday night. I felt like I had to do something, I had to keep moving. I rolled up my pants, filled the bathtub with water and bleach, and got in and started scrubbing madly. When I was finished with the bathroom I went into my room, pulled out the top drawer of my desk and began frantically throwing the papers around in what was supposed to be an attempt to organize. Half-way through I suddenly stopped, lay down on the floor where I was and cried. I had a few more miny-attacks as I tried to deal with my depression but slowly--with time, some happy pills from my doctor, and the help of my family and friends--I pulled myself out of that big, black hole. And, of course, I got rid of the Trim-Spa, or whatever it was I had bought that night.

Still, I had no control over my weight. The little exercise I got in college slowed even more in vet school. For a short while I would walk this huge hill a couple of times a week--about two-miles round trip--but that didn’t last long, especially as my work-load increased and my free-time decreased. I was working 70-80 hour weeks and studying any other time that wasn’t spent sleeping. I certainly wasn’t taking the time out to cook healthy, gourmet, meals--I was stuffing myself full of crap. By the time I graduated I had hit the mark I had always promised myself I would never hit--The big 3-0-0.

It was around this time that I started seriously considering weight-loss surgery. I had always been invested in my education. I put the rest of my life on hold. Now there was no more school and I was ready for my life to begin. But what kind of life could I have trapped in the body of a morbidly obese person? I moved back to Long Island where I grew up, but I didn’t really know anyone in the area anymore except for my family. I didn’t have the built in social circle of fellow class mates that I’d always had in the past and I was--and still am--too insecure to really put myself out there and meet new people. So for the past year my social life has been even more stagnant than before. I’ve got my job of course, which--though I’m still getting comfortable with the new responsibility--I thoroughly enjoy. But when I see an obese cat or dog, I feel like a hypocrite. When people ask me about making their pet lose weight, I usually tell them the same thing…”If I had someone with my best interests at heart controlling everything that went into my mouth, I’d be a lot better off for it.” And it’s true—but why shouldn’t I be that person with my best interests at heart? Despite all of my medical, health, and nutritional knowledge, I’m still slowly eating myself to death.

So, the time has finally come. I know that even surgery isn’t some “magic bullet.” I will have to work hard and make some serious changes in my life. There is a possibility that I might fail, even at this. But I’m ready to take that chance. I’m ready to make those changes. After all, I spent the last 26 years in school learning, preparing, waiting for my life to begin and now that school is over, I feel like I’m still waiting. If I wait much longer for my life to start, I just might be waiting until my life is over.