Why bother?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately while wallowing in self-pity. It’s been 13 years now. When I was first diagnosed with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, I was 19 years old. I was scared after having had a “period” that lasted for 6 weeks. I was sad, tired, and stressed. I weighed a little under 300 lbs and thought that I was as big as a house and that there was no way that I could get any bigger.

Wrong.

I’ll be the first to say that I think it’s perfectly well and good for other fat folks to be happy at the weight that they’re at, and agree that society should be leaving them the hell alone in their happiness. I, however, am not happy. My knees ache all the time. I have bursitis in my right hip. My bone density is very low, attributed to years and years of being obese. Last year when going on a cross-country trip I had to ensure that both airlines I was flying with would allow me the exemption of having two seats to myself – a long, expensive, and humiliating experience.

I now weigh just under 400 lbs. My heighest weight most-recently was 414 lbs. I remember the day I weighed in at that number and thought, “Wow. That’s a weight I was hoping to never see…” I was struggling to tie the laces in my shoes and just decided to wear flip flops instead. I was puffing and out of breath. I had just run my hands over my cheeks to determine whether or not I would feel comfortable going out for ice cream with my partner – stubble on a woman has a way of attracting a few glances, but stubble on an obese woman makes her a damned pariah. It’s not enough that she’s fat, but she’s sloppy too?

Why bother? Because I deserve better and I’ve been punishing this body that I live in for way too long.