Diseased and Dysmorphic

The date has been set. I am to be condemned, or cured, on 10th March 2022. I have exactly 10 days left to make the most of my bagless, normal body. The problem is that it is not “normal”. In fact, I already hate it. Now the body I already hate and have been fighting with for years is about to get even uglier. Even more unmanageable. Even more unacceptable. Even more repugnant.

One of the many Mental Health Conditions I have is something called Body Dysmorphia. It is where the body you look at is a completely different vision of the body you actually have, skewed by poor confidence and esteem. The pic above that I gleaned from my Pinterest Account is a pretty accurate artistic interpretation of the condition. Those who reckon I look “pretty”, like my partner David, my closest friends, and even a few randoms I run into online, I can’t bring myself to believe them. I can’t see whatever it is they see. To believe would mean I am promoting being Fat and unhealthy. I am accepting my size instead of doing everything I can to change it. And above all of that, I am being narcissistic. The last thing I was to is to be a narcissist.

I am size 18 and revolting, with or without clothes. If I drew a picture of how I see my body (which I can’t, because I can’t draw!) it would include all of these: Frizzy unmanageable hair. Early onset elderly person face wrinkles. Spotty mottled skin that has to be hidden under layer upon layer of makeup. Double chin. Unattractive broad shoulders. Heavy, sagging boobs with heat rash zone. Arms covered in Self harm scars. Smelly, sweaty pits due to Mental Health meds. Overhanging belly full of junk and booze and covered in stretch marks. More permanent smelly sweat rash. Thighs that are a chub rub zone.. And a “please don’t look here” when sitting down. Bum – don’t even go there. Giant calves mean I can’t wear any knee high boots. Feet are covered in eczema and blisters but at least they work. Attractive?? Sexy?! Hell.. I don’t even qualify as pretty.

I wish that losing weight was as simple as it is made out to be. I am up against so much more than self control and “watching what I eat”. I have battled weight issues and body size and shape for my whole adult life. It’s been a long and losing battle. I was going to the gym at least 3x a week, often more, I walked everywhere and was mostly active. The Pandemic destroyed all of that and the pounds piled on. In a time where I was confined to the four walls of my small Flat, my only sources of enjoyment were food and drink. During the first Lockdown I remember spending hours in the kitchen just cooking and cooking, stocking my freezer for the inevitable closing down of the entire world. And my anxiety towards the Pandemic led me to spend hours drinking. I would pour what was probably a triple measure of Gin, drink that while I sat on the bed out the way of David as he worked from home in the other room, then got up and poured another. And then another. And then another. Not to mention the bottles of Red Wine. I was likely borderline alcoholic by the time that Lockdown was over.

Being Autistic means I have alot of sensory issues around food, while my far from ideal home life means I can’t make a constructive psychological routine around eating, especially when I have to eat either standing up in the kitchen or sitting on the sofa, resulting in both of these being associated with food. I was on birth control drugs for years that are known to put weight on, along with beta blocking drugs to counter Anxiety, also notorious for weight gain. I hate feeling hungry all the time and always being on the look out for food. I have average portion sizes but rarely feel satisfied. I have bent over backwards with calorie counting, food diaries and appetite suppressants, and gruelling workouts in the gym. I was doing 3 classes per session, with a warm up beforehand, but there was never any evidence on my body to show for my hard work. It seems like anything I consume just adds to the inches around my girth.

Mental health and lack of help meant I had to resort to any coping mechanism I could find, so I turned to food and especially to drink. I’m constantly changing my diet. Trying new things. Stopping eating this and eating that instead, but the motivation never lasts. The next wave of Mental health hell rolls in and it’s back to square one. Willpower alone is no match for Anxiety, Depression and Trauma.

There is also the guilt. Did my eating and drinking cause this Cancer? Is it because of my unhealthy lifestyle? I’ve tried starving myself. I’ve tried deliberately making myself sick. And neither worked. I always went crawling back to food and drink in order to get through my waking hours with some semblance of joy. The only way I have ever successfully lost weight is through being so ill and anxious that I couldn’t keep food down for weeks, and keeping the weight off then never lasted longer than a year.

And then there is the economic barrier. In Post Brexit, Post Pandemic Britain, fewer and fewer enjoyments in life are in reach for people in poverty. As are fewer and fewer healthy eating options. Noom and Slimming World don’t work in conjunction with the Food Banks. We are being told to do away with our gym subscriptions and “avocado on toast” so we can save up to buy a place to live. Junk food is cheap. Junk food is quick. Junk food is less hassle and less time consuming for people run ragged by jobs, chores, kids, stress. They never mention anything like this in the endless diet ads on TV.

It all seems like little money, little energy, poor mental health and now poor physical health is going to work together to stand between me and any chance I have of getting thin.

Getting dressed of a morning is filled with intrusive thoughts of “can I still wear that?” “do these still fit me?” or “like hell can I get away with wearing THAT when I look like THIS.” I remember the words of my Mum telling me to “flatter my figure”, which in my beyond broken brain is code for “wear something that hides how you really look”. I don’t have a figure. I have an abomination that needs clothes to hide under. So where are the clothes that fit?? Being stuck wearing clothes that either ride up or roll down is a sensory nightmare in itself, let alone a kick in the confidence every time I get dressed for the day. I have a choice between shapeless sacks of fabric or outfits tailored to skinny people then just scaled up in size. Body shape and comfort has been merely an afterthought. I love my goth clothes, but finding outfits I can get away with wearing is a neverending struggle. The fashion industry rarely considers the wants of bigger women because they don’t want to convey the idea that they are promoting obesity, while encouraging weight loss by providing fewer and fewer nice looking clothes that fit so we feel worse about how we look.. Ergo we will force ourselves to lose weight. The goth fashion industry isn’t much better. Some companies don’t make clothes over a size 16, and even then their idea of a 16 doesn’t fit reality. Once again I would like to shout out to the likes of Killstar, EMP, Disturbia, Attitude and Banned and all the goth labels I wear to PLEASE do more to represent us, we big and disabled girls who want nothing more than to be able to dress for our chosen identity, and unfortunately endless 1950s style dresses isn’t the answer either.

One glance in a mirror and I am instantly full of shame. Full of guilt. Full of hate. And all of this is just how I am now. Pre Surgery. Pre Bag.

I have begged to my Dietician in Pre-Hab. I’m desperate to lose weight. I’m desperate to be thin. I don’t want to be Fat and have a Stoma. I don’t want to be consumed by the Type 2 “It’s All Your Own Fault” Diabetes that I can see on the horizon. How am I going to manage when I was so dependent on the Gym and now have no intensive exercise options to fall back on? I want my surgery and rehabilitation to push me to lose weight, but I have read about the weight gain that having a Stoma will cause. And I know that rehab and therapy is up against my mental health conditions that are now 30 years strong. I feel like I am caught in the middle of a losing battle. I want this to be where I learn how to associate food and drink with being fuel for health and nutrition and not a distraction from sadness and fear. That I find better coping strategies that don’t involve food and drink. That my every waking minute doesn’t revolve around when the next meal is. That I just stop feeling constantly hungry or my mouth stops feeling constantly bored. To maybe even go into a job as a fitness instructor who has goth gym wear and teaches HIIT to heavy metal has been a thought sometimes. That would be nice, but as with everything I look towards in my life, is it even possible? Not right now.

What am I to do when I am told I have a problem for every solution?

The surgeons are more than welcome to chop out any fat they see when they come to chop my Cancer out.