Compliments

Like many people, I have a hard time accepting compliments, especially about the way I look. I actually used to be much, much worse about this than I am today. It drove one man I dated absolutely nuts--he would tell me I was beautiful and I would say, "No, I'm not" reflexively, as the knee bounces when hit with the little testing hammer. It took years of time and effort to get from "No, I'm not" to "I believe you think so." I've evolved enough now to just say "thank you"--or not say anything at all. (I don't believe compliments require a verbal response. A smile works, too.)

People I know are complimenting me on a daily basis now and I'm finding it disconcerting. "You look great", "you look fantastic", and even today, "You're so beautiful." My response is usually, "Thanks, I feel good!"

Part of it may be the word: beautiful. Gorgeous is even worse; if someone says I look gorgeous (which has only happened a couple of times in my life--NOT a common occurrence!) that has to be a lie. I consider myself an average-looking, if not plain, middle-aged woman, and of course, there's the weight issue. My awkward phase was epic and fantastically bad--it lasted at least twenty years. (Come to think of it, I'm not quite certain that it's over yet.) Beautiful is a loaded word--not as loaded as perfect, which I basically consider a curse word (I have no problem using actual curse words and probably enjoy it more than I should, but that's another issue altogether). Perfect is a curse word, to me, because it is impossible. The opposite of perfect is imperfect or flawed--which defines every single solitary human being. No one can live up to perfect.

I could be complimented on my looks every day of my life and it could never erase how ugly I have known that I was. This belief goes much deeper than fat; when I am sick or down, I don't just feel ugly, I know I am ugly--I don't want anyone looking at me at all, even people I love and who I know love me. Some folks consider fat and ugly one word: fatandugly. Most fat people have heard themselves assessed in such a way at some point in their lives, and many have certainly thought it about themselves in darker moments, when it is difficult for it not to seem true. But fat does not automatically equal ugly, any more than it equals lazy, stupid, desperate, or a number of other negative traits with which fat are often associated.

I know I am a beautiful person--because I work rather hard at being one--but it isn't the same thing. I'm not always even a beautiful person, because no one is. It is something to strive for, certainly, but the word always in this context veers dangerously close to perfect, and there we are back at impossible. I spent too much of my earlier life thinking I had to seem happy and nice and funny to make up for the way I looked, but again, it went so much deeper than just looks--I felt like I had to compensate for the very air I breathed because of where and what I came from, among other things. Another thing it took time and effort to realize in my adult life was that not everyone I encountered could see the ugly on me, that they might meet me and think I was normal and okay. This was, and sometimes is still, a revelation.

My most fervent wish as a child was to be invisible, because it would have been the safest option: I knew ugly was no good, but neither was pretty because the attention pretty got was not necessarily the best kind. There was also the definite possibility that pretty could lead to the worst kind of joke--the one on me.

I don't long for invisibility as much as I once did--ironic, since women seem to become increasingly invisible as they grow older (such a shallow world). I should be happy that people tell me I look good or they find me beautiful and I am; I'm not unhappy about it by any means. However, I also cannot trust it. That is more a reflection on me than anyone else, and it serves as an illustration of how much work I still have to do, work that has nothing to do with how many grams of protein I ingest in a day or how many pounds I have lost since the surgery.

Worry and surrender

I've always worried a lot. I think I've gotten better on this score, and it's something I actively work on. I don't think that worry consumes my life, but I know it is something I fall into far too easily, sort of a default setting from hell. I try to be logical and reason with it. "Will worrying about this change anything? Is anyone going to die? Then relax." Sometimes, this actually works. A friend of mine calls it "perseverating", which sounds like the right word for what it feels like: onomatopoeic, even.

I wonder sometimes if other people are more worried about me having this surgery than I am. They ask me things like, am I scared? And what about this horror story I heard? Do I realize what my loose skin is going to look like after I lose the weight? And what if I have complications? What if I'm sick for the rest of my life? And then, there's the mother of all elephants in the room: what if I die?

I've read about my options. A lot. I've listened to actual people who have been through bariaric surgeries of all types talk about it. A lot. I am a well-informed individual who loves research, is endlessly curious about life in general, and reads just about everything I can get my hands on, because I am interested in just about everything around me. (Except NASCAR.)

I was dead-set against this surgery for myself for so many years. There are a lot of facets to not only that feeling, but the reason that it has changed.

I compare it to the way I used to feel about antidepressant medication. I used to be dead-set against antidepressants for myself, too, but now I have come to realize that they ultimately get me out of bed in the morning. This is my reality; it is a reality that surprises many people who know me quite well. I truly believe antidepressants are a tool to help to correct the medical issue of depression, a medical issue I did not ask for but that I nonetheless have. So be it. (Ultimately, I didn't want to admit I had it; who does? I am grateful for today's increased awareness and decreased stigma regarding mental illness, a great contrast to the cultural climate regarding that issue when I was growing up in the 1970s and 1980s, but we as a society still have a long way to go.) Antidepressants do not solve the problem of depression completely for me or for anyone else I know that takes them--but they can, ideally, make depression manageable, and do for many if not most. Despite the fact that I respect myself less for needing antidepressants (aside to self: sounds like that damn shame again, must obliterate at some point sooner rather than later), I have chosen to view antidepressants as a tool that have improved my quality of life; to continue to work at full acceptance of this; and to move on as best I can.

The way I have come to feel about bariatric surgery parallels the way I feel about antidepressants. I have tried every possible method to lose weight, save many of the flavor-of-the-month diet drugs that have come and gone over the years because I could not afford them (and considering what happened with all of them in retrospect, I'm extremely thankful for that!). Surgery on its own does not solve the problem of obesity; it is a tool that accompanies drastic positive lifestyle changes. It is not 100% effective for 100% of people, and it may not be for me. But the chance that it will affect positive change in my life is enough to convince me that it is a good option--for ME. I don't pretend to know--or want--the responsibility of knowing what is right for other people.

I am already physically sick or impaired on any number of levels and I am certainly tired, bordering on bone-weary. Yes, I am aware that my decision to pursue bariatric surgery as an option is a form of surrender. I am surrendering my own biases, perfectionism, self-loathing, and yes, no small amount of my shame to the chance that the tool of bariatric surgery may serve to help me to feel as though eating well and exercising is pointless because I am still, after all, the f-word. There are already health-related complications in my daily life that even people who have known me for 20 years or more have no idea about.

Am I scared? Certainly. I'm breathing, aren't I? But to my mind, the notion of bariatric surgery is nothing compared to the cancer scare I went through almost ten years ago now, nothing compared to the fact that I had to have a full hysterectomy at age 32 that permanently removed any ability I may have had to ever have children, which has been more profound a loss for me than anything else could be beyond my own death. And seriously? Let's face it, if I die, it's over for me and becomes the problem of the loved ones I would leave behind. I don't fear death, but I don't want to die, either. If deciding to undergo bariatric surgery, subsisting on little bites of rabbit food for the rest of my life and working out (ugh) regularly doesn't prove that I am choosing life, than what in the name of all that is holy would?

I think the worry of other people that care about me is that they know (a) how extremely stubborn I am, (b) how I have continued to fight every aspect of these issues, and (c) how very much I enjoy evil yet delicious food, drink, dessert, etc. They also must know that (d) if I have chosen to do this, I must feel as though there is no other choice. Let the record show: I believe there is no other choice. For ME.

Let's accept this and move on.

Exercise physiologist

Saw him yesterday. I think it was a better appointment. We joked around about our cats and how crazy they are. It's amazing how many people I've met who I had nothing in common with except telling pet stories. It's made many conversations and situations a lot less awkward over the years.

I did 25 minutes on the treadmill, and I could feel it, but wasn't in pain and am not today, thankfully. I am going to try walking again as my regular exercise and hope my ankle doesn't give out. He suggested I get a walking stick. It will double as a weapon, so that cheers me. Giggle.

He also taught me some strength training exercises. They were really similar to the type of exercises I've been given in physical therapy in the past. (I need to go buy an exercise ball to do a couple of them. I hope the cats don't pop it.) I also need some heavier free weights; mine are only a pound.

He told me I wasn't the most difficult patient he's ever had, which made me laugh, because it can be a lot more difficult if he wants; I am actually making an effort not to be. He also suggested I see a psychologist if I was able to because it might really help with my feelings around exercise. I know I need to, but I just don't think we can afford any more copays. I did call the insurance for a list of providers.

The towels at his office say "MOVE IT" which I guess, on some level, is cute, but in that sick-making way that makes my face twist like I've been sucking a lemon. (I'm not one of these motivational types, or perhaps I should say I'm not motivated by what is "supposed to" motivate people. Never have been.) He also said something about how exercise shouldn't be too comfortable or it isn't really doing you any good, because you have to push your body past the point of what it has adapted to. My response to that is: if you have had any part in motivating me to exercise three times a week for more than a month or two, you have effectively performed the miracle of your lifetime. I'm not going to turn into a triathlete, nor am I trying to. I'm trying to remember what my friend said about his guidelines being for an ideal world.

It all goes back to perfectionism, too--not wanting to do anything you cannot do perfectly, much less that you might fail completely. I've already failed at it completely several times. I think of exercise as torture, because it has essentially been used against me that way in the past, and not just in P. E. classes in school like everyone else. That's probably why I need the psychologist. Sigh.