Getting Too Big For Your Breeches

Back in the mid 90’s when I was in Chestnut Ridge Hospital, which is a psychiatric hospital, I used to share my meals in the dayroom with a woman who suffered from anorexia. As you can imagine, while I ate she mainly nibbled. Most of the patients ate downstairs in the cafeteria, but I wasn’t allowed to leave the locked ward because I was suicidal, and my dinning companion wasn’t required to eat in the cafeteria because the smell of food made her nauseous. She was a quiet, understated kind of person, so it didn’t take me long to feel comfortable enough to chat with her. I was curious about her condition, so I asked her questions about it. When did it start? When did people start noticing? How long has it been causing you problems? This woman was--or had been--a nurse and was used to answering medical questions with some precision, so she was a font of knowledge, and the topic gave me something to fall back on. I was grateful for this because I have social phobia, so small talk isn’t exactly my forte.

But one day I asked about the meal she was often served, animal crackers and skim milk. This meal struck me as rather bland, not at all something you would serve someone who had a hard time eating. This woman was starving to death and they were giving her c-rations. She explained that the meal provided sufficient protein to keep her hair from falling out, but it contained a minimum amount of calories, which was about all she could force herself to eat. I noticed a change in her expression when she explained this to me. She didn’t quite bristle. I wouldn’t go that far. But I detected that she was tired of having to explain herself, to justify the way she was. And I suspected that she wasn’t just tired of me asking questions but that she was tired of people in general feeling free to quiz her about her weight, her diet and appetite. I never brought up the topic again.

Although I was far from anorexic, I understood her sensitivity. Just about all of my life weight has been an issue. For decades I have fluctuated between being a bit chubby and being seriously obese. Strangely enough, I was rather puny between the ages of five and eight. I was sickly, and the doctor was always telling my mother that I was underweight and that I needed to eat more. My mother suffered from paranoid schizophrenia, which was not being treated at that time even though she was my primary caregiver, and she never went to college or had access to books on nutrition. So rather than trying to get me to eat a greater volume of healthy foods, she treated me to junk food--Hershey Bars, chocolate milk, Coke. I was never refused these things.

After I had my tonsils out, my health stabilized, and I began to gain weight. Just a little at first, but by the time I was in middle school, I was a pretty chunky kid. The fact that I was inactive compounded the problem. I had already realized that I was different from other boys, so being around them made me uncomfortable. And back then, boys and girls usually didn’t play sports together, and as a result, I grew to hate sports. I saw sports as a threat. I feared that on the playing field, in the company of all those boys, my difference would become glaringly obvious. I was terrified of exposure. So I avoided sports. In addition to that, my social phobia was quite severe. I was afraid of being away from the house because of the likelihood of having to deal with a social situation. Merely walking would mean I would run into people. And I would have to decide to either look at them or down at the ground. If they spoke to me, I would have to think of something to say. And if someone threatened me--and bullies did that fairly regularly--when I was by myself, I might have to physically defend myself. So I was pretty much a homebody with a sweet tooth who had a virtual unlimited access to goodies.

By the time I got to high school, I became concerned with my looks. There was very little chance of me finding a boyfriend or even a friend with benefits, but I had hope, at least hope for the future, so I began to watch what I ate. And much to my delight, the pounds came off. I never managed to become as thin as the boys I was most attracted to, but I was no longer fat.

When I got to college, I managed to find the more or less hidden gay community there within a few weeks, and the gay boys noticed me. Many took an interest. I discovered that all I had to do was show up at the local gay bar, sip a Coke while holding up a wall, and boys would come to me. A number of them even took me home. I was flattered by the attention, the compliments, and even the sex. But I soon discovered that quite a number of boys felt it was their duty to inform me that I was “too” chubby. Guys would buy me drinks, stroke my cheek, dance with me, tell me that my face was cute, my smile was great, my eyes beautiful, and then they would lower the boom. They’d tell me if I was just twenty pounds lighter, I would be perfect. Some would even say something along those lines after having sex with me. It was humiliating. But I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything different because I was getting the same thing from straight people, even straight guys. I was told many times in a number of ways that I would be good looking if I just lost some weight.

The thing of it is, I was already watching what I ate. I was regularly going hungry. I would go to bed with my stomach growling. And as I’ve already explained, there were reasons why I wasn’t more active. Running or going to the gym would have made me feel conspicuous. And even though I walked all over the college town of Morgantown, it wasn’t enough to burn off that spare twenty pounds.

Maybe the criticism would not have been so devastating if I hadn’t taken it to heart, but the thing of it is, I have always been wildly attracted to slim young men. Many go for the jocks, some go for big muscles, some like a hairy chest, but I went for the wispy guys, the guys who seemed a bit delicate, a bit feminine. And back when I was young, I had this unexamined, irrational notion tumbling around in the back of my head that I had to look like what I wanted.

While in college, I longed to be 120 pounds because I had learned that’s how much Michael J. Fox weighed, and like me, he was 5’4” and I thought he was cute. But that goal proved to be allusive. And not long after that, all the years of living in an abusive environment caught up with me, and my mental health deteriorated. My social anxiety, mood swings, severe depression made taking care of myself all the more difficult, so little by little, I gave up. At 18 I was about 140 pounds. By 20 I was 190. By 22 I was over 200. And by 24 I was over 240.

Over the years a lot of concerned people have talked to me about my weight. My grandmother used to give me religious tracts about how Jesus can help you lose weight. People have freely given me diet and exercise tips. Strangers have come up to me at bus stops and told me how I can lose weight. Friends have earnestly told me that they wish I would take better care of myself so that I won’t die an early death. Absolutely none of it helped. In fact it only made things worse. I was getting the same message I was getting from those boys who picked me up in the gay bar back in college: “You’re okay, but you’re not quite good enough.”

I assure you that a person almost never needs you to tell them they have a weight problem. They know. And rarely does anyone need you to advise them on how to live in a healthy way. My friend from the hospital was a nurse. She knew that she was doing damage to her health by trying to get by on animal crackers and skim milk. She knew. A lack of knowledge was not her problem. And it’s never been my problem either. Nor have I suffered from a lack of needling and goading, or a lack of shame and rejection. If you know someone who has a weight problem, I think the best thing you can do for them is to simply butt out. Accept your friend for who and what they are. If they want your advise or your support--a walking buddy, a drive to Weight Watchers--they’ll ask for it.

Back in my mid 30’s, I did manage to get my weight under control, and I kept the weight off for a number of years. I went from 310 pounds all the way down to 160. I did it all by myself. I began watching what I ate again, and I started walking. At the time, I lived in Fayetteville, WV, and the town park, the cemetery, and nature trails maintained by the National Park Service that led down into the New River Gorge were all within ten minutes of my house. Following my head surgeries, I realized I wanted to live, and there were things I wanted to do, including hiking and backpacking. In time I was able to walk three and four hours at a time. I was fit enough to go backpacking, but I was apprehensive about doing it alone.

Since moving to California, following the death of my parents, the weight has sadly come back. Merced doesn’t have any alluring places for me to walk. And I turned to food in my grief and the anxiety I felt at being alone in the world. I now realize that insecurity about money also played a significant role. I crave high calorie foods at the start of the month when my Social Security check comes in because I fear money will run out and I’ll be stuck with nothing but saltines and water by the 20^th.

I’ve not given up hope. I already know I can lose weight. I’ve done it before, so I can do it again. Maybe getting down to 120 is unrealistic, but 150 or 160, yeah, I can do that. I will do that if I live long enough.