The Rayne in Spayne...

I weighed myself this morning and was thrilled to see that I'm down to 284.0. That's a total of 12 1/2 lbs. lost. Last Monday I had gained three pounds so I was starting to get worried. Dieting is terrible and I know that's why I've never been successful at it in the past. You go on a diet and, for a while it works. You feel great, you start to look great and everybody is so excited and so proud of you. Then you hit that inevitable plateau... and suddenly, everything starts going wrong. Instead of people saying "you look great! How much weight have you lost?" You begin hearing, "So, how's that diet thing going for ya?" That's when you know you're in trouble. You lose a bit of the drive. You get depressed, anxious, and inevitably... fat. It's a traumatic rollercoaster of blubber and you know that when you hit bottom, there's a breathless crowd of people there waiting to commend you on the ride - when you know that the part that really counts, staying on the ride, is where you failed. Again. It gets depressing. For a long time I kinda gave that up. I refused to look at a scale. I looked in the mirror every day and said "I think you're great" (to myself). I refused to wear make-up and the 'in' clothing, convincing myself that I was rebelling from what the masses did. But what I was really doing was lying to myself. I hated those girls who wore the latest fashions, but not because they were sheep. I hated them because I wanted to be a sheep. So instead, I made myself different out of... spite? I like to think of it as finding my niche. And in a way, I did. I had a few good, close friends who loved me for who I was (you know who you are) and I learned to appreciate the differences in myself, including my fat. Let's face it, if I had been one of those girls with the gigantic bangs, pegged bongo jeans and esprite tops, I probably wouldn't be the person I am today. I shudder to think of all I would have missed. But while I was trying to convince myself of my worth (which my fat always got in the way of), I was ignoring a (pun intended) swiftly growing problem. Namely, me.

The summer before I started High School I was getting dressed to go somewhere with my mom. I was putting on my jeans in the bathroom when I suddenly looked in the mirror for the first time in I don't know how long. I mean really looked. I burst into tears because the girl who was reflected back to me was not who I saw myself as. This has been a recurring problem for me. I don't feel as heavy as I really am. In my mind, I don't look as heavy as I really do. I had been so busy convincing myself that I loved myself just the way I was that I forgot to take care of that girl. I stopped seeing her and started picturing someone different. Even today I'll catch a glimpse of myself in a store window and stare in horror, thinking, "You poor thing, what have you done to yourself?" And I did do it. Besides the key factors of genetic and environment, I've had numerous opportunities to change my life and I've always failed. My parents took me to a dietatician in the sixth grade and I was mortified. I know they must have feel horrible for making me go but looking back, I know that they did it because they were afraid. I should have learned from the experience but I was so relieved when I didn't have to go anymore. I failed at Jenny Craig (twice). I've never been a consistent exerciser and being pressured to do it makes me want to scream, sit my butt in a Lazy Boy and eat a pint of Ben & Jerry's (Phish food... mmmmm..... Phish food...).

It got to a point about a year and a half ago when, once again, I was sobbing over ill fitting size 28 jeans when I really had to have a serious discussion with myself. I looked at myself in the mirror and I said "Kimberlee..." (I call myself Kimberlee). "Kimberlee," I said, "this girl staring back at you is not the real you. You can love yourself, but you don't have to love that girl, because she's killing you. It's time to let her go, and stop letting that girl drown you." And I knew I was right (well, myself was). The mirror girl was not who I wanted to be and her self destructive ways were causing me nothing but pain and sending me straight to an early grave -face down in a bowl of ice cream with a bum ticker. So after much crying and a whole lot of whining (hey, I wasn't going willingly!) I dragged myself to my doctor.

NOTE: For the sake of the innocent, namely me, the following names have been changed to protect people's privacy. Dr. Kalkstein will here after be referred to as Dr. Doorknob.

I planned out a nice little impassioned speech for Dr. Doorknob. When he arrived, I told him of my weight loss woes. Of my struggles with 'X' number of diets and my current plight with Curves (which is a wonderful program, don't get me wrong, but where I wasn't losing anything). I was sincere, begging him to help. A special diet, little blue pills, anything. I began to cry a bit from recounting my frustrations to yet another person, when Dr. Doorknob shocked me into another emotion entirely. Anger. " I see here you have a history of mental illness." He said, not making eye contact. I could see where this train was going and I didn't like it. "Yes..." I responded. "I've been taking Paxil for about 6 years now." "Uh huh," he continued, still flipping the pages in my chart. "Do you think you'd benefit from a few days in the hospital to calm you down?"

Okay. Before I continue, I need to clarify a few things here. I was crying, but I wasn't sobbing or carrying on like a drunken baboon. I was frustrated, not depressed. So for this to be his first and, frankly, only respose to my request for help, was not only surprising, it was outrageous! Anyway, I told him that wasn't necessary, I simply couldn't seem to lose the weight on my own and felt that I needed some assistance. Bottom line, he couldn't help me.

At this point I was getting desperate. I was having dreams about taking a knife to my abdomen and slicing off the excess fat, then stitching the wound closed again with a knitting needle (my grandmother knitted). Myself and I had another talk and I realized that desperate times called for desperate measures. That's when I began researching Gastrointestinal Bypass Surgery. I switched Doctor's to one who is familiar with my family history and tried again. This time I was met with more compassion and the rest is history. I'll have met my half way mark for both weight and classes on Wednesday, so within the next two weeks, I'll have an actual surgery date! This has not been an easy rode for me and I know there are so many others like me who face similar struggles and live through similar hells everyday. We continue going through the same patterns, making the same mistakes, and all it takes is our inner Professor Higgins' to take the time to talk to us; inspire us; make us see the beauty in ourselves for the change to occur. For me, the Rain soon will be in Spain. I've just got to dance at my own ball and prove to myself, and the world, that I can do it.