It’s been about 10 months now, since I got weight-loss surgery. And every single week, four times every single month, I have gotten on the scale, and I have noted that another week had gone by, and another x number of pounds had dropped off my body, splat, never–if stories were to be believed–to be seen again. It was kind of glorious, I have to tell you. All the shit I went through, and all the pain and frustration and sick feelingness, it was all mitigated, somewhat (not entirely, but somewhat) by the fact that I had something to show for it. That was all I wanted. Something to show.
Inevitably, the weight loss slows down. From five pounds a week to four, to three, to two or one pound a week, and that’s been fine. It was nice to see those staggering amounts, and kind of amazing in a sciencey kind of way, thinking about what my body was doing, in order to drop that kind of weight, and so quickly. But it was also okay to slow down to more normal rates, because it made me feel less like a freak, less out of control, less melting away and disappearing and more reasonable and ordinary.
The thing was, for all these weeks–no matter what I did, or what
exercise I did or didn’t do, or what I ate or how I ate or how much I
ate, I would see a drop on the scale, every single week. No matter
what. I started to push that, as I’ve documented previously. I started
to eat more and more poorly, become less and less concerned about
Lately, I’ve been eating sugar, which had previously not interested me
in the slightest. But one magical period week, suddenly peanut M&Ms
seemed like the coolest thing ever in the history of the world, and
there I was, eating a pack of peanut M&Ms. Granted, it was slowly; over the course of an hour I was demolishing a pack, but still. A lot
of calories. A lot of sugar. And all at the same time I had stopped
running. I still lost weight, every week. Surgery is magic! I love
surgery! I would get it again! Twice!
This weekend, I went on a cruise, and I drank things out of pineapples,
several times a day. I tried to eat protein, by which I mean mostly I
had pastries for breakfast and a bite of eggs. I sat on a deck chair. I
moved from my deck chair, to the bar, and then back to the deck chair.
I drank more drinks out of pineapples. It was glorious. It was a
vacation. It was really, really a fucking stunner to come back and
realize I had gained a pound and a half.
A pound and a half doesn’t seem like a huge deal, in the grand scheme
of things. I’ve lost 136 pounds in the last 10 months! How is a pound
and a half going to make any difference? What possible effect could it
have on my health and happiness?
I feel it. I felt it, before I got on the scale. It wasn’t actually a
stunning surprise, to get up and see that my weight had incremented,
because I could see it in my stomach, and feel it in my waist, even
though I tried to ignore it, and just assumed it was, I don’t know, the
extra gravitational pull of the ocean dragging me down. I hoped it
was a mistake. It could still be a mistake–this could be water weight,
because ship food has so much sodium! Or something. I don’t know. It
could all disappear tomorrow, and all this panic could be moot.
This panic, I hope, will be moot. Because this is an unpleasant
feeling, it is a terrifying feeling, it is a feeling of being on the
edge of spiraling entirely out of control, and never ever coming back.
Wasn’t surgery supposed to fix me? Wasn’t I supposed to never gain
weight, not ever again? Wasn’t I smarter than to fuck up something so
simple? I thought I was smarter than that, and it stings to have proof
that I am not. I mean, I’ve known the whole time that I’ve been really
fucking stupid, eating the way I had. But to have proof of it–that
sucks. Of course it sucks. And to have it bite me on the ass? That
sucks even more.
I don’t want to be called out on my stupidity! I want to keep enjoying the
super special magic trick that my body has been performing, all these
months. Why can’t it just keep going? I would say it’s not fair, except
that it is totally fair and everything I deserve. And exactly what I
needed. Hello, good morning. Your issues with food have not been
resolved. Hello, good morning, it’s time to think about that, to talk
to someone, to figure this out. Hello, good morning, back to the gym.
Hello, good morning. It isn’t magic.