(It was pointed out to me bythat cross-posting my Shapely Prose entry to my LJ would be a good idea. Which, for some reason, didn’t even occur to me. But, hey, that’s a damn good idea! Originally posted here on September 18, 2007.)I believe weight loss surgery (wls) is dangerous, invasive, and overly performed. I hate that something created as a last resort has turned into magical cure-all for everyone over 200 pounds. I hate that it’s become so popular and hyped that people whose information is based solely on what they see on TV have no hesitation in suggesting it to complete strangers. But what if you don’t quality? Gain weight! Go to Mexico! Find a less strict surgeon! WLS is the quick and easy answer! Because altering your eating and drinking habits forcouldn’t possibly be something worth a second thought. I always have been and always will be highly, highly critical of weight loss surgery.And I’m having mine next month.It’s the hardest decision I’ve ever made because doing something that’s so completely at odds with what you believe in is a massive mind-fuck. I’ve been called a traitor and a sell-out and I guess I can’t really argue with that; I believe strongly in size-acceptance and I’m electing to have my stomach sliced open and my organs rearranged. It’s something I never thought I’d do. Me? Having weight loss surgery? That’s crazy talk…I don’t even believe in dieting, for god’s sake!Sometimes we find ourselves in a situation where what we need isn’t what we want. Where what we need isn’t even something we necessarily believe in. I never wanted to be seen as yet another fat person who really wanted to be thin. Who says fat is great…but not for me. And I know that’s how people see me now. I struggled with that for a long time; reconciling my ideology with my desperate need for a surgery that was my best option. I didn’t have it sooner because I didn’t want to admit I needed it. I was so ashamed of not being healthy, of not being strong, of representing all the stereotypes I despise.I’ve been blogging for about five years now and I’ve always been commended for my honesty. On one hand it’s accurate because I don’t lie in my blog and I readily admit things that really don’t cast me in the greatest light! But on the other hand… There’s a lot I just don’t say because I’m too ashamed.And I am so fuckingof being ashamed. I’m so fucking tired of hiding my reality because it isn’t as pretty as someone else’s. I’m so tired of believing I’m an embarrassment to fat people, as if my very existence is harming the movement. I may be an anomaly but I still exist and I still matter. So I’m going to do the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’m going to tell you what it’s like to live in my body.I’m 5’6” and I weigh 530 pounds. Well, 529.8 to be exact but I round up. (I have insulin resistance, hypertension, high cholesterol, gastroesophageal reflux disease, depression and social anxiety and am on medication for all of it. I take a lot of pills! I’ve had to sleep sitting up for the last several months. I do sleep but not long and not deeply…I miss dreaming. My circulation is horrible and my arms and legs frequently go numb or swell so badly I can’t move and I feel as if the skin is literally going to split open. My poor circulation also causes severe discoloration all over the lower half of my body as well as both forearms. I have some issues with incontinence because I carry all of my weight in my belly and there’s a lot of pressure on my bladder. My lower belly is so large and heavy that having it hang from my body is actually painful. I have a lot of problems with infections between my skin folds and summer really isn’t helping matters. (I’m in pain every moment of every day. I can’t walk or stand longer than a few seconds and I’m so afraid of my ankles or knees giving out from under me. Walking from my bedroom to the bathroom leaves me gasping for breath and my legs shaking from exertion. Usually I have to stop half way there and lean on something for a few seconds. Several months ago I had to get a disability placard for my car. God, I was so embarrassed by that. Not was. Am. I can’t stand people seeing me park in the disabled spot. Sometimes…cough…sometimes if people are watching me, I totally fake a limp. Because I hate the idea of people thinking fat = disabled.At the end of June I had to take a leave of absence from my job because getting out of bed and going to work every day was too painful and difficult. I had pushed myself for so many months, through the pain and exhaustion, and I just couldn’t do it anymore. I was on the verge of physically and mentally collapsing and I couldn’t bring myself to fake it for one more day. Plus, my seat belt doesn’t fit me any longer and driving on the freeways in LA with no seat belt is a terrifying experience! Even more so when you take into account the fact that I was dozing off at the wheel (due my sleep issues) several times a week. Work was going to kill me one way or another!There are friends I haven’t seen in years. Good friends who I used to see regularly and who I’ve known for more than half my life. Who used to know everything about me until my reality became a secret. Now I lie to them about why we don’t spend time together. Because I don’t want to say, “I love you but it hurts me too much to walk. I love you and I miss you and it hurts not to see you but the physical pain is so much worse.” So I say something vague about not feeling well which isn’t really a lie but isn’t really true either. Because I can’t bring myself to tell them that every step feels like a thousand and my body is breaking. I’ve always been the strong one and I don’t know how to admit I’m weak. (I don’t remember when it started. Because I didn’t talk about it and I sure as hell didn’t write about it. Probably a year ago, I’d guess. () I was no longer able to clean myself after going to the bathroom. Every time I went to the bathroom, I had to take a shower.While I was at work I would try to hold it. I frequently made myself sick and gave myself painful stomach cramps doing so. I had IBS to begin with and that didn’t help matters. Worse, it didn’t always work. So I’d go to the bathroom and have to spend the rest of the day sitting in my own shit. Sometimes for one hour, sometimes eight. The physical discomfort was awful but nothing in comparison to the shame. Fuck. The. Wondering if you smell, wondering if people know, wondering if they talk about it when you’re not in the room. Hoping that no one says anything so you stay as far away from everyone as possible. I felt so disgusting and so embarrassed that I just wanted to die. And I truly felt I would rather die than admit it to anyone. (I can’t stand for more than a few seconds which made the frequent showering very difficult and painful. So, now my mom cleans me. I’m 28 years old and my mom has to wipe my ass. It’s been a few months and I still apologize every time. Every single time even though she keeps telling me to stop. Because I’m just so embarrassed that I can’t take care of myself.Oh yeah…the whole showering thing. I can’t do that anymore either. I haven’t had a shower in months. Because I can’t stand and because it’s difficult for me to even fit inside the shower these days. My mom brings a bucket of warm water, baby soap, a wash cloth, and towel into my room and washes me. Sometimes I close my eyes and genuinely enjoy the feeling of becoming clean. But a lot of times I cry. I lay on my bed while my mom washes me and I cry.I do that a lot. Cry. Sometimes I cry because I miss having a life and I want to do so many things but physically can’t. Sometimes I cry because I don’t know how much longer I can handle any of it. Sometimes it’s out of shame. Sometimes it’s from the pain. Sometimes it’s because I can feel my body shutting down and I’m truly afraid I’m going to die very soon. Sometimes it’s because I wish I were already dead.And sometimes I cry out of sorrow. I place my hands on my belly and I whisper to my body how sorry I am. Sorry that she’s going to have to be cut up; sorry that I couldn’t fix things on my own; sorry that I let things go so far before I asked for help; sorry that she’s hurting so much; sorry that I feel imprisoned by her; sorry that I don’t always love her or treat her the way I should. I cry and I apologize for everything that’s been done to her and for all the things to come. I cry and I thank her for being so strong and putting up with so much; asking her to hold on for just a little while longer and promising her that things will get better. I cry and I ask her to forgive me for what I have to do to her because it’s the only option I have left. Because I know it’s the best decision for me, no matter how hard it was to make.Do I wish I didn’t have to have weight loss surgery? Yes, of course. I wish I was strong and healthy and could honestly say that my weight isn’t negatively impacting my life. But I can’t, not now. I wish I didn’t have to acknowledge the things I’m most shamed by and I could hide it all, pretending to be functional in order to save that single shred of humility I have left. But should I allow that wish to stop me from having wls when the alternative is becoming completely bed-ridden? Should I not have surgery simply because I don’t want people to think less of me or to incorrectly assume the motivations behind it? Is it worth it?A few days ago I had to go to the hospital to see a nutritionist. I needed them to bring a wheelchair to the parking structure because I barely made it from my car to the elevator before my legs nearly gave out and I couldn’t breathe. I almost didn’t do it. I almost turned around and left because I was too embarrassed to say that I needed a wheelchair. It was crossing a line I didn’t ever want to cross. But I did it. Because practicality finally won out over pride. And, ultimately, that’s what all of this has been about.I absolutely believe there are people who weigh 530 pounds and are happy and healthy. I’d never be so myopic as to claim my experience as the norm. I also absolutely still believe that wls is dangerous, highly invasive and overly performed…if anything the last 16 months have made me evencritical of the entire industry. I’ll never advocate wls or start proselytizing because “it changed/saved/fixed my life and it could do the same for you!” I will never be that asshole.But Ibe that asshole who claimed to be fat-positive but had weight loss surgery anyway. And I think I’m learning to be okay with that.-------------------------------------------------------------------------------For the folks coming across this now...Well, whether you’re here to tell me how disgusting and repulsive I am or to tell me that I should have eaten less (never would have thought of that one!) or just out of curiosity, you might as well have all the information. I’m sure 98% of you are just looking for more things to mock and laugh at but, hey, at least I’m entertaining you!My surgery was on October 22, 2007. You can read about it here . So those of you telling me to die on the operating table...too late! Sorry to disappoint you!As of April 22nd, I’ve lost 152 pounds. I no longer have GERD (acid reflux) or sleep apnea. My blood sugar and cholesterol have normalized. All of my vitamin levels are good. Walking and moving are becoming easier and easier.I average around 1,200 calories a day. Sometimes higher, sometimes lower.At this point I’m pretty much capable of eating anything. But that’s only a recent thing. Up until this past month or so I wasn’t able to eat meat unless it was shredded and in sauce or mayonnaise. Oh and some vegetables are still difficult/impossible for me to digest. In terms of quantity, I can eat a couple of ounces of food at a time.I had a serious sugar addiction beforehand and that’s gone. I’m not lying, I do eat candy but too much gives me headaches now so, meh, not as interested as I once was. Now that my palate isn’t deadened, fruit pretty much meets my sugar needs. Also, I have almost no interest in cupcakes now! They’re pretty to look at and wear but eating them? Not really interested. Which is kind of weird.People want to know what I eat. Or have decided that I’m clearly unhealthy and destined for failure because I eat cheese and have popcorn with a tablespoon of butter and a little powdered nacho cheese flavoring every night. I eat cheese. I eat popcorn. I also eat watermelon, peas, hardboiled eggs, cottage cheese, yogurt, Kashi cereal, skim milk, couscous, tomatoes, pickles, apples, rice cakes, and a million other things.I do occasionally eat fast food. Maybe a couple of times a month. Here’s an example. I was craving a cheeseburger. So I went to Wendy’s and got the 99cent cheeseburger. It was four meals/snacks. I also got a small Frosty. That’s been in the freezer for more than a week and is still almost full. A foot-long Subway sandwich is four meals and sometimes I can’t finish all the bread.I’m supposed to eat fuller fat products becauseand they contain less weird chemicals. So my eating butter or mayo or sour cream isn’t the end of the world.I aim for three liters of water a day and would exercise more if not for my chronic back pain. Though my joint pain is lessening as the weight comes off. Now that I can move more easily, I’m realizing how good exercising actually feels.And to clarify a few things.1. When I say I don’t believe in “dieting” I mean I don’t believe in Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, Nutrisystem, etc. Because most people gain the weight back once they stop “dieting.” God knows I did! Just because I don’t believe in the diet industry doesn’t mean I don’t believe in eating healthy and exercising. Just because I don’t believe in the diet industrydoesn’t mean I haven’t tried every single diet in existence before making the decision to have surgery.2. When I said that it’s possible for someone to weigh 530 pounds and be happy and healthy? I said that because it’s not my place to judge the health or happiness of others. I’m not going to make a blanket statement saying “X>certain weight, therefore X = unhealthy and miserable.” If someone weighs 530 pounds and says they’re happy and healthy, who the fuck am I to disagree? I’m not them and I’m not their doctor so it’s not my place to scream about how impossible that must be.3. Perhaps the Fat Acceptance movement wouldn’t have to exist if people weren’t so quick to tell folks that they should die/kill themselves/are worthless/useless/etc. simply because they’re fat. You’re pretty much proving its necessity by harassing and threatening the people who belong to it.4. I don’t care if you’ve had weight loss surgery. It doesn’t change the way I view you. The fact that any fat person can manage tohave this surgery the way it’s shoved in our faces every day is a miracle. I don’t care what you do with your body. Have surgery, don’t have surgery, it’s not my decision to make. Some Fat Acceptance advocates hate on and won't associate with people who choose to have surgery. That isn’t who I am. I care about people more than I care about politics. Always have, always will. Long before I chose to have surgery I had friends who’d done it. What the hell do I care? Like suddenly a small stomach is going to make me walk away from someone? And I don’t care if that makes me hypocritical in your eyes.But if you honestly think that the way WLS is viewed and treated in this country is normal? You’re the one in denial, not me. I don’t have a problem with WLS because I think everyone who has it is a sell-out and a traitor (and I've been called both.) I have a problem with WLS because doctors are pushing it on smaller and smaller patients. I have a problem with WLS because it’s treated like a magic-bullet cure-all that will make you thin and happy in an hour and you’ll be back to work and running a mile within a week. I have a problem with WLS because people who aren’t fat enough to get it here, either intentionally gain weight or go to Mexico in order to have it done. I have a problem with WLS becauseare getting it. I have a problem with the doctors and the companies that gloss over the life-changing reality of the procedure because they want more patients and more insurance companies shelling out for a surgery that will significantly alter the rest of your life.I’m a hypocrite. Fine. But I can walk now. And that’s a good enough trade off for me.