When I crossed the stage to receive my high school diploma, I stood 5’9″ and weighed about 110 pounds. I was able to eat as much as I wanted and not gain weight. I expected to be effortlessly thin all my life.
Freshman year in college, my metabolism slowed down some. If I paid any attention, though, I could drop pounds quickly. My weight fluctuated over the next decade, but when I got married at 27 the scale showed 130. Thought to myself, “It’s only 20 pounds more than when I graduated high school.”
In my 30’s, I gave birth to two sons 19 months apart. Pregnancy weight didn’t get out of control. Afterwards, I took my babies for walks everyday and watched portion sizes. When it was all said and done, the scale showed a plateau at 150. I was shocked, shocked! because the thought of ever weighing this much had never occurred to me. Once I was desensitized, I thought, “It’s all right. It’s just 20 more than I weighed on my wedding day.”
Then there I was in my 50’s with my metabolism slowed waaaaay down. Just 20 more.
Most recently, with the pandemic and seriously increased pain limiting activity, I’ve gained more, but just 20 pounds.
If you’d told my skinny self in high school that I would someday weigh <gulp> 190 lbs. I probably would’ve said, “No way! Fuck off!” because I was a mouthy little shit.
Accepting chronic illness and pain is more difficult than I would’ve expected, but I must stop consoling myself with doughnuts and ice cream. <sigh>
I’m posting this even though, or perhaps because, it makes me so uncomfortable. For over a year, I’ve laid bare my emotions and thoughts regarding fibromyalgia, depression, anxiety, and insecurities. After all that, why would it make me so nervous to post this? Certainly societal pressure for women to be thin contributes but, besides being unexpected, it erases more of who I was. I find my reluctance to be honest in this particular area fascinating.
SurvivingSara 