She needed to stay fat

The spoon rest lazily in her hand, the heavy side resting on her middle finger, her thumb casually keeping it from hitting the plate. She could feel crumbs lay upon her chin while grease coated the corners of her mouth. Her stomach felt extended and painful as the lasagna and burgers and tacos and lots and lots of water sloshed unrelenting against the lining. It was all she could do not to vomit. She wasn’t a purger, she was a binger. She binged to release the pain in soft burps, to fill the void of never knowing herself, to stay as fat as possible to keep hands at bay.

She ran her tongue along the corners of her mouth tasting the remains of the dishes she made a few days ago, maybe a week ago, maybe a month, who’s to say? It was an examination of self control and retribution for being born into the skin surrounding her. She could still occasionally feel her father’s prodding her for pleasure and each time those memories skimmed her brain, she would fill her stomach.

Each spoonful took her further up into the stratosphere, far above the sneak attack from the memories, she would hover in the high, in the sway of the air cradling her as the food took her apart, piecing back together into grotesque fat, blubber, thick thighs, sagging breasts, double chin, and a large ass. The last time she could look down and see her feet, she was cresting puberty, by the age of 14 her tender sweet body was gone, hidden in layers of clothing, shame, and a size 20.

30 years later, it was still the same, gorging until the sweat spilled from her skin, making it difficult to hold the spoon, tears streaming down her cheeks as she knew this would not stop anything, it would not prevent the memories, the knowledge she was just a plaything, a temporary stop of sexual frustration for the people who couldn’t stop their own impulses. A true cycle of addiction, no matter what you call them, addiction can strangle the reason out of someone, smother caution until it dies.

She could feign OK during the day, she could avoid eating, stay away from the kitchen while she made her way through the motions of each day, get up, get dressed, drink coffee. But as a vampire knows when the sun is coming, she always knew when night was approaching her, she could feel it stingy her insides, making her wish she didn’t have to feel her body, wishing she could feel something else. As the dark took the world around her, her mouth would water, she would scan her cabinets for something to make that was the worst possible thing to make and eat. She would make food loaded with calories, fat, grease, she would sit and smack her lips, filling her mouth as quickly as it would empty. Shoving mounds of food into her made her feel less tainted, less raped, less wanted. It soothed her. Her full stomach, pressing against her clothing, the salt making her skin tight as her body swelled. It was all a process, an attempt to either feel something else or die.

She needed to stay heavy, she needed to stay fat! That single mantra carried through her day after day until she was put on a medication that actually did what it was suppose to do, but the side effect she did not want, weight loss. When she started taking the little pill to erase her depression, she weighed 300 pounds. Within 5 months, she lost 40 pounds. Then the panic set in. People were noticing she was losing weight, people noticed there was less of her. She couldn’t make them understand that was not a good thing! They wouldn’t hear it. Weight loss is good, they believe that. Society tells everyone being thin is important but they never read the small print of being thin, the small print, the disclaimer that states you will be a victim of rape and sexual assault. You will be gawked at by male privilege. You will be reduced to nothing but a vehicle for taunts and woots, no matter if you want it or not. Visual rape is as real as physical rape. She needed to stay fat because she had been a victim of all of that.

Have I mentioned, I hate medication!

I have developed a reaction to the Lamictal. Shortly after starting the medication, I developed small patches of rashes on my back and legs, hives popped up on my legs and thighs. No sores in my mouth or nose, so that's a plus. I had only been on it for exactly two weeks. I called my psychiatrist and spoke to the receptionist, he is such a nice guy, and he told me to stop the Lamictal AT ONCE. I am incredibly itchy, restless, and have flu-like symptoms. I see her tomorrow but man, is it really worth this? The medication I am currently, Pristiq has helped my depression, I am taking less Niacin, but it has done nothing for my anxiety.

I have been seeking help for my depression and anxiety since I was 15. For 30 years I have seen, maybe, 12 therapists and 3 psychiatrists, with almost no results. The only therapists that actually helped me were Shela and Dale. They forced me to look deeper within the issues, the true issues, so that I could find my way out of them. My issues run deep, from an eating disorder, anxiety, depression, isolation, and countless others. And although I went into each session filled with hope that this therapist would help me, I would leave knowing they couldn't. For whatever reason, The only two therapists who actually helped me, Shela; she was just amazing! She specialized in in MPD (Multiple Personality Disorder). She was an early pioneer in the field and made breakthroughs very few therapists at the time could. Her approach to treatment was first, let the system know there would be no integration, unless the ENTIRE system wanted it. Second, the treatment could only work if the client was in control of its progress. I made such incredible progress with her. Then there was Dale; she is the kindest, most endearing woman I have met since Shela. Her approach was pretty much the same, but what she treated was not the level of anxiety I have. My treatment could only go so far with her and we both knew that. I have had two other therapists since Dale but none have done for me what she did.

After 30 years of trying, of course it stands to reason I would get tired, tired of trying to new approaches, new medications, the latest fads in medicine with such horrific side effects I would lie in bed for days feeling as I were slowly dying. And for what? Nothing is helping the anxiety. But, through my skill of self analysis, I think I have found the cause.

My family lives roughly five hours from me. My mother has visited Memphis on several occasions, and it was at the start of those visits that my anxiety became unbearable. So much so I withdrew. The harder I tried to be "better," the worse the anxiety became to the point I had a breakdown. And here I am, nearly four years later, still trying to recover from that.  But I feel if I were further away from them, my recovery would be leaps and bounds ahead of where I am now.

My point to this tirade?
Medication will not work for me, it hasn't in the past, it will not in the future. Why? Because my anxiety is trigger by my proximity to my family. I can fully grasp that reality. It makes sense to me. It fits because when I was in California, Texas, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, South Carolina, North Carolina, Colorado, and Florida, I was fine. I functioned outside, in California I had jobs, I spent my weekends walking around downtown L.A. and Pasadena. I went to the beach, movies, etc. So, yes, I know the closer I am to my abusers, the worse I am.

Do I know what I sound like?
Yes, I know full well this sounds like the rants of someone who is ill and feels they would do better off the medication. The problem with that theory is, I am fully aware of my mental faculties, I am aware of myself. I self analyze daily. I take frequent inventory of my psyche every chance I get.

So, I'm back to square one. But one thing about me, I never give up!

Something happened at therapy that is bothering me

Not what you think.

When I was 14, I started to gain weight. Around the same time, the sexual abuse stopped. It was also around the time my family started to ignore me. In my mind, being heavy equals safety.

Fast forward 30 years, I have maintained my weight between 280 and 300 pounds. If my weight starts to drop, my anxiety will go through the roof. Don't get me wrong, I fully understand years of being obese is terrible for my body, but so was abuse. I had to trade one thing (my health) for something else (safety). It was probably right at my breakdown nearly four years ago that I began to understand being this heavy is probably super bad and I should lose weight. I also knew that just losing weight wouldn't work while the underlying issue related to my weight was still lingering.

So, I figured while I was in therapy I would approach the topic and see if I can get passed it. But every time I brought it up, it would eventually either be overshadowed by something else my therapist wanted to discuss or completely skirted and never brought up again. That is what happened Monday when I started my session like this, "I have two things I want to discuss today and the first thing is pretty big. Since I started Pristiq, I have lost my appetite and I started to lose weight which has caused my anxiety to flare up. And it's something I need to figure out because I don't think me losing weight will stop any time soon." My therapists response, "How old are you now?" "I'm 44." "Well, maybe it's your body's way of telling you to lose weight, to spare your knees and your general health." My response, "I don't have health issues. I don't have heart disease or diabetes, I don't have back problems, I have high blood pressure but two doctors have diagnosed it as stress and anxiety related, and I have taken medication for 8 years to control that with no issues." And that was it. She started talking about something else and we never got back to it. She is a good therapist, she specializes in anxiety and agoraphobia and her approach fits my personality. It's hard to find a therapist who will not discuss the MPD (multiple personality disorder) when you make it clear it is not up for discussion. She respects that boundary.

But this is bothering me. So, I told Melissa it was bothering me and I knew it was something I needed to work on but just like my therapists, she ended up skirting the issue and I called her out on it. Melissa said, "Huh, you're right. That's interesting." And that was it. o.0

Why is this so hard to discuss? Why is it so hard to get help for this? There has to be other people out there who are experiencing the same thing; gaining weight to protect oneself, and then losing weight without trying to having that cause anxiety. I can't be the only one. I don't know what to do about this if no one is willing to listen to me and understand there is great concern about this. But I will try again during my next session and I will let her know that it did bother me and this is not something that needs to be skirted. If I don't stand up for me, no one will.