Lifestyle
By Sarah Reed
Updated: Feb. 3, 2021
Originally Published: Feb. 3, 2021
Shame has been a constant presence in my life. From growing up on welfare and relying on food stamps to dealing with deep family secrets my mother insisted I keep quiet about.
I wasn’t labeled as the “fat kid” in school, but my endocrinologist made me feel that way from the age of five. My monthly visits left me feeling embarrassed about my weight gain, yet I was too young to grasp why it was happening.
All I felt was shame.
When I turned seven, my mom made a comment that I’ve carried with me ever since. We had a friend over, the only one my mother allowed in our home, who lived in the same apartment complex. After sharing frozen yogurt, my mom scolded me.
“You looked at your food like you were in love! Sheila thought you were nuts.”
This was a recurring theme with my mom — criticizing me for innocent behaviors and telling me what others might think. I was just a kid, confused and ashamed, wondering what I had done wrong.
Now, as the mother of a six-year-old, I observe how freely she enjoys her food without any judgment. I see kids devour ice cream without a care in the world, and I can’t help but feel anger that those comments from my mother still haunt me.
At twelve, I started to realize my body wasn’t “normal.” I wouldn’t learn about lipedema for another twenty years, but I recognized something was off with my calves and thighs. Medical professionals offered no explanations beyond the usual advice: “eat less and move more.” So, I complied. By the end of grade school, I had developed disordered eating habits, which, at the time, didn’t count as an eating disorder since I wasn’t underweight or purging.
For over two decades, I fluctuated between restrictive dieting and binge eating. I lost over 100 pounds on two occasions, only to regain it—and then some—repeatedly. I’ve lost 30 to 80 pounds more times than I can count.
Some diets weren’t worth the hassle; for example, I never dropped more than 30 pounds on a low-carb or ketogenic plan. I enjoy eating fruits, vegetables, and carbs — fiber makes me feel good. Nevertheless, I spent most of my adult life feeling ashamed about my lack of success in weight loss. A few years ago, I was diagnosed with lipedema, a condition often mistaken for obesity, and instead of feeling validated, I was left frustrated.
Women with lipedema are at a higher risk of developing eating disorders, and the medical community continues to push “eat less, move more,” even though fat from lipedema doesn’t budge with diet or exercise.
This summer, I had a harsh realization: my previous weight-loss attempts were merely manifestations of my eating disorder. I felt immense shame for struggling with binge eating disorder, especially since it wasn’t even recognized as a legitimate condition until 2013. Back then, I was on a strict raw food, low-fat vegan diet, counting every calorie and hitting the treadmill for 14 hours a week. I managed to drop to 285 pounds, but life took a turn when I became a single mom after a tumultuous relationship, leading to a 70-pound weight gain as I adjusted to motherhood.
I carried my excess weight, along with shame, often reminiscing about my “former self” and envying my past strength. I believed that losing weight equated to success. Gaining weight, however, felt like failure, as if it exposed my inability to manage my life.
I’ve come to recognize that I’ve been unwell for a long time. Although I lost weight, many with eating disorders do. The problem lies in a society that glorifies these struggles as long as the scale trends downward. I’ve added to this harm while trying various diets and searching for secrets on how celebrities like Melissa McCarthy or Adele achieved weight loss.
I’m now confronting the truth: my weight-loss efforts have stemmed from disordered eating. Every diet was about “outsmarting” my body, suggesting that it couldn’t be trusted.
I’ve thought things like:
- My body can’t manage itself with an adult portion of food, so I’ll eat like a toddler.
- I can’t resist bingeing on ice cream, so I’ll keep it out of the house.
- If I don’t track every bite, I’ll forget how much I’ve eaten.
- I should stick to low-calorie, high-volume foods to trick my body into feeling full.
Ultimately, it’s all-consuming. My daily mood hinges on whether I’m following my diet and losing weight. Dining out with friends or celebrating holidays becomes a source of anxiety.
Fatphobia runs so deep that many don’t even recognize their obsession with food or weight. We’ve been conditioned to believe that being fixated on food rules is healthier than being “fat.” Understanding this collective cultural eating disorder is challenging, yet I’m starting to see why it’s so hard to break free.
Now, I’m taking a different path, and it terrifies me. I’ve decided to stop dieting for good.
This choice is frightening because society insists that at over 400 pounds, I should pursue weight loss, perhaps through gastric bypass. A part of me echoes those sentiments. I feel the urge to revert to extreme dieting, but I’m asking myself: what will change this time?
The instinct is to view this as a willpower issue — a lack of discipline — but it’s really about stepping off the disordered eating rollercoaster. You can’t recover from one eating disorder while embracing another.
I’m finished with dieting, not because I want to remain at this weight, but because dieting has never fostered a healthy relationship with my body, food, or weight.
These days, I’m not keen on taking photos. You might not realize I once weighed close to 400 pounds, or that I was over that weight in another picture. I know all the tricks — the right angles, the retakes — to capture a flattering shot. I dread candid photos, feeling a deep sense of shame as a plus-size woman.
I want to share what it’s like to inhabit a larger body, but it’s complicated. I have many reasons for disliking my weight, including perceptions from others. When meeting new people, I often wonder if they’re judging me. Society has conditioned us to make fat jokes and derogatory remarks about larger bodies.
Naturally, I’m aware of how people perceive me. When they learn I’m a single mother without interest in dating, they might think it’s because I’m “too fat.” Speaking up about my experiences on social media invites backlash, where I may be labeled as “a big fat bitch.”
In everyday life, I’ve faced judgment from strangers in stores, who seem to be offended by my presence or assume my body is somehow contagious.
My struggles with my weight aren’t limited to social anxiety; they include physical challenges. For instance, “chub rub” can be a nightmare. With severe lipedema, it’s painful and debilitating. Recently, I faced a nasty flare-up, and while I tried to treat it, I ended up making it worse. Now, I’m sitting here, ashamed and wondering how I can proclaim my decision to quit dieting while discussing the realities of my body.
The truth lies somewhere in between. Diet culture insists I need to lose weight immediately. The narrative is reminiscent of shows like “The Biggest Loser,” where doctors reprimand patients for their weight.
But I’m ready to say goodbye to that narrative. I’m embracing the complexities of my journey, seeking to understand and speak openly about my body without shame.
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Search Queries:
- How to stop dieting for good?
- Understanding lipedema and its impact on weight.
- Emotional effects of dieting and disordered eating.
- Body positivity at higher weights.
- Coping with societal fatphobia.
Summary:
The author discusses her lifelong struggle with shame and dieting, particularly in relation to her weight of over 400 pounds. After years of disordered eating and unsuccessful weight loss attempts, she has chosen to stop dieting altogether. She reflects on societal pressures, the impact of lipedema, and the cultural narratives surrounding body image. Ultimately, she seeks to embrace her body and share her experiences without shame.
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