It's been almost 21 years since I started my career at the Glass Palace. I can still remember my thoughts as I walked around there the first week or so after getting hired. I remember seeing the older ladies with their walkers or dragging their oxygen tanks behind them. Other ladies that wore masks and were quick to tell you that if you wore any perfume or scented lotions, you could not come near them since they had allergies. I remember how every payday Friday or every sunny Friday how the one lady mysteriously needed the ambulance called. I remembered seeing all the people that were severely over-weight and I thought, well, I guess being fat was part of the criteria to work here, but then right after thinking that, I thought, OMG, what have I done? I don't want to end up like this! What if that happens to me? I'll just be careful. That won't happen to me. It can't.
Fast-forward to 20 years and ten months later. I'm fatter than ever. I've been battling Call Center Ass all of these years. I only wish I weighed what I did when I started at the Glass Palace back then. But, how could I? I just go in and sit all day. I've done the working out thing at lunch and after work and dieting and all of that, but nonetheless, here I am. Here I am with knees that are so angry. One of which needs a new kneecap, but I'm too fat for surgery. I remember jumping off hay trucks and training horses and climbing all over that farm the whole time I grew up and through my 20's. I remember my Dad saying, "Babycakes, you better be careful jumping off those hay trucks like that, it might not hurt now, but someday those knees are going to give out on you." Well, Dad, if it makes you feel any better, you were right. The pain is so bad, I can barely make it from my desk to the bathroom and from the office to my truck. I just want to cry.
I went to an Orthopedic doctor and he gave me cortisone shots in each knee and told me that I needed surgery, but that I can't have it until I get my BMI in check. It's so frustrating because I truly do know I need to lose weight and am trying, but I am so overwhelmed with the constant pain, I just feel like giving up. I sent a message to the ortho-doctor again today and he basically said my primary doctor will have to refer me to a pain specialist because as long as I'm Fatty McFatterson, it's a no-go on the surgery and there is nothing else he can do.
I sent the following message to my primary doctor today:
"I am having severe pain in my knees, specifically intense in the right knee. I have seen Dr. Pepple in Orthopedics at the Everett location of the Everett Clinic. He says I need surgery, but we can't do that because I'm Fatty McFatterson and my BMI is too high. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I can barely walk. He said to talk to you about getting a referral to your Comprehensive Pain people, or whatever they are called. Maybe they can help me until I can lose enough weight to be operated on."
(The doctor didn't really call me Fatty Mcfatterson, but he was thinking it.)
I don't know what the hell a pain specialist is going to do for me. So what, they just get me a medical marijuana card and send me off to go smoke some weed until I just don't give a shit anymore? Do they prescribe medication that is going to eat my liver, kidney's pancreas and whatever other guts do stuff in there until I need to be on dialysis? Then, I end up in a wheel chair taking the para-bus to the treatment center a couple times a week, but the good news is, I'm in a wheel chair and I'm stoned, so I don't know that my life sucks. I probably will watch a lot of The Price is Right and People's Court. Anyway, I don't know what the pain people are going to do for me.
The hardest part of all of this is that I am so completely and utterly disappointed in myself right now. So hopeless, so frustrated, so angry. Truly angry that at 47 years old, this is where I am. I'm almost one of those ladies from 20 years ago. I'm there. I'm one polyester pair of pants away. Like, I could order some online tonight and have them by Friday. That close to there.
Let me paint the picture for you. When I walk, I'm basically Jabba the Hut, who's tail doesn't work to support him anymore, and he has two legs, both gimpy and he's walking like he's on hot coals and is dragging one leg and he needs a cane, but is trying to sneak up on Bambi because he's hungry. That's what it looks like when I walk.
I'm so fat.
I'm so fat that if I sat on a saint bernard dog, it would get lost up my ass and we'd have to call Search and Rescue to find it.
I'm so fat that my Spanx could be used as a parachute for a truck that skydives from a plane.
I'm so fat that even Jabba the Hut swiped left when he saw my profile on Tinder.
I'm so fat that I hear sobbing at night, but it isn't me, it's my clothes in the closet having anxiety about what I'm wearing in the morning.
I'm so fat that I can't go on an African Safari because it's too dangerous. Poachers might mistake me for an elephant and try and steal the ivory from my tusks.
I'm so fat that when I go on a whale-watching cruise, everyone takes pictures of me instead of the whales.
I'm so fat that my skin looks like someone used a blow torch on me and tried to melt my skin off.
I'm so fat, I can only put an inch of water in the bathtub because when I get in, it might over flow.
Fast-forward to 20 years and ten months later. I'm fatter than ever. I've been battling Call Center Ass all of these years. I only wish I weighed what I did when I started at the Glass Palace back then. But, how could I? I just go in and sit all day. I've done the working out thing at lunch and after work and dieting and all of that, but nonetheless, here I am. Here I am with knees that are so angry. One of which needs a new kneecap, but I'm too fat for surgery. I remember jumping off hay trucks and training horses and climbing all over that farm the whole time I grew up and through my 20's. I remember my Dad saying, "Babycakes, you better be careful jumping off those hay trucks like that, it might not hurt now, but someday those knees are going to give out on you." Well, Dad, if it makes you feel any better, you were right. The pain is so bad, I can barely make it from my desk to the bathroom and from the office to my truck. I just want to cry.
I went to an Orthopedic doctor and he gave me cortisone shots in each knee and told me that I needed surgery, but that I can't have it until I get my BMI in check. It's so frustrating because I truly do know I need to lose weight and am trying, but I am so overwhelmed with the constant pain, I just feel like giving up. I sent a message to the ortho-doctor again today and he basically said my primary doctor will have to refer me to a pain specialist because as long as I'm Fatty McFatterson, it's a no-go on the surgery and there is nothing else he can do.
I sent the following message to my primary doctor today:
"I am having severe pain in my knees, specifically intense in the right knee. I have seen Dr. Pepple in Orthopedics at the Everett location of the Everett Clinic. He says I need surgery, but we can't do that because I'm Fatty McFatterson and my BMI is too high. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I can barely walk. He said to talk to you about getting a referral to your Comprehensive Pain people, or whatever they are called. Maybe they can help me until I can lose enough weight to be operated on."
(The doctor didn't really call me Fatty Mcfatterson, but he was thinking it.)
I don't know what the hell a pain specialist is going to do for me. So what, they just get me a medical marijuana card and send me off to go smoke some weed until I just don't give a shit anymore? Do they prescribe medication that is going to eat my liver, kidney's pancreas and whatever other guts do stuff in there until I need to be on dialysis? Then, I end up in a wheel chair taking the para-bus to the treatment center a couple times a week, but the good news is, I'm in a wheel chair and I'm stoned, so I don't know that my life sucks. I probably will watch a lot of The Price is Right and People's Court. Anyway, I don't know what the pain people are going to do for me.
The hardest part of all of this is that I am so completely and utterly disappointed in myself right now. So hopeless, so frustrated, so angry. Truly angry that at 47 years old, this is where I am. I'm almost one of those ladies from 20 years ago. I'm there. I'm one polyester pair of pants away. Like, I could order some online tonight and have them by Friday. That close to there.
Let me paint the picture for you. When I walk, I'm basically Jabba the Hut, who's tail doesn't work to support him anymore, and he has two legs, both gimpy and he's walking like he's on hot coals and is dragging one leg and he needs a cane, but is trying to sneak up on Bambi because he's hungry. That's what it looks like when I walk.
I'm so fat.
I'm so fat that if I sat on a saint bernard dog, it would get lost up my ass and we'd have to call Search and Rescue to find it.
I'm so fat that my Spanx could be used as a parachute for a truck that skydives from a plane.
I'm so fat that even Jabba the Hut swiped left when he saw my profile on Tinder.
I'm so fat that I hear sobbing at night, but it isn't me, it's my clothes in the closet having anxiety about what I'm wearing in the morning.
I'm so fat that I can't go on an African Safari because it's too dangerous. Poachers might mistake me for an elephant and try and steal the ivory from my tusks.
I'm so fat that when I go on a whale-watching cruise, everyone takes pictures of me instead of the whales.
I'm so fat that my skin looks like someone used a blow torch on me and tried to melt my skin off.
I'm so fat, I can only put an inch of water in the bathtub because when I get in, it might over flow.
I'm so fat there could be a village of people living in my belly button.
I'm so fat that pigs are envious of my jowls and assorted chins.
I know none of this is Rug Doctor approved self-talk. I know it. But I'm mad. I'm sad. I'm over it. I hate myself. I hate looking in the mirror. I hate my hair, hate how my clothes fit. Hate it all. Why am I drawing on eye brows and putting on lipstick? Why bother? I'm a hideous creature. I thank the Lord above that Shark Bait has bad eyes-sight. I don't care if all these thoughts are true or not, it's how I feel. I keep trying to force myself to love this body, but it's about as easy as forcing liberals to love Trump.
And, to be clear, I don't need condolences, pity, a pep talk, an ass-chewing, kind words or diet ideas from anyone. I'm not asking for that. I'm saying, this sucks and I'm disappointed in me. I cried all the way home tonight. Maybe I should keep all these feelings to myself. But maybe, just maybe there is at least one other person that walks around pissed off and angry and this dialog is going through their head, too. Maybe not because they are Fatty McFatterson, but because of life choices, finances, relationships, family. I don't know, it could be a million things, but you're just angry inside and you don't see any way out. You're trapped. If you are one of those people and you are reading this, I get you. I don't want to hug it out with you or anything, but I get you. You're not alone. I don't know what we are going to do about any of this, but in the darkness know that you are not alone. It could be a stalker, a criminal or just some crazy-ass admin, which is creepy, but yeah...not alone.
What we could do is to start a support group called Misery Loves Company and meet weekly to tell each other to fuck off because we're all a bunch of fucking losers and we're sick of it, but we also want to get high so that we don't hurt or care about any of it anymore. But we don't because we have to go to work in the morning, because if we don't we'll be homeless and then that would suck even more, so here we are, miserable...but with company. I'll bring cookies and celery sticks to the first meeting.
I try and joke about the darkness as much as I can to keep things from getting too far out of hand, but when I go to bed at night, I look over at Shark Bait, we kiss and say "I love you" to each other. Then Shark Bait tells me to have sweet dreams, which never happens, because that's not how I work. And as he falls asleep quickly, more and more I have been thinking to myself, "will I ever see him again? Will I wake up in the morning? Will I die in my sleep because I've ruined this body?" I've seen a lot of people go through some pretty major health struggles lately and I have to wonder how long I can keep this up. I mean, I've watched that show, My 600-lb Life. Is that the next step for me? I mean, I'm not there now, but who knows? Maybe the pain specialist tells me to smoke weed and eat Doritos and that is all there is to my life? We don't know. Some might say that is a self-fulfilling prophecy and maybe it is. I don't know anymore. I just know, years ago, I wouldn't have predicted I would be here. But here I am. Leading the glamorous life of Fatty McFatterson.
The Rug Doctor might say that I'm doing the best I can based on my circumstances, but I'm not. I'm not doing the best that I can. I'm not good enough. This day is going to suck. She would say to be kind to myself and that I have the power to access the positive pony voices. By the power of Grey Skull, I assure you I do NOT have the power. Unfortunately, all the Angry Pony voices are queued up and are ready to fight. The problem is, I just don't know what they are fighting for anymore.
Anyway, that's where I am tonight...because...I'm so fat.
I'm so fat that pigs are envious of my jowls and assorted chins.
I know none of this is Rug Doctor approved self-talk. I know it. But I'm mad. I'm sad. I'm over it. I hate myself. I hate looking in the mirror. I hate my hair, hate how my clothes fit. Hate it all. Why am I drawing on eye brows and putting on lipstick? Why bother? I'm a hideous creature. I thank the Lord above that Shark Bait has bad eyes-sight. I don't care if all these thoughts are true or not, it's how I feel. I keep trying to force myself to love this body, but it's about as easy as forcing liberals to love Trump.
And, to be clear, I don't need condolences, pity, a pep talk, an ass-chewing, kind words or diet ideas from anyone. I'm not asking for that. I'm saying, this sucks and I'm disappointed in me. I cried all the way home tonight. Maybe I should keep all these feelings to myself. But maybe, just maybe there is at least one other person that walks around pissed off and angry and this dialog is going through their head, too. Maybe not because they are Fatty McFatterson, but because of life choices, finances, relationships, family. I don't know, it could be a million things, but you're just angry inside and you don't see any way out. You're trapped. If you are one of those people and you are reading this, I get you. I don't want to hug it out with you or anything, but I get you. You're not alone. I don't know what we are going to do about any of this, but in the darkness know that you are not alone. It could be a stalker, a criminal or just some crazy-ass admin, which is creepy, but yeah...not alone.
What we could do is to start a support group called Misery Loves Company and meet weekly to tell each other to fuck off because we're all a bunch of fucking losers and we're sick of it, but we also want to get high so that we don't hurt or care about any of it anymore. But we don't because we have to go to work in the morning, because if we don't we'll be homeless and then that would suck even more, so here we are, miserable...but with company. I'll bring cookies and celery sticks to the first meeting.
I try and joke about the darkness as much as I can to keep things from getting too far out of hand, but when I go to bed at night, I look over at Shark Bait, we kiss and say "I love you" to each other. Then Shark Bait tells me to have sweet dreams, which never happens, because that's not how I work. And as he falls asleep quickly, more and more I have been thinking to myself, "will I ever see him again? Will I wake up in the morning? Will I die in my sleep because I've ruined this body?" I've seen a lot of people go through some pretty major health struggles lately and I have to wonder how long I can keep this up. I mean, I've watched that show, My 600-lb Life. Is that the next step for me? I mean, I'm not there now, but who knows? Maybe the pain specialist tells me to smoke weed and eat Doritos and that is all there is to my life? We don't know. Some might say that is a self-fulfilling prophecy and maybe it is. I don't know anymore. I just know, years ago, I wouldn't have predicted I would be here. But here I am. Leading the glamorous life of Fatty McFatterson.
The Rug Doctor might say that I'm doing the best I can based on my circumstances, but I'm not. I'm not doing the best that I can. I'm not good enough. This day is going to suck. She would say to be kind to myself and that I have the power to access the positive pony voices. By the power of Grey Skull, I assure you I do NOT have the power. Unfortunately, all the Angry Pony voices are queued up and are ready to fight. The problem is, I just don't know what they are fighting for anymore.
Anyway, that's where I am tonight...because...I'm so fat.
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| Me and the skinny bitch I apparently ate soon after this photo was taken. |
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