That was the word my Thyroidologist was using when he was discussing my situation with me yesterday at my 3 month check up.
Yes, I’m fat.
I recognize that.
“But,” I try not to cry to him, it comes out whiny and moany “it’s been out of my control. Nothing I do works.”
He keeps mentioning things like over-eating. Diet. Exercise. Vitamin supplements
I don’t. I am. I do. I WILL!
He doesn’t listen.
He has already written me off as a woman who closet eats and doesn’t exercise.
I don’t. I do.
Obese, he keeps saying in reference to me.
Stop it. Just stop saying that. I want to cover my ears and scream at him.
He doesn’t even look at me, just my file.
I’m a white sheet of paper with illegible handwriting, only taken out of a filing cabinet before my visit.
It’s a thin file.
But I’m not.
It can’t be. There’s no way. Not me.
I am NOT obese.
I’m just fat.
He slides his glasses down to the tip of his nose and reads to me what his last report already told me, I’m very low in vitamin D and should consider supplements.
Maybe that will help a bit, he says.
He tells me to expect his new report in two weeks as he is leaving my room to go see his other patients.
See you in 6 months, he says kindly. Oh and, you just happen to be one of those women that, for unexplained reasons, gains weight.
I mustn’t cry. Not over a silly word.
A word that surely doesn’t describe anything to do with me.
But it does.
30 pounds overweight is considered obese.
As of this latest scale stepping, I’ve gained 60 pounds in 2 years.
I’m 50 pounds over where I should be.
I wasn’t a toothpick when all these thyroid issues began.
I’m a stay-puff marshmallow now. An oompah loompah minus the self tanner.
And gaining by the week.
Vitamin D supplements kicked up a notch.
Exercise kicked up even more notches.
Cutting back sugar.
Cutting back carbs.
Cutting back air.
I’m sick of looking in the mirror and not recognizing the person looking back at me.
I’m sick of stepping on the scale and left feeling like I’m going to vomit.
I don’t know what’s happening to me. To my body.
It’s not in my control.
And as a controlling person, this is completely unacceptable.
As soon as that new report comes to me in the mail, I’m taking it to a different doctor.
Someone who will hopefully look at me as a person and not a fat file.
Someone who can help me get back in control.
Someone who will never say that word in reference to me and then leave me with no hope for finding answers.
No. Please. Not me.