My weight has always been a problem. Only twice in my life have I ever felt like my weight was easy to control: once with pneumonia, and once with altitude sickness. In both cases, my weight dropped quickly without any effort. At every other time in my life, my weight has been a struggle.
About five years ago, I got REALLY aggressive with trying to control my weight. My wife was pregnant with our first child, and my weight was as high as it’s ever been (close to 300 pounds). It was time to change.
My doctor wouldn’t even discuss other health issues with me as long as my weight was in the “obese” range. The mentality seems to be that fat people can’t have any non-weight-related health issues. Everything that could possibly be wrong would be fixed instantly with a BMI of 24.9.
I tried to lose weight on my own, measuring and recording every bite. Then came Weight Watchers, My Fitness Pal, and FitBit. Along the way there was near-starvation, regular exercise, low-carb, gluten-free, dairy-free, and vegetarian. I saw several doctors and a dietitian. My weight went down, my weight went up; nothing seemed to work for any length of time. Despite my best efforts, my average weight loss was around four ounces a week.
Weight loss can be a brutal struggle for anyone, and even more so when clinically depressed. Feelings of failure, guilt, hopelessness, frustration, and despair come naturally to both the dieting and the depressed.
After a while, I was essentially starving myself. At my lowest point, my intake was around 700 calories a day. Exhaustion and hunger were my constant companions, but the weight just kept coming. My weight became something of an obsession, and all my precious free time was dedicated to researching causes and solutions.
It turns out, gaining weight on an extremely low-calorie diet is actually pretty common. The solution seems to be “re-training” the body to burn calories instead of trying to cling to every morsel of food. It would mean gaining some weight in the short term, but starting to eat a reasonable amount of food again and losing weight over time.
So, I gave it a shot. Vowing to avoid the scale for a few weeks, I re-committed myself to eating a healthy, well-rounded diet in line with my basal metabolic rate. My pants got a little tighter, then they started getting a little looser again. I felt pretty good; this seemed to be working.
Well, it wasn’t. Combined with the weight gain from a couple weeks before the re-training, I was up thirteen pounds. At four ounces a week, that’s an entire year of torture negated in about six weeks.
I completely lost my mind. This could be the day. I seriously started considering the best way to die. A huge breakfast, a couple cigarettes, and a jump into the icy river ought to do it. I did not want to live anymore.
Pain. I hated myself so much it physically hurt. My stomach clenched; my chest was tight. I tried to cry, but I couldn’t, so I screamed instead. My daughter was terrified, so I hid in the basement.
After a while, my wife came down to check on me. She tries so hard to be supportive, but she just doesn’t know what to do with me anymore. She’s currently helping me navigate our insurance so I can try to get on medication again, but that’s its own form of torture.
Something set me off. In hindsight, I don’t know what it was, but I’m sure it was irrelevant. For whatever reason, it seemed like a good time to pick a fight with my wife. I remember screaming “Every day I wake up and pray to god that this could be the day that I just die!” and storming out of the house.
Now I hated myself even more. On top of everything else, I had just screamed at the one person trying to help me. Thoughts of dying started running through my head. Not suicide, but just dying. I ended up buying a cup of coffee and my first pack of cigarettes in a decade. I went to the park and stood on the dock, looking out at the frozen lake, sipping my coffee and smoking.
The ice was pretty thin. Probably wouldn’t hold my weight. I wonder if I could pull myself out? Probably not. Probably wouldn’t matter after a minute or two. God, I missed cigarettes. Nobody else out here; probably wouldn’t get any help. Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know.
Then came thoughts of my children. They love me, most of the time. They’re still young enough, they don’t really know what that means, but they love me with complete abandon. I have to do what’s right for them, even if that means not being around anymore.
Then came thoughts of my wife. She loves me, most of the time. She’s intelligent, she knows what that means, and she loves me anyway. She’s an amazing mother, and I have to do whatever I can to support her, even if that means not being around anymore.
I know what I think, but I can’t make that decision for them.
[Note: I started writing this piece right after the new year. Since that time, I started seeing a new psychiatrist, got back on medication, leveled out a little, had to stop seeing the new psychiatrist thanks to an insurance screw-up, and am now looking for another new therapist. I spent (and continue to spend) a lot of time processing the feelings and emotions of this period, and felt it was important to finish telling the story. This was most definitely a low point for me, possibly my lowest, and I am glad to say I have stepped back from the edge at this point.]