Surprise #2: Weights and measures

My weight has been an issue for someone in my life for as long as I can remember.

First, it was my mother, who put me on my first diet when I was 8. It took seven years of therapy later in life for me to be able to say that I think she meant well. That is to say, she didn’t want me to live a life of loneliness and misery. And as far as she knew — though from what source I can't imagine — if you weren’t skinny, you were bound to be lonely and miserable.

It would be another decade before I started to worry about my weight. In 11th grade, I got stood up for a date. A friend confessed that she'd heard him say he wasn’t sure he wanted to date a “fat chick.” A couple of days later, I went to Weight Watchers for the first time. I was successful in losing weight and with each pound I lost, interest from boys went up. Eventually, I found myself dating a boy who scared the shit out of me — the first Latin stud who ever gave me a second look. That’s when I knew my mother had to be right. Thin equaled happy and loved.

My practice-husband — the bonehead — took worrying about my weight to a whole new level. He worried constantly about what I was wearing and eating, and withheld his affection if he didn’t think I made the grade. I spent three long years second-guessing myself. Despite valiant efforts to be beautiful in his eyes, I put on a bunch of weight during our marriage. Any dime-store psychologist would have seen that coming.

Post-divorce, I no longer needed padding to protect me from him and my weight dropped fast. It was a wild time in my life — one I would neither eighty-six nor repeat. Midway through, I got myself involved with a bad man. He disrespected me. More importantly, I disrespected myself. Eventually, despite more valiant efforts, my weight began to creep up yet again. I fought like hell. It was a losing battle.

After a few years of that, I hit rock bottom, came to my senses and walked into therapy. Seven years later, I emerged having conquered the demons that live on food issues, distorted body image and skinny=love.

Uh, except that, clearly, I haven’t. Because today, I feel guilty. Like a cheater. And a fake.

For eight months before surgery and four weeks afterward, this journey was about curing diabetes. It’s all I thought about. All I cared about. All I needed.

With that goal accomplished, my thoughts have turned to what’s happening to my body: It’s slimming down, without much work.

I’m not counting calories or fat grams or carbs. I’m not having to choose between what tastes good and what’s good for me. I’m not restricting myself or punishing myself or beating myself up when the scale doesn’t move.

For the first time in my life, I’m not dieting and I’m losing weight anyway.

On paper, it sounds lovely, doesn’t? In my head, it’s something different entirely. It’s not fair. It’s not right. It makes a mockery out of everyone who’s ever struggled to lose weight.

Somehow, in those seven years of therapy, I neglected to deal with a misguided belief that weight loss must be an epic struggle between a good person and a bad body in order to be just.

As a result, I’m fighting to hold onto the belief that what I‘ve done, what I’m doing, isn’t a lesser task than, say, if I’d rejoined Weight Watchers and or dialed up Dr. Atkins. It’s a daily struggle for me to believe that my decisions and actions aren’t inferior to those who take on this demon without surgery.

I know there are plenty of people on the planet who believe that what I’ve done is take the easy way out. A dear friend who had a similar surgery — the woman I call my Spirit Guide — has encountered these people in her life more than once.

Another friend of mine has spent the past 45 weeks or so losing 75 pounds. Her discipline and motivation, her drive to succeed, have made her thin and healthy. For that reason, no matter what happens from here, her accomplishment will outpace mine in my head.

Funny thing is, it absolutely does not not outpace Spirit Guide’s accomplishments. In my mind, her surgery is wasn’t a cop out. I’m proud of her for making a tough decision and following through. She’s worked hard to adapt to a dramatic new way of living, and she’s healthier for it.

How many years of therapy do you think it’ll take before I give myself the same credit?