Published: June 7th 2019, 11:36:21 am
To the layman I’m lots of things. Heavy. Chunky. Plump. Portly. Fat. Husky. Chubby. Paunchy. To the doctor, I’m morbidly obese. Am I a victim of a global obesity epidemic? Do I have a thyroid issue? Maybe a little of this, and maybe a little of that. But to tell you the truth, it’s mostly my dad’s fault.
My parents had me when they were young. They were both 17 and I was an accident child. I derailed my mom’s plan to go to college. Instead of raising a child alone, she stayed with my dad. My father had always been fat. When he met my mom, he was already pushing 350 lbs. She decided to stay with him in the hopes that he could provide for us. My grandparents were wealthy and left him a fortune when they passed away after a car accident.
My dad was a man of bad habits, especially when it came to his diet. He had his parents’ money, so he didn’t have to work. This left him lazy and able to purchase ridiculous mountains of food. He ate nothing but junk food and fast food. He was known to always be snacking on cookies, cakes, and chips. Food was the way he showed his love and I assumed this was because he loved food.
He wasn’t prepared to be a father. Basic nutrition was one of those areas he wasn’t prepared for and thus let me eat whatever I wanted. I didn’t know any better, but ultimately if he ate it I ate it too. There were always rumors in my family that at just a year old my father was trying to feed me cheeseburgers. Babies should not be eating cheeseburgers! Young kids shouldn’t be eating the same meals as morbidly obese adults! Hasn’t he heard of portion control? Diet and exercise?
Growing up, my parents had frequent fights because of how Dad let me eat when Mom wasn’t around. Sometimes Dad would let me drink his sodas if I brought them to him so he didn’t have to leave the couch, but only if we kept quiet about it. I noticed the more I hid this information from Mom, the more Dad would let me eat with him. Guzzling soda was my favorite pastime time growing up. We bonded over binging on food. Food was a reward. Food made me feel good and I did everything in my power to keep our delicious secret from Mom. Food was love in every sense of the word.
Regardless, Mom knew what was going on because she would have to buy new clothes for us. I remember not being able to fit into normal pants at the mall and having to go to the Big and Tall shop for elastic pants with Dad. This made Mom furious.
Once on our way to a PTA meeting, she brought up how Dad was approaching 600 pounds. She was angry at all of it, knowing that none of us were actually living our best lives. She yelled about the seat belt extender he had to use. She yelled about how he outgrew clothes. She yelled about my nutritionist’s concerns for my health, and how she was afraid CPS would take me away from her. She demanded to know why we didn’t care, and why Dad didn’t set a good example for me. She lectured us both on the perils of morbid obesity.
This went on for years. Despite her protests, we kept gaining weight. The food binges continued. The time I was probably most ashamed was when I was hiding deep fried Oreo balls from her around Christmas. Through the Christmas party I would take them and stash them in my room. Mom popped in my room for a second. I tried to hide them under the bed, but she had already witnessed the act. She yelled for a bit and threw them away in anger.
No matter how many diets and gym memberships I knew that all it took was puppy dog eyes for my dad to give in. He knew what addiction was like and didn’t want to deprive me. He gave me some of his deep fried Oreo balls that night.
At 18, I dropped out of high school due to the desks being too small for someone over 400 lbs and the teasing of my classmates. I still regret that decision. I only had a year left, but I couldn’t handle it. It wasn’t just the students that called me fatass. Teachers and school administrators made snide comments about my weight. The gym teacher sarcastically asked me if I needed a mobility scooter to ‘run the mile.’
Dropping out was the final straw. Mom had had enough. I was an adult and she knew she couldn’t control me. I could make my own decisions, even though addiction wasn’t really a decision at all. She was so drained with trying to stop our destructive behavior. The fighting was less frequent because she’d given up on being an agent of change when it came to our diet and exercise routines. Why waste time and energy yelling anymore? She no longer wanted to see both of us blimp, or as she called it “circling the drain.” She divorced my dad. I haven’t seen her since.
At that point there was no reason to stop. Dad loved to eat and I felt the need to spend time with him. Mom was no longer around to try to pump the breaks on the unhealthy relationships I cultivated with both Dad and food. Soon, a third unhealthy relationship started. Someone needed to take care of Dad, and I was too big to assist him with anything he needed. Instead of hiring home health nurses, we relied on Dad’s brother.
Uncle Eric struggled with his own weight. A few years before all this started, my uncle Eric worked as a chef. One day he had a heart attack at 500 lbs, and ended up having emergency bariatric surgery. There were complications that almost killed him, causing him to become jaded at the weight loss industry. However, he cut his weight in half. His contempt for the industry and ability to cook made him the perfect enabler for the same bad habits Mom tried to stop. Having Eric around was the perfect gaining storm. Our weight soared upward ina short time frame.
I was depressed over the years that followed. My inability to exercise combined with the weight of my parent’s divorce crushed me almost as much as my lungs were crushed beneath my massive breasts. Leaving the house became more and more difficult, all the more sad given how young I was. I was supposed to have my whole life ahead of me, but I quickly outgrew life.I missed out on a driver’s license. I missed out on a diploma. I missed out on having sex for the first time. These thoughts just made my depression worse. My appetite went into full throttle. Eating could only be described as euphoric. I wasn’t always hungry, but eating numbed the pain. Eating was my only source of joy. By the time I hit 22, I’d ballooned to almost 700lbs.
No matter how bad it got, I was in denial. I kept telling myself that Dad had it worse. Mobility? It took a little time for me to rock myself out of oversized chairs and my knees cracked and groaned, but at least I could get out of bed as opposed to dad. He could hardly even roll himself over, let alone make it to the edge of the bed. Chest pain? I pushed it to the back of mind, thinking I was too young for a heart attack, and that Dad’s heart must be worse. Insulin? I was burning through insulin quickly, but dad was tearing through unit after unit. I wondered if it was enough to kill a whale, since his body was about the size of one.
I wasn’t exaggerating about him being a whale. Dad had completely lost control. When Uncle Eric moved in, Dad moved to a bariatric bed in the living room. He had to be over 1200 lbs by now, because he was much bigger than me and I was pushing 800.
His body was ruined at that point. I didn’t know whether to be more impressed or disturbed by then. He filled up his entire bariatric bed, and he didn’t bother to cover himself up. Being naked exposed his body for what it was. His belly completely enveloped his poor knees, leaving his tree trunk legs exposed. They leaked a gross yellow fluid and were turning a darker color - clear signs that they weren’t circulating. The rest of his belly spilled out over the bed frame. On top of it were two giant mountains soft as pillows that he called his chest. They were so heavy they prevented his small lungs from expanding. It also didn’t help that his airway was also choked with a chin and neck that were inches thick with fat. Thus, he always had a cannula pushing oxygen into his airway. I could tell he couldn’t keep going like that.
That leads us to where I am now. I need you to know this cautionary tale. Letting it out has been a cathartic experience, but I also it encourages you to break the cycle in your own family. I’m completely heartbroken and I’ve been reflecting on how it all went wrong. Dad passed away two weeks ago. He was only 40. He tripled his weight and cut his lifespan nearly in half. At this rate I’ll be much younger when it happens to me. I considered bariatric surgery despite Uncle Eric’s protest. I’d have to lose 300 lbs to be considered, and that’s too much to lose on my own. I lose control around food.
My chest hurts, but I can’t tell if it’s the heart muscle from all of my tears or if my heart is finally going to give out. It wouldn’t be the end of the world at this point. When they moved Dad’s body, it was an ordeal. Our home had to have a wall knocked down and the crane almost broke. I was told we made it on the news, but I didn’t want to hear the negative things that would be said about Dad, and about how I would end up the same way.
Life without him is hard. I don’t think I’ve stopped eating in the past two weeks, even when it makes my stomach churn. I get sick, and then I go back to eating like nothing happened. I slowly make my way down the hall to where Dad’s old bed is, but it’s a real struggle. My knees and joints ache. I’m immediately out of breath, and I feel my belly touch both walls of the hall. It’s cold against my skin, and my thighs are chafing heavily as they rub against one another. My belly is pushing heavily against my knees. I feel like I’m going to fall as I wheeze with every step. Waddling is getting too hard. I finally make it to the bed and collapse. For fuck’s sake, I’m only 23 and I can hardly walk. I’m way too young to be this big.
Uncle Eric looks at me sympathetically. He says “Don’t worry about getting up for more. I can bring you whatever you want.” I’m so grateful for my uncle. Everything hurts now. I’m lucky I made it to Dad’s old bed because I don’t think I have the strength to leave it ever again. Fortunately, it is comfortable and reinforced. It dawns on me that I never stood a chance. My fate was sealed at birth being born into this dysfunctional family. Like father, like son.