Designated Fat Girl Read online

  DESIGNATED FAT GIRL

  DESIGNATED FAT GIRL

  A Memoir

  Jennifer Joyner

  Guilford, Connecticut

  Copyright © 2010 by Jennifer Joyner

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission should be addressed to Globe Pequot Press, Attn: Rights and Permissions Department, P.O. Box 480, Guilford, CT 06437.

  Skirt! is an imprint of Globe Pequot Press.

  Skirt! is a registered trademark of Morris Book Publishing, LLC.

  Designed by: Sheryl P. Kober

  Layout artist: Joanna Beyer

  Project manager: Kristen Mellitt

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  978-0-7627-9625-0

  For Emma & Eli,

  Michael & Mom

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue

  1: Death Via Drive-Thru

  2: Bingeing and Hiding

  3: I’m Jennifer Joyner, and I’m Not on TV

  4: The Tale of Three Weddings

  5: Vanity Is a Luxury I Can’t Afford

  6: Work It Girl, Phase 10,280

  7: Sex and the Fat Girl

  8: Skulls and Crossbones

  9: Life in the (Fat) Mommy Lane

  10: Last Straws

  11: Making It Up

  12: Shipwrecked

  13: Finally, the Dawn

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  It is December 2006, and it is actually a pretty good day. For the first time in quite a while, I’m not obsessing every minute of every hour about when and what I will eat next. I have somehow convinced myself to take the day’s events as they come—to finally give myself a break—and the freedom in that is exhilarating. I actually notice and enjoy my surroundings. I take an extra moment to play on the floor with my one-year-old son, Eli. He is just starting to walk, and it’s fun to watch his face as he attempts steps, his brow furrowed as he tries to figure out his next move. I stop in the middle of getting dressed to read a story to my almost three-year-old daughter, Emma, something I never do because I’m always in such a rush in the morning. I hum a little to myself as I drive the kids to preschool. I stop to appreciate all the Christmas decorations as I travel through the neighborhood. And after school drop-off, I decide to do a little shopping in my favorite children’s boutique, something that always makes me smile. It is a good day.

  As I stand in line to pay for my purchases, I chat with the owner of the store. She is mostly retired, but she hangs out to have something to do, and I’ve talked with her several times on my near-weekly visits. I ask her if she sells waterproof bedsheets—I am desperately trying to get Emma potty trained before she turns three, and my mother has suggested I go cold-turkey on the diapers, even at night. The store owner shares with me her theories on potty training, having raised three kids of her own and watched her many grandchildren grow up. She advises me to not force the issue, that Emma will use the potty when she is ready. “Just like you’ll lose weight when you’re ready,” she adds matter-of-factly.

  I feel like a sledgehammer has scored a direct hit on my apparently bulging stomach. I open my mouth to speak, but I have to suck in air immediately, my breathlessness saving me from firing back against this poor woman, who is probably only trying to be helpful. She has no idea that for once I’m having a good day—for once I’m not torturing myself about my weight and about food. She doesn’t realize she has just brought reality crashing down on me, leaving shards of self-loathing and revulsion slicing me into a million pieces. I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod and smile faintly. Mercifully she gives me a knowing smile and pats my arm as she walks away.

  I don’t remember paying for my stuff—I check out at the register in a daze and then head to my car. At the McDonald’s down the street, I attempt to stuff down the incredible pain and sorrow. This was going to be a good day, I tell myself. It’s hard to cry and eat at the same time, so I choose to eat. Like I always do.

  In the grand scheme of things, this wasn’t a huge embarrassment. In my many years of battling obesity and morbid obesity, I have suffered much worse in terms of pain and humiliation. But this event sticks out in my mind for two reasons. First, it speaks to how very public a battle with weight is. When you are fat, you can hide from no one, everyone knows you have a problem; there is no getting away from it, not even for a second. You can pretend to be happy, you can even convince yourself, momentarily, that life is good and all is well. But people know the truth. All they have to do is take one look at you; your body screams of the agony you face each and every day. There is no escape.

  The other thing that makes me remember this day is one of the real reasons I wrote this book. “You’ll lose weight when you’re ready.” Isn’t that what we always hear? “When you’ve finally had enough, you’ll be able to fix it.” “When you hit rock bottom, you’ll fight your way back up.” “Trust me, you’re a-ha moment will arrive and you’ll know what to do.”

  But what if your “a-ha moment” never comes?

  What if while waiting for lightning to strike, you give yourself a heart attack or a stroke, and you die?

  Will that be your rock-bottom moment, once you’re dead?

  When I weighed 336 pounds, I was desperate to do anything to stop the vicious cycle I was on, anything to save my life. But I couldn’t do it. I had all the tools: I read all the books, and I knew what to eat and what exercise I needed to do. I set out each day with a new plan for how I was going to beat this problem, once and for all.

  But I always failed miserably. Self-doubt would creep in, no matter how hard I tried to beat it back. Temptation would take over my will, and I would find myself eating, and I couldn’t stop. I consciously knew that my actions were going to cause my death, and yet I couldn’t force myself to abstain. I was slowly killing myself with food, and I knew it.

  The lady in the store seemed to think I wasn’t ready to lose weight. Oh, really? Let’s see. Just a year before, I’d given birth to a twelve-pound, seven-ounce baby because I’d been unable to get my gestational diabetes under control. It seems drinking a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew every day isn’t really good for one’s blood sugar. Did I want to cause my unborn baby harm? Of course not. Did I want to die and leave my two young children without a mother? Desperately, no! I cried and I prayed and I begged God to please give me the strength, to please show me the way. Over the years I sought help from medical doctors, advice from therapists. Sometimes they brought a little success. Most of the time I was left with more failed attempts and broken promises to myself. Was I ready to lose weight and finally put the misery behind me? HELL, YES! But that didn’t mean it happened. For sixteen years, it didn’t happen. I grew fatter, my health deteriorated, and my already low self-esteem careened into oblivion. I felt so worthless, so helpless.

  I surmised over the years that I was the problem. I was lazy. I didn’t have discipline, self-control. I was weak. How else could I explain my inability to do something about my weight, to change my circumstances, to save my life? I blamed myself, and that certainly didn’t help me solve the problem. It only heaped on more self-hatred, and I was collapsing underneath the weight of it all. Miserable doesn’t even come close to describing how I felt.

  I wrote Designated Fat Girl for those out there who are battling the same thing, who feel so trapped in this vicious, self-destructive cycle. I want you to know you are not alone and you are
not crazy. Sometimes you can’t solve the problem yourself and you need some help. And that’s okay. Saving your sanity and your life is so much more important than saving face.

  I also wrote this book so that others may somehow begin to understand that most obese people are not fat because they love food too much or because they are lazy and undisciplined. Many are addicted to food, just like an alcoholic who can’t stop drinking, even if it is ruining their lives. I honestly feel as though our society does not recognize food addiction as a legitimate, serious condition. I am here to tell them, through my story, how very real and devastating it is. My hope is that others will see that it is not about the food.

  My journey with morbid obesity spanned sixteen years; but I can’t remember a time in which food was not an issue. I was a fat child and a chubby teenager. In high school I lost weight and convinced myself that yes, I could pursue my dream of being a broadcast journalist. I went away to college, met the man of my dreams, and landed a job on TV. My life was almost too perfect.

  That’s when the weight started to pile on. Within a year of getting married, I weighed 200 pounds. I quit my TV job because I thought the station would fire me for being too fat. The next ten years were filled with broken dreams: I couldn’t pursue the career I wanted, and I felt too heavy to have the children my husband and I desperately desired. Eventually we did have two beautiful children, but the joy in watching them grow was about the only happiness I could find. I was depressed, I was hurt, and because I couldn’t stop abusing food, I believe I was suicidal. I knew that my health was hanging on by a string, and I still was unable to help myself. I was going to die if I didn’t do something. And finally I took action.

  Some of this is hard for me to write. A lot of it may be difficult to read. But I vowed at the beginning of this process that I would be honest, no matter how uncomfortable. My hope is that someone hanging on the edge like I was will read this and feel hopeful. And that those who have loved ones who suffer from food addiction will gain some insight into this hideous disease. Sharing my story has been very helpful to my healing process; if it helps others as well, then my success is that much sweeter.

  1

  Death Via Drive-Thru

  JUNE 2002

  I just don’t have the fight in me anymore. I’ve been battling myself for two solid days, part of a several-years-long war, and I am done. It’s exhausting, and I simply don’t have the strength. I am weak. I am a failure. I am a disgusting pig of a woman, and I’m tired of trying desperately to convince myself otherwise. What’s the point? Ultimately I will lose. Sooner or later I will give in to the compulsion that has plagued me for almost a decade. Why not get it over with now? Save myself the added failure of this doomed charade. Go ahead and prove my subconscious right—the voice that started as a whisper when we arrived at the beach on Sunday—the same voice that now, on Tuesday, is a pitch above shrieking. YOU ARE A WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT! YOU CAN’T CONTROL YOURSELF AND EVERYBODY KNOWS IT! THE LEAST YOU COULD DO IS HAVE THE GUTS TO ADMIT YOU NEED IT! YOU CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT IT! YOU WILL DIE WITHOUT IT! YOU ARE A SPINELESS WIMP!

  The room is almost completely dark. The shades are drawn on the two tiny windows, but I can still see the smallest sliver of light blue sky, readying to make its retreat for the night. I’ve been in here for a long time, and I need to pee. But in here is safe and out there is a land mine of emotions that I don’t want to face. Disappointment. Hurt. Disgust. I see it in their eyes when they look at me, or rather, when they glance at me for a millisecond before averting their gaze. It hurts to look at me. I avoid it as much as possible myself.

  It suddenly occurs to me what a ridiculous pose I strike. Michael and I were both flabbergasted when we got stuck with the bedroom with twin beds. The other rooms in the rented bungalow were needed for various reasons by other family members, and so this was it. We’d discussed pushing the beds together; but after two nights, that has yet to happen. And here I lay, with my mounds of flesh hanging off both sides of my assigned cot. Not even the almost complete darkness nor my dark top and even darker pants can keep me from reaching a surprising realization: I no longer fit on a twin bed. After some ten years as an active member of the morbidly obese, I thought I’d identified and experienced every humiliation possible. If only that were really true.

  I wonder how long I can hide out in here. Every time Michael comes to check on me—at last count, three—I feign sleep. It’s a family vacation, and I am supposed to be spending time with family; instead I am in a dark room on a twin bed fighting with myself over whether or not I should eat. Sooner or later I’m going to have to go out and show myself. I will have to face my husband, who so doesn’t deserve this, but whom I can’t seem to treat the way he should be treated. He shows me nothing but love, care, and respect; in return he gets nothing but lies and a big fat mess of a wife. I often think I will burn in hell for the way I abuse the body that God gave me, but deep down I know it’s my poor treatment of such a wonderful man that will haunt me for eternity.

  I try to heave myself off the bed, but my middle is so large that it takes a few tries. My joints ache from lying there so long, and my head hurts from the tears that stain the pillow. I know what I must do, and my heart is heavy. I have to lie, again, and I have to go eat. There’s no turning back now. The decision has been made and that’s that. Time to get on with it already.

  I turn on the light and immediately wince from the bare bright bulb hanging from the ceiling fan. As my eyes adjust, I go over to the small dresser that sits against the wall across from the beds. Grabbing a tissue, I blot at the black smears under my hazel eyes. I smooth down the wild, thin brown hair sticking up on my head. I press my clothes with both hands, willing the wrinkles to fall away. I shrug, knowing it really doesn’t matter anyway. I look like a big piece of shit, and nothing I do in the next thirty seconds, thirty days, or thirty years is going to change that. Nothing.

  I’m almost out the door before the plaintive wail from deep within me can finally be heard. Don’t do this! You’ve had two great days! Keep going! You are strong! You deserve better!

  My hand pauses in midair above the doorknob. I want to hear the other side of the argument; I long to believe that I am worth saving, that my life has meaning and value. But I’ve been caught in the middle of this psychological push-pull for most of my adult life, and the truth is, it’s easier to believe the bad stuff. When you grow up assuming that you are worthless, it is an uphill battle even to try to think differently. Some days, like the last two, I am able to convince myself that yes, I am worthy. Yes, I deserve happiness. I eat relatively well. I am able to beat back the voices of negativity that infest my psyche. But eventually the tide of self-hatred washes ashore, and it pulls with it every good intention of mine. I am breathless from the swift movement of all my hard work out to sea, and I am left drained and empty. I have no fight. I feel hopeless and doomed. I curl into a ball and let the ocean of misery reclaim my miserable soul. The final resignation, after hours and hours of going back and forth within myself, is a relief.

  So it’s decided, but it doesn’t make the lie any easier. My heart pounding, I open the door and quickly step out into the hallway, before I change my mind yet again. All the other bedrooms in the house are dark; it appears everyone is either in the living room or the kitchen.

  I slowly walk down the hall, making out the familiar sounds of the Madden NFL video game. Michael was like a kid, so excited to bring his Xbox so that he could play with his brother, Eddie. He had been looking forward to this vacation, so ready to spend time at the beach with his parents, his brother, his sister, and their families. I suppose he was happy to have me here, too, although I can’t imagine why. Surely no one thought a beach trip would be a good thing for me. Fat girls and the beach go together like vegetarians and pig pickin’s.

  I reach the living room. Michael’s video game is emblazoned on the too-large television teetering on the too-small television stand. He and Eddie are gesturing wil
dly with their controls, deeply enthralled in their play. They don’t see me, their backs are to me, and I’m guessing not much could make them unglue their eyes from the screen. But little Eddie sees me. My three-month-old nephew is lying on a blanket on the floor, his little legs kicking wildly inside his sleeper, all fuzzy and blue and covered with little white lambs. He gives me a huge gummy grin, kicks harder, and flails his little arms with glee. My throat catches, as it has many times during this trip. I want one of those, I say to myself for the thousandth time. Then don’t do this, that little voice finds another way to break the surface and get through to my conscious mind. But it’s a futile effort. My fate—at least for this night—has already been decided.

  “Touchdown!” Michael jumps up and pumps his fist into the air, while Eddie drops his face into his hands. It’s obvious who is having the better game.

  My stomach is fluttering with nerves, but I decide now is as good a time as any. “Hey.” I try to sound casual, but I’m sure they’ll see right through me. I swallow hard, waiting for their reaction to seeing me after all my time locked in my room.

  It’s anticlimactic, to say the least. “Hey, honey,” Michael says, not looking up. He immediately laughs at Eddie. “How many times are you going to run that play, man? Give it up!”

  I’m left standing there, stupidly. That’s it? No questions, no looking me over? I’m dumbfounded … and a little ticked.

  “I’m going to go out and get a newspaper,” I say, waiting, almost willing Michael to whip around at me suspiciously, hitting me with questions. Why do you need a newspaper? It’s raining out. Should you be driving? Can I go with you?

  But there’s none of that. “Okay,” Michael says, and Eddie suddenly jumps up, as if doing so will improve his game. “Dude, where’s my kicker?!”