The long run to today

Running is not something I ever considered that I could do in this body. The idea was laughable.  I was morbidly obese for all of my teenage years and most of my adult life. Were I to share even a few of the things that have been said and done to me because of my size, you would be left weeping. It's no wonder, then, that I shied away from having a physical presence for the majority of my life.  I come from a very sports-oriented family, yet it remains a surprise to have discovered over the last 9 years that I am actually a very athletic person.  What I still avoid though is group athletic activity, having learned to compare my bad-bodied self to the rest of the world so early on.  It took a long time for me to allow myself to wear workout clothes while exercising anywhere outside my home, or even to wear simple shorts out in public.  It took 2+ years post-weight loss to muster up the courage to walk into a yoga class.  Running? Thin people run. Athletic people run. Beautiful people run. People who look like me - whether at my heaviest, my current, or anywhere in between - do not run. When you grow up fat, especially female and fat, you learn inside and out that you really don't have a place.  You shouldn't even try.

But, true to form, needing a physical challenge and desperate to get rid of the pounds I had regained since returning to school, I started running anyway last summer.  At first it was only on back roads and in the evening, but I was up to 5K (3.1 miles) by last November. I set a goal for myself during this long surgical leave to sign up for a road race.  Certain that I could finish this distance, it was not so much about "racing" or "competing" as it was about realizing it was time to step out of my comfort zone.  Fittingly, I found the Challenge Obesity race - a celebration of the great things that can be accomplished through exercise. I was encouraged by the idea, first, that I may have something in common with other racers who might also look as imperfect as me, and second, that others are successfully fighting the same battle. During online registration, I was presented with a little box where I could type in my achievement, whatever it may be. I entered, "I have lost 127 pounds and maintained it for almost 5 years," and truly, I didn't think much of it.

I was handed bib #6 during check-in. I thought this was odd, considering that I'd registered not even a week prior, but I shrugged it off since I haven't a clue how bib numbers get assigned. Imagine my surprise when 5 minutes prior to start time, the race coordinator calls "everyone with a bib number under 100" to the front of the pack. (Oh shit.) Turns out that everyone who had indicated a weight loss of greater than 20 pounds because of their commitment to exercise was assigned their bib number in successive order of weight loss. Bib #1 had lost 165 pounds; bib #2 had lost 150. One hundred twenty-seven pounds explained my number 6, and yes, this was announced for 179 racers and aaaaall the spectators to hear. (Where was the disclaimer?!?) I was immediately uncomfortable, having tried quite literally to shrink from view my entire big life. I came to believe, understandably in a society such as ours, that my body negated every good thing about me. My fat was shameful and humiliating; it made me lazy, stupid, dirty, and unhealthy.  As a result, I have become humble and prideless to a fault, and part of me still and probably always will believe that I don't belong; I'll never be one of those people. It took me a lifetime to engage in an event like this, and now everyone is staring and cheering for me?!? In Lycra?  Dear God.

As I started off around Lake Como, I started to wonder: why on earth should such recognition be embarrassing or shameful?  Isn't that rather crazy? The process of running is very empowering, and perhaps some of those cheers on my behalf had the effect they were meant to have, for my embarrassment suddenly struck me as insane.  I ran on as my mind ran back in time.

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I started gaining weight when I was nine. Sadness became a defining feature of who I am, and it got markedly worse every year until graduation. When I left St. Kate's after three semesters, I was depressed beyond measure and weighed in at 285. Sixteen months later, running around a busy restaurant kitchen 40+ hours a week and speed-walking on my days off, I got down to 214. Then something terrible happened.

I got broken.

I lost my dear and silly friend.

Three years later, after being told I was disabled, having finished a nearly three year course with a psychologist, and taking a cocktail of pills to manage the memories of what I saw and to numb the constant pain, I looked like this again:

302.5#



Having lost about 20#, right around 280.


302.5 pounds. I will never, ever forget that moment, standing on the scale in my bathroom, when I saw that I'd not only gained back all of the 71 pounds I'd lost, but I had now passed the 300 pound mark. Three months later, my boyfriend asked me to marry him. When I considered being a 300 pound bride, when I considered the pain that would continue forever if I stayed this way, I knew something had to change. I had done it before. I knew how hard it would be, and I knew it would take even longer this time because of what my body had endured. But I had to believe I could be better.  I got mad.  I got focused.  I started working.

I reached 235 by my wedding in the fall of 2004. I was down to 176 by fall of 2006, although I had to lose a husband in the process of taking care of me.

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Maybe it was because it was my first race day, the first day I'd joined with others.
Maybe it was because I finally reached my life's goal of 175 pounds back in February.
Maybe it was because I'm recovering, once again, from another surgery related to my injuries.
Maybe it had to do with another birthday.

I was halfway through my second and final lap around the lake when my thinking arrived here on the long run to today.  I was never supposed to be here in every way you can imagine. Neither of us ought to have survived that accident. I wanted to be well, to get my head right after not only a terrible trauma but after a lifetime of hurt, so I chose to endure in therapy. I chose to miserably withdraw from the medications. I gave up smoking. I asked for a divorce when I believed no one would ever love me again. I kept pushing when it hurt, when everyone told me to stop. I was never supposed to lose the weight and keep it off - how many people actually do that?  I kept choosing wellness, and I keep choosing it every day.  I nearly broke into laughter as I came around the last bend: am I really running? Like, for longer than 30 seconds?  Am I really finishing a race?

Our achievements were announced again as we crossed the finish line, and several of us stood around to cheer on the others.  People who are heavier than I used to be myself, people aged 65 and older, people dealing with disease processes and joint replacements, but all running anyway!   So beautiful and SO brave!  We've established that I'm not comfortable talking about my achievements and will downplay myself at every opportunity, but my fellow racers would have none of it as we stood around telling our stories.  It was the first time I've felt like it was okay to be proud of myself. It was the first time I've felt like my story has a happy ending, even though I know that some sadness will always be mine to carry.  Unlike yoga, which has taught me patience and the turning of turmoil into calm, running has become for me a converting of stagnancy into energy, sadness into motion, pain into healing, and shame into power. Each time I set out, I prove that the past is not today. Sorrow will not win.  I am not broken anymore.

I still love to eat :-)