my heaviest weight is back
I don’t own a scale. I do own a bright turquoise bath mat that I refuse to put in the bathroom because it’s too pretty. I recently ordered it from Crate and Barrel with a gift card someone got us a year ago. Getting married is good for Crate and Barrel gift cards. I am bad at remembering where I put them.
My parents own a scale, and, with its dark powers of seduction, it drew me to it and suggested in a sly, beguiling whisper that I should put my feet on its smooth surface. So I did. And then I came back the next day, for more. And again, the day after that. And over the course of that time, which happened to be the long weekend of Thanksgiving, I watched the numbers gently rise.
I pretended that I didn’t remember my heaviest weight. I don’t want to be the kind of person who thinks about this kind of thing. I want to have records in my head of important stuff. The periodic table, maybe. A detailed map of lower Manhattan. All of the best words of the English language and a bunch of useful phrases in Spanish. Instead, it seems like the stuff that got priority is a catalogue of American dog breeds (memorized when I was ten), a little over half the state capitals, a litany of Most Embarrassing Moments, including the time I said “‘wroten’ instead of ‘written'” into a microphone in front of a hundred people, and blatantly unhelpful information about my body, like my heaviest weight.
“Heaviest weight!” bellowed an evilly gleeful voice in my head, the moment I stepped onto the scale on the third day. “HEAVIEST! BAM. You’re at it again. How’s it feel, being the HEAVIEST? Whatcha think about that?”
“Hmm,” I said aloud, tilting my head thoughtfully. “That number looks familiar…Where have I seen it before? It can’t be my heaviest weight, can it? I can barely even remember…” I stepped daintily off the scale. “Nope. It’s completely slipped my mind!”
LIAR.
YEAH, YOU.
(source)
Ok, me. I lied. To myself. And not very convincingly. I vividly remember the day I discovered my heaviest weight. It’s a gross story about being a bad person who thinks petty, stupid things and this is how it goes: I was at my friend’s house. She was beautiful. We had this unspoken agreement. She was beautiful, I was skinny. The skinniness felt important, because when you are skinny, people often get it mixed up with beauty, and they compliment you a lot on it. So I got all these compliments for being skinny and she got all these compliments for being gorgeous and then one day I stopped getting so many compliments but for a while I didn’t notice and then we both decided it would be fun to weigh ourselves. Which was probably unrelated, but maybe it was fate. We did. And suddenly I was heavier than her. My first thought was, “Now she has everything.”
Yeah. As though it was some sort of ancient cosmic battle. Like, although we were such good friends, our appearances had been secretly at war for years. Her appearance had plundered my appearance’s land and taken all its gold and sheep, and now my appearance had nothing, while hers was going to rule the kingdom.
My next thought was, “What do I do?” Like I had to either correct the cosmic imbalance or be doomed to a meaningless life of not being complimented for anything (and having no sheep).
I think I was twenty at the time. Old enough to know better.
(That was a joke. That’s definitely not old enough to know better. I’m not totally convinced I know better now. But I’m keeping an open mind. I’m working with the evidence and we’ll see what we get.)
When I admitted to myself the other day, in my parents’ bathroom, that it was all true– I remembered everything about my heaviest weight even though I still can’t always find my way around the Lower East Side or name enough elements to sound smart–I had to also admit that my inclination was to vow immediately that after this weekend, I would barely eat.
(source)
This is bald, naked honesty right now. I think I’m not supposed to ever acknowledge how many times I decide to not eat anymore. How many times I promise myself that after today, I will live on carrot sticks and lettuce and carbonated water. It happens a lot. Like…let’s see…basically every time I wear something sleeveless or watch myself in a mirror while jogging or see a photo of myself or eat more cookies than I thought I would when I started eating them or eat because I’m bored or eat until I’m so full it hurts or have to dress up or meet a young mom who just had a baby but who is obviously in better shape than me. And some other times, too.
I have never once followed through. Not even for a whole day.
But that is where my mind goes.
And honesty is important here, I think.
Standing in my parents’ bathroom two days after Thanksgiving, I made a quick promise to myself that I would only eat carrot sticks and watery gruel for the next several years, until things were under control, and then I went downstairs and ate a cider donut and asked the kitchen at large, “Has anyone seen the rest of the stuffing?”
Which is why this is probably a story about how I finally exceeded my previous heaviest weight and crossed over into new, exciting territory. I probably have a new number now. But I don’t know, because I don’t have a scale, and I’m home again. And what I don’t know can’t become a stupid memory about something that doesn’t actually matter that I use to torment myself in a pointless way.
Now please excuse me while I go stand on my soft new turquoise bath mat. So fluffy! So turquoise! And such a better place to put my feet.
(they call it teal. that’s wrong. source)
* * *
Any heaviest weight stories? Does everyone have that number in their head? Has anyone forgotten it?
Unroast: Today I love the way I look with a touch of gold eyeshadow.
Kate on November 28th 2011 in Uncategorized
Rachel W. responded on 30 Nov 2011 at 1:17 am #
My heaviest weight is *now.* Highest weight in my life. Huh. (I blame marriage and having a real kitchen for the first time in four years.)
I’m frustrated by my weight, both because it’s a higher number than my brain thinks is okay, and because all my clothes are inexplicably LOOSER than they were last year, when I was a fifteen-pounds-lighter nervous pre-wedding wreck. Skirts I couldn’t button this spring are now inexplicably roomy, and I found out that I now wear a surprisingly low number in Real Lady clothing, and my ‘set point’ weight is ten pounds lighter.
So I feel dual-betrayed. I think part of me wants to know how I’m supposed to be hating my body at any given moment– which words to use, what to focus on. I’m upset because these conflicting data points are scrambling my ability to articulate my self-loathing.
There’s also a strange double standard in my thinking: I think my weight is too small a number… for other people. People with that number must be food-obsessed or chronically anxious or just lucky-but-unsettling jerks. But when I apply it to myself, I feel ashamed, because it’s too heavy. Not *way* too heavy, just heavy enough that I’ll never quite get to what I think would be okay, because I love bread and pie more than I do carrots and gruel.
I’m aware that this is pure madness, but the awareness doesn’t always help.
Thanks for writing, Kate. Always provokes some self-discovery, even if it’s faintly unsettling self-discovery!
Dee responded on 30 Nov 2011 at 9:39 am #
Hey, maybe we can have some sort of cyber-competition with a “Heavy Weight” class? :o)
melissa responded on 30 Nov 2011 at 12:02 pm #
uuugghhhh!
I’m pretty sure I’ve gone back to my heaviest weight. Though I can’t say I lost much after that either – like, ten pounds worth of water weight from quitting soda.
The thing is, we made a lot of changes! I forced myself to fall in love with water, we’ve reduced our meat consumption to these tiny little pieces and we stopped stocking the house with pasta. We took up roller blading and cycling.
You think I’d lose any kind of weight? Heck no. Nothing. Zilch.
I’m just thankful that I carry it well and that no one cares. I kind of care, though. Not a whole lot, but it would be nice to look good in photos one day.
Frances responded on 30 Nov 2011 at 2:28 pm #
Hi!
Two cures for those voices, those criticising, nagging voices that react to any and every mistake / bad photo. They might sound like sickly self-help tips…but they work, sometimes.
1) Name the voice. Mine is called Bartelemy, because I find it an odious name. Then when I hear myself think “God, you’re such an idiot” in a scathing tone, I can just think “shut up, Bartelemy” and not give him any validation.
2) Try saying, “I feel fat right now” rather than “I am / I look fat”. Then ask why. Feeling fat normally really means feeling sad, stupid or shy. What are you feeling fat ABOUT? (Thank Geneen Roth for that one – I think you’d like her books.)
Hope it helps, a little. Have a lovely week xx
Kate responded on 30 Nov 2011 at 2:30 pm #
@Frances
Bartelemy! LOVE!
Frances responded on 02 Dec 2011 at 3:46 pm #
Ooh, I had a thought today, while I was at work making chocolate tarts (appropriate no?). And it felt like a Big Important Tought, so forgive me if it seems spellbindingly obvious:
Maybe it is socially acceptable for women (people, but especially women) to worry about feeling fat / ugly /other as a stopgap for the big empty pain of being alive.
You are not supposed to admit to the crazy overwhelming fear of just being one tiny person – and you are especially not supposed to talk about feeling depressed when you are well off – but you are more than allowed to complain about your thighs.
So it is easier to say out loud “I feel fat today” and it is easier to hear and respond to (“No, don’t be silly” “me too” “my thighs are worse”.) Emotions are cloudy, and weight is a manifest thing.
But maybe life would would be more honest if we said “I feel existential angst today”. What do you think?
Kate responded on 02 Dec 2011 at 3:52 pm #
@Frances
Totally interesting thought.
I think you’re right, it IS much easier to worry about small, material, immediate things. And then you zoom out and you’re like, “Shit. We’re all gonna DIE.” And you realize you should stop worrying about your thighs. I go through cycles of this a lot.
But sometimes I really feel like the thighs are the problem. Like everything would be better, if this one thing was better. And I think that might be about the fact that there’s a LOT of emphasis in the world I live in on looking a certain way in order to be existentially valid. But maybe that’s because we ALL, as a society, want to focus on the small things to distract ourselves from the large? I don’t know.
zoe (and the beatles) responded on 02 Dec 2011 at 8:02 pm #
i never owned a scale. i still don’t own a scale. though, my previous roommate did and i spent two years standing on it every morning bemoaning my existence. i’m at my heaviest weight now, a year after being at my lowest (i went from not eating to over eating. oh, the joys of eating disorders!) i don’t know what it is since i don’t own a scale. i just know none of my clothes fit. funny thing is, though i am not entirely too confident, i’ve dropped a lot of the attachments i carried regarding my body. i’ve dropped almost all of the self-hatred, the healthy living blogs, and the obsession i carried around for two years. i’m heavy now but i don’t think you’d notice. i barely do sometimes. instead of hating my body, i fell in love with my self — the person i am and the person i am becoming.
it’s not to say this isn’t hard, because sometimes it is. but most days, i am thankful for this weight gain though because it taught me how to truly care for myself. it reframed the idea of true beauty for me. most importantly though, it allowed me to realize that i am not just a body. i’m a person. with a heart, mind, and soul. the body is just the thing carrying all that around. it’s neutral, as my therapist likes to tell me. it simply reacts to how you treat it and how feel about it. what if we loved our bodies into our natural weights instead of hating them all the way there?
anyway, i’m digressing now. thanks for this kate. numbers shouldn’t cause people to vow starvation. where’s the love in that?
Amy responded on 02 Dec 2011 at 9:46 pm #
My heaviest weight came soon after my lightest.
I was struggling through undiagnosed Crohn’s disease flares for my entire junior year of high school. I bled internally a lot and eventually lost my ability eat solid food. However, even as I grew more and more anemic and malnourished, my brother kept telling me how good I looked thin. Everybody else said he was an idiot and I should see a doctor.
When I did get a diagnosis, I was put on lots of Prednisone, a steroid whose main side effect is “persistent weight gain”. That combined with a required low-fire diet and months of bed rest helped rack up the pounds. I gained sixty, many of which were healthy for my height. I didn’t care about the numbers then. I was just happy to be able to eat again.
It’s been a couple years since then. I’m considerably healthier, but my weight still fluctuates a lot. My restricted low-fiber diet gets me a lot of funny looks. I have body issues even if once I nearly starved to death and have only terrifying memories of being thin.
That highest number is still in my head even though I have far better things to worry about. For me, every day is one step toward health and away from the scale. I’m glad I found this article. It reminds me of how far I’ve come and how little I have to be ashamed about.
tirzahrene responded on 03 Dec 2011 at 8:16 pm #
I hit my heaviest weight every time I get weighed these days. Which thankfully is only once every several months or so.
I was asked the other day what I think my ideal weight is. I’m getting used to the idea that I’m squishier than I used to be, and lumpier than I used to be, and far, far happier than I used to be.
I said, “I think that when I’m eating a reasonably healthy diet, food that’s good for my body and food that’s good for my soul (HELLO BACON), and when I’m sleeping right, and when I’m getting some reasonable and good exercise, whatever I weigh then is my ideal weight.”
Sanni responded on 07 Dec 2011 at 11:59 am #
I remember when I was at my heaviest weight, not because of a scale either because I did not own one but because I’ve had to get rid of all the clothes that I wore at that time, being that they all got too big on me. But this was time when I was Happy with a capital H. It was the year that I got married to my husband, and I thought I had never been as beautiful as I was that day in that gorgeous dress, my flowy hair and yup, that belly and those thighs and underarms. I did not even think about those things whereas now I am obsessing about a slight muffin top in my jeans… I guess I should learn something from that old me!
Eat the Damn Cake » little victories: BOMBSHELL responded on 23 Jan 2012 at 2:21 am #
[…] I hit my heaviest weight ever (again) back in November and I’m still there. Which kinda surprised me the last time I weighed myself (at my parents’ house, of course, since I don’t own a scale). I thought I’d slip back. I thought I’d return to normal. Y’know, to my real body. […]
Anne responded on 24 Jan 2012 at 6:09 pm #
I know this is a late response, but I was just wondering if you, Kate, had any ideas for someone who CAN’T avoid the scale? I mean literally cannot. I work at a veterinary office and we have a huge scale set in the floor about 5 feet from my desk. I can see it constantly and have to walk by it 20 to 50 times a day, and it is so, SO hard not to step on it just to check (sometimes several times a day). I see many of my coworkers do the same thing. And I hate it! A tiny fluctuation in that number makes the difference between a good day and a bad day for me, and it’s so frustrating, because before I started here I had lived scale-free for a few months and loved it.
At least once a week I promise myself that I’m going to stop stepping on the scale, but the next morning I come in to work and think, “I ate a small dinner last night and peed a lot this morning- let me just see if I lost anything!” Because it matters so much.
So, how do I stop doing that?
Kate responded on 24 Jan 2012 at 6:19 pm #
@Anna
I think it’s like any other addictive behavior, you have to work really, really hard at breaking it. Maybe reward yourself every time you think about doing it, but don’t. Or make yourself do something else before you hop on the scale, like stomping your foot or something, to mark what’s happening, so you sort of wake up and pay attention.
I’m not sure– those are just some thoughts. But I think part of the problem is that stepping on a scale doesn’t seem like a damaging compulsion, even though it is. So pay it the attention it deserves!
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