I love me, I love me not

Photo by Lisa Grouette

Stupid, whale, big fat fatty, idiot, hopeless, large and in charge. Things I would never dream of calling someone else, but I've called myself all of these, just in the last few days.

I'm overweight. Like, a lot overweight. Like, 109 pounds overweight. And I hate myself for it.

A few years ago, my bipolar depression medication began to fail. As I tried new prescription after new prescription, the pounds started to pack themselves onto my normally average-sized frame. In about six months, I gained 75 pounds.

Then, life happened and made things worse. In the time since the initial weight gain, I've had a seven-month depressive episode, a booze-soaked manic episode, an ankle injury, back problems, a major surgery, a parent death, and a job loss.

Thirty-four more pounds.

I've struggled with weight most of my life, but I eventually found my ideal number and stayed there for years. I was comfortable in my body. I was an avid hiker, and I loved socializing. I had cute clothes, a cute figure, and maybe most importantly, I loved myself.

Now, I do grocery pickup so I can limit my time in public. I don't have the energy to hike anymore. I pass up evenings out for fear of running into acquaintances who would discover I've been cat fishing everyone with my strategically cropped selfies. I have no cute clothes to wear, no cute figure, and no self-love.

Why is that, though? I'm still me. I'm still fun and kind and thoughtful. I'm still a good friend and good human. I still feed squirrels and love houseplants and rock out to Beastie Boys. I have such a hard time not loathing myself. Is it just because I'm fat? Because by fashion and beauty standards, I'm not attractive? Should that matter what I look like? It shouldn't, but it does…at least to me.

It’s worth noting I applaud body positivity. I don't think of other folks with larger body types as less-than or disgusting. So why on earth I feel so negative about myself and my own body is a question I struggle with every day.

Lately, though, I've been on a soul-searching journey. I'm so mean to myself, and I'm committed to being better about this. I've been trying to catch my self-hate speech. If I utter something ungodly about myself, I tell myself out loud to be nicer. Others have noted these poor speech habits too. I just had a good friend correct me and prompt me to say two nice things about myself. What an exercise that was. It's second nature to me at this point to be self-deprecating, yet I was able to pick out two good things right away.

Maybe…deep down...I do love me? So then, what's my deal?

I'm unhappy; that's my deal. I'm unhealthy; that's my deal. I blame myself wholly for my obesity, without taking into consideration outside factors or even my own genetics; that's my deal.

And it all needs to change.

Diet and exercise haven't made a dent in my weight and overall fitness. I'm slow, I'm often winded, and I'm achy all over. I'm beyond self-conscious, and my beloved hiking shoes are collecting cobwebs.

So, a few weeks ago, I made the huge life decision to take charge of my health by pursuing medical intervention. In August, I will have weight-loss surgery in the form of a gastric sleeve. I've done the research, I know the pros and cons, and I'm confident this is the right move. It's certainly not a decision I've taken lightly, but it's a move that needs to be made.

There's a saying that you can't love others if you don't love yourself, but I don't subscribe to that notion. I love others with all my might. And while I mostly fail to reserve any of that love for myself, I'm open to it. I need it. I miss myself in so many ways.

As I walked into the bariatric clinic for my first appointment, I was overwhelmed with shame and embarrassment. How did I let it get to this point? But as I was sitting there — stomach sinking and ears ringing — I had a realization. Reaching out for help in itself was an expression of self-love. An expression of belief in my ability to reclaim my life. It's much needed care after years of emotionally abusing myself. I wouldn't be in that waiting room if I didn't love my body and soul enough to try to protect it further.

I think I actually do love me. I just need to teach myself that again. And it must be unconditional love. It can't be subject to fitting a certain beauty standard or hitting a number on the scale. It can't have anything to do with how my pants fit or if I have a scoop of ice cream on a summer day. It must be the same as the love I feel for my family and friends: unyielding. I must tap into the deeply buried well of self-acceptance I know is inside of me. Like a "Goonies"-worthy quest to find the me I once knew.

Fit Lisa or not-so-fit Lisa, I'm here to celebrate myself...or at least start trying. Wish me luck, and while you’re at it, celebrate yourself, too. You deserve it, and so do I.

Lisa Grouette is a proud member of the Iowa Writers Collaborative, a group of Iowa writers, authors, and content producers. If you enjoy hearing from Iowa voices, please consider helping to broaden their reach with a paid subscription. Your support goes a long way.