It’s me, the Fat F*ck,
The one who was called ‘Mutton Chops’, ‘Bowling Ball’ and ‘Ribena Berry’. The girl who spent hours crying in the change room at K-mart because they didn’t sell clothes in my size anymore. The one who was asked to stand in the centre of the boat so it didn’t tilt. I’m the one who dieted so much I passed out and spent two days in hospital too afraid to even drink water due to bloating.
I’m the one who came home after three months in and out of hospital having multiple surgeries to open a message titled ‘Dear Fat F*ck’.
I’m also the one who told no one about my surgery because I was afraid I’d be called ‘Fatty’.
But I’m not the one who will spend the rest of my life being ashamed of who I am.
Two years ago I was told that over the years my seizures had caused irreversible damage to body. My muscles have weakened so badly they’re showing to be about as strong as that of an over 50 year old (I’m 36). My teeth have so many hairline fractures I will have to have them all removed, despite how well I have cared for them. I was informed that I would need to undergo extensive surgery to repair my perforated diaphragm, damaged intestine, stomach, liver and pancreas. Due to the extent of the damage to my stomach and my excessive weight of 122.9 kilos, it was suggested that I get the gastric sleeve done at the same time, especially as part of my stomach would need to be removed due to damage anyway.
It took me two years to make the decision. I was scared, not just to have such major surgery, but of the sleeve. What would people think of me? Would I be called lazy simply because I had weight loss surgery instead of getting off my fat arse to do some exercise? I almost decided not to get it done simply because I didn’t want to be teased over it. I obviously did end up going ahead with it, simply because I was more afraid of being fat my whole life.
I could count the people who knew I was having the sleeve on one hand. Yup! Of all my family and friends, there were only 5 people I trusted enough to tell. When people asked me why I was in hospital, I told them I was having surgery to repair damaged organs due to my seizures and nothing more.
After surgery I had complications and within a week I was back in hospital. Five weeks later I was in for further surgery and had to have my gallbladder removed. By then I was in a heck of a lot pain, as I’d had to wait five weeks for my organs to heal enough for the second surgery. A week after my second surgery I was back in hospital with more pain and for a while there it looked like I was going to need even more surgery, but it turned out my body just wasn’t healing very well after all the poking, cutting and stitches (which my body was rejecting and I had little bits of what looked like fishing wire, working their way out through my skin - not a nice feeling).
Eventually I was finally cleared to come home, as long as I didn’t lift anything heavier than a 2L milk carton. It’s amazing how long 3 months is when you’re sick, in pain and homesick. While I was away a neighbours cat killed all my hand raised chickens, my vegetable garden died, my favourite plant had flowered and I’d missed my nieces mother’s birthday.
As soon as I got home, I walked around the place, noticing every little detail, everything that had changed. Not only were my chickens gone, but their pen was overgrown with weeds and grass. The flowers on my favourite plant was in its final stages and ready to drop off - I’d missed it’s first-time flowering. There was dust on the front door.
Once I’d settled back in at home, I turned on my computer to get back into my writing. I couldn’t even remember what project I’d last been working on. It wasn’t until yesterday that I plucked up the courage to check my website. I thought I’d respond to my messages first. The very first message flashed up on the screen. The words were screaming at me. ‘Dear Fat F*ck, how was the weight loss surgery?’ I deleted it before reading any more. The next four messages started in the same way, so I deleted those without reading them.
I just want to say to whoever wrote those messages (I’m pretty certain of who it is) that I wish you some happiness in your life, because you obviously really need it. I can’t imagine being so miserable in life that I would need to attack others in such a way in order to feel that little bit of joy. It must be such a horrible way to live.
You can call me ‘Fat F*ck’, ‘Chub-A-Lard’, ‘Blubby’ or any other nasty name you can think of if it will make you feel any better, but I think it only fair that I let you know that I really don’t care. I refuse to live my life worrying about how others see me. I am not living this life for anyone but myself. I will not continue to attempt to make everyone around me happy (because frankly, that never works) I will only get to live this life once and I plan to make the most of it and do whatever makes me happy, whether that be walking along the beach, writing silly blog posts, or getting weight-loss-surgery. I don’t even care if my body isn’t YOUR idea of attractive - I’m not out to please you anyway. I decided to get the weight loss surgery to relieve some of the pressure on my
muscles and joints so that I could spend more of my life walking my dogs, instead of sitting in a wheelchair. My body is not a commercial designed to please the eye of anyone who sees it, it is a vessel for me to live my life and create memories and moments with the people I love.
I really do hope you find something in your life that can bring you happiness without you having to try and destroy others to achieve it. For the sakes of every soul you come into contact with, please do try to heal your own broken heart and bad attitude.
From the Fat F*ck