When I was growing up, my sister, in my mind, was the prime of physical perfection. In middle school, young girls often have pictures of famous people they want to be just like. I had my sister’s picture in my locker. That doesn’t seem odd at all except that it was my sister’s modeling photo in my locker. My sister modeled. She was stunning in her 20s, and she still is today. Sometimes I just stare at her and wonder how she got the world’s most perfect nose. In high school, she was a runner, which provided her with the thinnest of Hollywood fame frames. Yet she could eat an entire pizza without blinking or gaining a pound. It was truly mesmerizing. I was not gifted with those genetics. I took my first burst of corticosteroids for asthma at the age of 6. She tried to work on running with me, but my poor little lungs just couldn’t handle it. I was fiercely strong, though. I used to hold myself up between cabinets and swing back and forth. I was like a monkey. Where she was slim, I was muscular. I’m glad I had that, because body image has been weird for me.
The first major steroid weight gain came when I was 12. It was my freshman year of high school. In retrospect, I am glad I reached a point where I could breathe, finally. At the same time, it was a completely unfair moment because no one deserves a combination of weight gain, bangs and braces. Steroids also lead to very specific weight gain—mostly in the form of a non-cute Buddha belly. It’s just cruel. This was a main reason I got my belly button pierced as soon as I turned 18. If I wasn’t going to be a fan of my abdomen, it was going to darn well sparkle. At that point I decided I needed to do something about it, so I began lifting weights. I immediately loved it. It made me feel powerful. I was a cheerleader at the time, and I became the base for a lot of lifts. This probably led to eventual back issues that developed in my late teens and early 20s.
Because I loved working out so much, my parents signed me up for a summer weight-lifting and workout program through my high school that took place three days per week. It was all boys, other than me. The only thing that kept me going back was that I had a major crush on a boy a grade above me who also attended the summer workout sessions. Luckily, at the end of the program, I actually learned something and gained a new appreciation for myself and what I am physically capable of.
This is pretty much how my life has continued since then. My theory is that my body maintains weight in unusual ways, because the only time I lose weight is when I’m very ill and in full crisis mode. With my first deep vein thrombosis I lost 20 pounds, almost overnight. If I’d weighed less in the beginning, this would’ve been scary. It’s like how my body manages its limited iron supply—in a very efficient manner. What’s more bizarre is I have continuously struggled with vitamin absorption and have to take a handful of pills with food so that I can absorb it. I gain weight from medicine, mostly steroids, and, of course, bed rest. There was only one time when it was truly my fault. I was in college and adored a certain boy who worked in food services in the morning. I didn’t want to tell my parents why exactly I wanted to get to campus so early, so I ate my first breakfast at home and a second on campus. Luckily I got to know him better after about two weeks, and I dropped the second breakfast like the bad habit it was. I had to give up lifting upper-body weights once the clots started. It makes me sad to not be as strong. My doctor recently told me I could give it a go again, but I had to know that clotting could happen. It’s too scary a concept for me to deal with right now.
All of this back-and-forth weight bothered me more in previous years. Three years ago, I was hospitalized for an infection. For whatever reason, my thyroid started to go into a hyperthyroid state. It was mentioned that I might need to go on medication, but silly me, I was only concerned that it was greatly unfair to have hyperthyroidism without losing weight. I want to go back in time and shake sense into myself. Health matters first!
Last year, there was a long stretch of time where I could only drink Ensures, and I just maintained my weight. Now that doesn’t make sense at all, does it? Then, two months ago happened. I had a migraine of epic proportions. One medication was increased that has a side effect of—you guessed it—weight gain. Then I had a mega-dose steroid infusion. I went in for my blood transfusion for anemia after having been weighed at the doctor’s office a week before, only to find I gained 15 pounds. My mind was so confused. I had just gotten new clothes. I loved how they fit. I was so happy with how I looked. It was startling and messed up. I wasn’t supposed to like myself more this way. I turned to my mom and said, “I think I’m supposed to hate myself now or something.”
I talked to my doctor about this. I’m always told not to worry too much about it, and that with my health issues, I do such a good job. I started with some intense interval cardio training, which was probably far too much for my current health status. I’m sure I became fitter in general, but I stayed the same weight. Hey, I’m OK with that. If there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I don’t have the time or energy to spend disliking myself over imperfections that I may be the only one to notice. I was born with a hemangioma above my lip. My parents treated me like there was nothing wrong. There was another child at the same pediatrician who had a mole on her forehead that her parents constantly covered with a bandage. I’m fairly certain she battled some self-esteem issues because of it. A plastic surgeon offered to fix things for me for free, and I turned him down. I still have the scar above my lip and lack of pigmentation. I was never going to be perfect.
These days, I’m looking for the perfect under-eye concealer. I have some serious black circles under my eyes that are nearly impossible to cover up. What can I say? I’ve always been an allergy kid. I’m not losing sleep over this. I’m also fairly certain that less sleep would perpetuate the problem. I’m not saying that if I can’t get that perfect pair of jeans over my butt, I don’t have a mini-meltdown. I’ve had those. Why do so many jeans have to be low-rise? I also recognize that Kim Kardashian must have the same problem. If I’m not completely content about something today, most likely by tomorrow, or the next day, it will change. My world is a calmer place when I do not hate myself. Hate is just such a continuous thing, and I’m such an ever-evolving person.