My life of numbers started when I was ten years old. David Wilkie (the swimmer) visited our towns swimming pool and the local school children were invited to go along and swim with him.
You can imagine my excitement; my mum even bought me a new swimming costume especially for the occasion. When the swimming was over, we all lined up to have individual photographs taken with David. A few weeks later the photographs were delivered to school, handed out and I sat at my desk with a smile on my face. The smile didn’t last long because later that day someone looked at my photograph and made the comment “look how fat you look!” … and that was the day my life of numbers began. On and off for nearly forty years the numbers on the scales (known as the ‘step of disgrace’) dictated how my day went.
About three years ago the battery died in the step of disgrace and I just didn’t ever replace it. That was probably one of the best decisions I made. But a couple of incidents this week brought back how I used to think about my size and weight which prompted me to share my story.
The first was when I was ordering some new outdoor gear online; I hadn’t had any clothing from this company before and the sizing didn’t come in a size 10, 12, 14 etc so it was a case measuring your body parts which determined if you were a small, medium or large … I was a large. I rechecked, but the numbers on the tape measure didn’t lie, I was definitely a large. I didn’t want to be large; I didn’t want a label attached to my top with the words ‘large’ written on it! The thing is I’m a size 12; if the label had a ‘12’ on it I wouldn’t have batted and eyelid, but large meant big and I didn’t like that.
The second incident was last night; I’d got into bed with my partner and he suddenly said “your skins really soft” … soft equals fat. My partner officially thought I was fat and he’d even said it! Soft means squidgy, soft is when you can press into something, soft is like the doughball man on the TV advert or the Michelin Man … both big.
Turning the clock back to that ten year old child and a silly comment prompted years of what I can only describe as at times being very sad; I’d have breaks where I didn’t think about my size but they were short lived. Living at home I became very good at hiding what I’d eaten, but the problems really kicked in when I left home at eighteen years old. Now I could control my eating and my exercise, and I was accountable to no one. My exercise regime was ridiculous; running, attending gym classes, walking at all hours of the day and night with the daily game of kidding my body that it could survive on an apple and a cup of horlicks. I’d try and get my fingers behind my hip or collar bone, the more ribs I could count would determine how much exercise I did that day and how much I ate. Living alone I didn’t have anyone to ask me if I’d eaten. I started wearing baggie clothes.
Around this time I changed jobs and on a visit to my old work place a member of staff commented that I looked yellow … I was jaundiced; I weighed six stone, my skin was a mess, and I had no energy but continued with a stupid exercise regime and depriving my body of food. I stood on the step of disgrace at least ten times a day; I worked out if I weighed myself and went for a walk I would weigh less when I got home, that meant more walking! If I skipped drinks, I’d weigh less too.
I was visiting a friend in hospital one evening; I hadn’t eaten for a few days and the heat in the hospital became overpowering and I fainted. I woke up to a nurse sat next to me and she suggested I see my GP (she could see the damage I was doing to my body). Obviously I didn’t go; I didn’t need to sit in front of a doctor for him to tell me I was fat. Looking back I think friends and family were concerned but no one really knew what to say or do.
There were periods when I relaxed; usually when something good happened but the minute something went wrong in my life and it could be something trivial like a disagreement with a friend then the step of disgrace would be brought back out. The reason something bad had happened was because I was fat and that was one thing I could control.
As the years went by I got married, had children and relaxed but a passing comment would easily trigger another spate of dieting. The children grew up with me on one kind of diet or another; I’ve tried them all! There was one slimming class that I attended each week and if you lost weight then the class members would clap. If I didn’t get a clap then I’d failed, I was a failure and I was fat.
Photographs were my worst nightmare. I would try and stand behind someone else or stand on the end; if I stood on the end I could easily cut myself off the photograph when they were printed.
I even went to see a plastic surgeon to ask for a tummy tuck; my tummy had a roundness to it (this meant I was fat) I’d gained a bit of weight by this time and the step of disgrace told me I was seven stone. Thankfully the consultant examined me and told me to go home.
I was up my loft a few months ago having a sort out and came across my memory box. It was full of the children’s drawings, first shoes, first baby grow etc but hidden at the bottom were my diaries. There were 17 diaries and the only entries on each day for the whole year, for 17 years were what the numbers my step of disgrace told me I was; not even just one number each day but lists! I was down to weighing myself four times a day but I listed the weight in stones/pounds, pounds and kilograms … the slightest ounce made the difference to a good or bad day. I also came across my David Wilkie photograph where the issues first started; me in my new blue swimming costume proudly stood next to David. My visit up the loft was quite a sad day; I’d let my life become dictated by a passing comment made by another school child all those years ago.
Age is an amazing thing though sometimes; we mature and for me with maturity came a realisation that I wasn’t fat, or big, or large … All those years ago I was just a normal child and during the times I relaxed I was an average sized woman, it just took a long time to realise it. I don’t have a step of disgrace in the house these days, I buy clothes that fit rather than focus on the label, I eat well and exercise in moderation. I don’t even mind having soft skin.
Is there a purpose to my post? I have a saying that I use when I see nasty comments left on social media or hear children arguing and it’s “if you can’t say anything nice, then just don’t say anything” … once a comment has left a person’s lips, that person might walk away and forget all about it, it can never be taken back, but the person at the receiving end could be left with self doubt and upset for a very long time … be kind to others but also remember to be kind to yourself
Thanks for sharing. I would never have guessed that you had been through so muc but know something of careless comments and how they can do such damage. Looking forward to reading about your adventures x