I’m overweight. I don’t like talking about it. It has been a fact since the fourth grade, it’s something I struggle with pretty much every day, and if I talk about it, it makes it more real or a bigger deal or something. I don’t know. I just know it makes me sad and mad.
I’ve been on a diet, or wanting to be on a diet, since I was in the sixth grade. For those of you who keep calculations at home, that is approximately two-thirds of my life.
Gosh. That’s staggering to realize. What a waste.
In 2003, I was diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS). Among some other really lovely side effects, PCOS makes it difficult to lose weight, process insulin correctly, and have a regular period. In fact, according to the website WomensHealth.gov, as many as one in ten women could have PCOS, so you may be sitting next to someone in class or church or passing someone in the grocery store aisle who is struggling just like me.
If you’re in the grocery store, she’s the one wishing her cart was full of muffins instead of veggies. Look into her eyes. You will know.
I spent most of my adolescent years thinking that because I was treating my body badly, it didn’t work right in many areas. But it ended up I had a disease working against me as well.
Don’t get me wrong; I also didn’t eat well. It was a fairly regular Friday night in tenth grade when I would go to Arby’s with some football player friends and managers (I was a manager . . .), and I would order—get ready for it—