The Sky Isn't Really Falling (Part 2)

(this is a continuation of a post started here)

The thing I know is that the fear that kept me at that job despite the way in which it was crushing my soul was the fear my mother gave me. The idea that I couldn't let this opportunity go because there would never be another one like it was the driving force behind my clinging to that job. It not only kept me there, but it kept me powerless to demand anything that I was reasonably due. I couldn't stand up for myself when credit was stolen from me. I couldn't ask for raises. I couldn't refuse to do things which were outside of my job description. I couldn't do anything because it might threaten my job security and the job must be kept at all costs, even at the cost of my mental and physical health.

In the end, I couldn't endure the depression anymore. I took a vacation and was more miserable when it was over than before I had left. The fact that nothing could make me happy anymore was too much to bear. With my husband's encouragement, I finally was able to take my utterly defeated self and say I'd quit. I gave notice about 6 weeks before leaving, and I cried every day for a month at the prospect of leaving. It wasn't that I loved the job so much, but that I feared the change.

Prying myself away from something I'd clung to like a lifeline for so long was like ripping the very flesh from my body. It was painful on so many levels because I'd assigned disproportionate and ill-deserved value to the company and the work in order to validate my remaining there. The truth was though that it was my mother's fears that she had so deeply inculcated into me that played the biggest role. If I left, the sky was going to fall.

Obviously, the sky did not fall. Everything was okay. I got other work. My husband and I make enough money with our combined jobs, and I finally began the process of recovering my mental health. It took nearly a year away from that job before the depression started to lift. I spent much of that year holed up in our apartment talking to my sister, playing MMORPGs, and going out as little as possible. I cocooned myself from as much external pain as possible and one day, about 7-8 months later, I realized that I could enjoy things again, though I still didn't feel anywhere near "whole" for a good deal longer.

Three years away from that job, and I had the courage to make a decision that set off my weight loss efforts. That decision is to move to a very different place where new opportunities will present themselves. The truth is that we have remained where we are, in part, due to inertia, but also perhaps due to my fear. Things are going pretty well here, so I'm afraid to leave, but the truth is that our situation keeps us both in a state of intellectual and career stagnation. I'm afraid the sky will fall if I walk away from a life of relative comfort, so I chose to stay in a place in which I am not really happy and in which I have no bright future.

My fear at letting go of the stability we have had here has been a big part of why we have remained. My husband is okay to remain out of inertia, but he probably would have left a long time ago if I had wanted to. Everyday that I think about leaving, I face my fear that the sky will fall when I move on. It's a deep terror that I realize has one foot in reality and one foot in conjured fear.

Anyone can step off the curb to cross a street and be hit by a car, though the chances of that are rather low. Chances are you'll cross that street just fine. Chances are that I'll cross that street just fine when I move on and life will be different but no worse than it has been here on the whole. My mother would have had me believe that I would certainly be killed for taking the chance and stepping off the curb. She would have had me decide to stand on that same corner forever no matter how miserable it made me for fear of that that one in a million chance of getting hit by a previously unseen car would be the result. I have decided that I just can't keep standing there anymore based on a fear that the sky might fall if I take a step.

The Sky Really Isn't Falling (Part 1)

Among the many enduring "gifts", or should I say more accurately, "boobie prizes", that my mother gave me were a number of attitudes about life. She never told me these thoughts overtly, but I learned them clearly and loudly over the years through her actions and advice. The main theme would be that the sky was always falling, though breaking it down a bit is rather more enlightening.

One of the primary messages she gave me was that life was incredibly insecure so I had to take whatever chances I was offered immediately, whether they suited me or not. If I turned down an opportunity, there may never be one again, so it was important never to turn one down even if it made me unhappy to pursue a particular path. This is a lesson that I have carried with me pretty much my entire life. It's one that had me accepting unsuitable jobs because any hesitation on my part not only made me believe I'd be unemployed forever, but brought about a rain of complaining from my mother.

The worst of these choices resulted in a crappy job as a camp arts and crafts counselor for 2 months followed by a two-week stint as a waitress in a mall snack bar just after college. My mother was apoplectic at the idea that I would wait and apply for jobs that were more suitable for someone who had a Bachelor's degree in Psychology. She'd rather I worked for sub-minimum wage than allow me in peace to search for jobs in my field. Since I lived at home throughout and just after college, as I was too poor to do otherwise, there was no escaping her haranguing. Also, quite frankly, I'd lived my whole life with her fears and had thoroughly integrated them into my mindset.

The sense that I could not walk away from anything because it made me miserable also contributed to my remaining in a job I held for over a decade even though my substantial and unique contributions were seen as valueless by the company's president. I was the only one capable of doing much of the work I did, and replacing me would have required hiring at least two people at higher wages. My immediate boss also spent a few years stealing credit for my work and quashed any attempts on my part to assist other employees (including himself) with an angry snappish comment because he was worried that I'd look more valuable than he and the president might replace him with me. This isn't speculation on my part. He told me this perfectly clearly. He only stopped covering up the extent of the work I did when the president considered firing me and replacing me with someone else. Essentially, his efforts to cover up my value had worked so well that I appeared to be someone who could be replaced on a whim for a younger, cheaper newcomer. Only then did my boss start advertising my abilities because his work would have been nearly impossible without someone of my talents and skill level.

My misery at this job was compounded by the fact that I was rarely given any but the tiniest and most insignificant raises. In fact after a year in which I did particularly excellent work, I was hoping for a bit of a juicier raise than usual. This hope was utterly dashed when my expectations were answered with the aforementioned near firing.

I spent over a year in a state close to clinical depression at that job because I was so fearful that I'd never find another job again. My husband did everything short of begging me to quit, but my sense that the sky would fall if I left kept me in place. I got up day after day finding no joy in anything that once made me happy and miserable at the prospect of going to my office. I sat in my cubicle feeling like I'd rather scream than remain another minute there.

I used to offer to do other projects or help others with their work when mine was done, and I stopped that. I used to use my down time to expand my skills (and indeed became an expert user of Adobe professional products through self-training), but during the last year or so at that company, I'd just do my work as rapidly as possible, keep my head down, and clandestinely play video games that I didn't even enjoy when I had nothing else to do. If anyone asked me to do something, I'd do it, but I was done growing my abilities or volunteering to assist others. That sort of thing gave me no satisfaction anymore.

Eventually, I did leave that job. Incidentally, when I quit, they did hire two people to replace me. It was during that job that I gained much of the weight since my marriage. I probably put on 50 lbs. due to strife with my in-laws and early difficulties with the situation after I married, but I probably put on 150 during that job. The job ate at me and I ate back in response.

People talk a lot about "eating your pain", but it really is a misnomer. The pain was right there in the open. I complained. I talked about it. My pain wasn't being suppressed nor was my sense of how crushing it could be to be so skilled and so undervalued. My boss knew it. My husband knew it. Some of my other coworkers knew it. I wasn't swallowing any of my anger, frustration or pain.

The eating part was about exhaustion, negative overstimulation, and finding some source of easily accessible pleasure in my miserable life. I liked the work, but the workplace and the general environment I lived in was oppressive and punitive. A bit of chocolate, a large amount of white carbs, and a pint of ice cream was a balm that I could lose myself in as needed, and I needed it a lot. Since the job itself was desk work and didn't require movement, and I was in too much back pain to exercise much anyway, the weight accumulated.

It sounds incredible to say I gained 150 lbs., but less astonishing to consider that that was over more than ten years. How hard is it to gain 10-15 lbs. per year? It's really not all that hard, especially when you are under a lot of stress, in physical pain, and have little comfort in your life.

(continued in part 2)

My Marriage and My Weight

Sometimes I think about my relationship with my husband and how it has affected my weight. Before I get into this, I want to state unequivocally that this has nothing to do with "blame" or assigning responsibility to my husband. This post has to do with my responses to my relationship and the things that have happened which may have affected my weight. Just as I don't blame the existence of ice cream for my being overweight, I don't blame the existence of my relationship with my husband for my weight. Both may be factors in my problem because of how I acted on them (eating the ice cream, for instance), but that doesn't mean they are responsible. I'm merely looking at pieces of the puzzle in order to grasp the big picture, not playing some pointless blame game.

When I first got to know my husband, I was just out of college and on a very healthy living kick. I exercised 90 minutes a day, 5 days a week. I didn't eat sugar, white bread, pork, beef, butter, or fried foods. I was about two and a half years into some pretty serious weight loss and at my lowest weight in my adult life. This lifestyle melted away rapidly after I moved in with my husband. I had to change jobs (which didn't allow me to exercise because of a different schedule), lived in a situation which was highly stressful (and where I had little to no control over anything, let alone my eating), and became a part of his lifestyle choices. I also had to deal with the emotional aspects of our new relationship.

During our first year together, my husband and I fought nearly every day. That sounds awful, but we've been together now for 22 years and I can tell you that it's normal to have a lot of conflict early on and to have almost none as the years go by. Part of the process of getting to deeply know one another and learning to live together is conflict. There's a lot to learn, compromise on, and adapt to. Once you go through the process, it's all downhill. The important thing is that you grow to fit one another better and become better people, not that you are all sunshine and lollipops all of the time.

During that first year together, I gained at least 50 lbs., possibly more. My husband being the wonderful, loving person that he is never said a word, and he married me anyway. He also knew about my past weight and childhood obesity. He didn't care. He loved me anyway and always has. My husband has never been anything but accepting of my weight, even when he was frightened deep inside that I was digging my way to an early grave through a food-filled tunnel. His main concern, and he has very rarely voiced it because he knew that I would deal with my problem when and if I could, was that I would die young and he wouldn't be able to spend more of his life with me.

I view my husband as an extraordinary man because he is absolutely devoid of any shallowness and unconditionally loving. Some people may aspire to be as he is, but battle niggling voices that tell them to be preoccupied with the superficial. In this way, I am absolutely fortunate, but I wonder at times if this has played a role in my gaining more weight than I otherwise might have. Sometimes I wonder if my husband's absolute acceptance took away my motivation to keep my weight under control while the stresses associated with our relationship early one compelled me to lose control. If I had felt a risk that I would lose him if I got too fat, would I have then not become so fat? It's a terrible thought that I may not have gotten this way if my husband had put an emotional gun to my head. The fact that I feel that may have helped reflects more on how messed up I am (I need external validation for my actions or I don't take them).

My husband was the first person who ever accepted me unconditionally, loved me openly, and provided a lot of the validation, attention, and affection that I desperately needed. Because he was the only person who ever made me feel like I was actually human (since I'd been dehumanized by everyone my entire life based on weight), I developed a mindset where only his opinion mattered. This is a view that he encouraged because he wanted me to stop allowing the arbitrary judgment and subsequent devaluation of me based on superficial analysis of strangers to continue to damage me. He knows me. They don't. Therefore, his opinion of me was the only one that mattered.

Though he did not intend me to take this message from his actions, I wonder if I stopped caring about my weight because he seemingly didn't care about it, and though everyone else still did, they did not matter. How could I reject their judgment yet act on their wishes? Beyond that, I believe that, despite my husband's complete acceptance of me, the self-loathing I had (and still have) made me disbelieve it on a certain level. I accept it as a possibility that I may have let my weight go completely on some subconscious level because I wanted to "test" whether or not his love for me was beyond superficial concerns. I can say, without hesitation, that it absolutely is.

Of course, I don't know if any of this is actually true. It is mere speculation, but I believe there is value in pondering it. I do want to know all of the factors that contributed to my getting to a weight close to 400 lbs. so that I can understand how not to get there again.