Yesterday, we went to the baseball game.
If you saw pictures of the day on social media, it looked pretty great!
The sun was shining, the game was exciting – all the things you hope for at the end of June in Baltimore. Especially when you’re a passionate Orioles fan like me.
Unfortunately – the experience was more like a game of “find the hidden differences” between the photos and actual reality.
Kind of like ALL life on social media if I’m being entirely truthful.
Most people aim to present the most attractive, fun-loving, exciting, and happy versions of ourselves online, because somewhere it is writ that so long as we give the appearance of our best selves, that’s who we are. No one wants to see a picture of your hurt feelings or your wounded pride. I’m sure there’s a scientific explanation behind it—but hell if I know what it is.
Anyway.
Cutting to the chase, I didn’t fit in the seat.
I don’t know if you understand how hard it is for me to admit that.
Hint: It’s fairly soul crushing.
Let me say it again, just to be crystal clear.
My hips and backside did not fit in the seat that was purchased for me. The smallish armrests were cutting so tight that my right side is bruised (admittedly, this is not hard to do – I am, after all, a peach.) My feet were pushed into the seats in front of me, causing the guy in the seat I touched to turn around and curse at me. I apologized. He didn’t care. I get it. I wouldn’t want someone’s shoes touching me either.
And here I was, a red-faced, sweating, mortified, superfat, middle aged woman – struggling.
To sit in a seat.
Not to run a marathon.
Not to end poverty or the Russian civil war.
Not even anything 95% of people see as difficult or noteworthy.
I was simply struggling to enjoy a day in my life – over a seat.
I had already been thrown for a loop when we got to Camden Yards 2 ½ hours early and the nearest handicapped parking space was over a half mile away from the front gate. But this development?
It’s “worst nightmare” material for a fat person.
It ranks right up there with hits such as:
“Don’t make eye contact in the airport so you don’t see people silently praying they don’t have to sit next to you.”
“Will the carnival ride safety thingmabob close over me,”
And the ever-popular Summertime standard,
“What are the odds I’m about to break this plastic patio furniture?”
By this point, dear reader, I’m sure you’re curious as to why I’m sharing this painful and embarrassing experience. I assure you I don’t want your sympathy. (Candidly, the sympathy makes it worse, like having a sore spot in your mouth that you can’t stop touching it with your tongue.)
What I am hoping for is the opportunity to share something about physical disability and its impact on my overall mental health.
Because they go hand in hand for me, those two things.
No matter how hard I try to separate them or say one doesn’t have anything to do with the other.
For some folks, that’s true. For me, it’s not.
As my physical health has declined, so has my mental health.
And it has extraordinarily little to do with a number on a scale. The last time I weighed less than 200 pounds was, I dunno, 1990?
Yes, I have become progressively heavier over time.
But it wasn’t until the heaviness stopped me that the floor fell out from under me.
Losing the ability to use my body effectively has been one of the hardest battles I’ve ever fought. And I’ve been fighting it for FIFTEEN YEARS, when I first hurt my back. In 2008, I thought nothing could be as bad as the shooting, stabbing, burning pain that ran down my legs. In 2019, I thought that nothing could be as bad as the numbness and tingling that set in or the general loss of balance that made it difficult for me to walk? (Remember that whole summer I fell down on sidewalks and ripped the shit out of my knees and elbows?) Fast forward to today, and it’s difficult for me to stand without swaying. If you’ve stood next to me for a period longer than five minutes, you’ve seen it. That slightly intoxicated- looking step back and the frantic glance for something to hold onto? Or when we’ve hugged, and you thought you were going to have to catch me because I’m pitching forward?
It’s nerve damage.
It may be irreversible.
And it’s because every doctor I’ve seen says the same things.
Lose 100 pounds, then we’ll talk.
Or,
If I operate now, your lower belly will just rip out all the progress.
Or,
This may or may not improve if you lose weight, but it couldn’t hurt to do that first.
And finally, my favorite – the ever-so-gaslighty,
You’re clearly intelligent, Erin, you don’t need me to tell you what the problem is. Let’s talk about you going keto and getting some of this unnecessary weight off and then we can plan for the future, hm?
So, you try.
But.
You cannot move well when you’re in near-constant, level 8+ pain.
So, you stop moving.
And then you stop saying yes to invitations.
And you isolate yourself.
And you get depressed.
And suddenly, you’re 44, you can barely walk a mile without crying from pain, you don’t fit in the goddamned seat, and you were raised in a time period where asking for help, accommodations, or acceptance while fat wasn’t just discouraged, it was programmed into your brain that it was not an option.
And then you decided to wage the goddamned battle of your life to have gastric bypass.
Because you remember.
You remember what it was like when you COULD do things.
When you could walk the length of the Ocean City Boardwalk and back – TWICE- for the sheer fun of it.
When you Varsity lettered 5 times in high school.
When you knew what it felt like to go down the first hill of a roller coaster on a hot night in July.
When you could stand on stage in a spotlight and not be worried you’re going to fall over because your equilibrium is terribly poor.
And you figured out how to ask for the help you need.
And the help you deserve.
And the help you should’ve been given all along.
**
In conversations, people often ask me, “So, Erin, what’s next for you? Any big projects on the horizon?”
Yup. I reply. This one is really personal. A play in two acts. It’s called “My Life.”
And we’re currently at intermission.
Life of Riley 