Unfixable

My problems are not fixable. I used to always believe that if life became untenable, one could just “run away.” If you’re really at the point of ending it, why not try escaping it, first? But now I see  “no matter where you go, there you are.” My body has failed me. My health is unmanageable. Doctors have failed me. The entire medical profession has failed me (and yes, I know that sounds hyperbolic, but sometimes hyperbole is the only refuge).

A failed hysterectomy… a surgical “accident”… a booboo… an “uh oh, it slipped… shit happens…” has left my life in shambles, and as the problems drag on and on and on the world has shifted into “blame the patient.” The surgery to repair the surgery to repair the surgery is now in need of repair, but I have gained unfathomable amounts of weight and surgery is unsafe.

And there it is. Right there. “Oh. Gained weight. Yeah, we get it. Fat people deserve every bad thing that happens to them.” But what about when the fat, despicable person did not do anything to get that way? I am not hiding potato chips in my sofa or eating fast food in my car. I eat nothing processed or packaged. I eat no wheat or grains of any kind. I eat no meat or dairy that isn’t grass fed. I eat no vegetable that isn’t organic. And I eat no food that isn’t grass-fed meat or organic vegetables. I eat twice a day. Probably 1000 calories a day. I tried veganism. I tried liquid diets. I tried dozens of detoxes and cleansing regimens. I went bulletproof. I went palio. I juiced, I fasted, I purged, I weighed and measured. I tried drugs and supplements. Will-power is no longer even something I strive for, I simply don’t eat because I can’t. Every pound of food is 5 pounds of fat on my body. The rare doctor who believes me is baffled. I test allergic to all foods. All of them. The ridiculous drugs they keep prescribing are more of a problem than the problem itself. We live in a “wag the dog” medical universe, where only symptoms are treated because that’s where profitability lies.

Of course, we sell the idea that all obesity is a weakness of character, because the idea that “it isn’t something you do but something that can happen to you” is too terrifying. I had no idea before this, either. I thought I was thin because I was disciplined and did the right things. Guess what. You can be disciplined. You can do the right thing. And then medical things can happen and BOOM your life is over. Just over. Meaningless. Because the life if a crippled fat person is nothing but a drain on society. With a giant, gaping incisional hernia in my abdomen, there is little I can safely do for exercise. But I do what I can. Water-based physical therapy. Walking. Any opportunity to do anything I take, when I can. But I’m sick. I’m sick ALL the time. Some days I can barely walk. So on those days, I eat less. I eat just a bit of vegetables. And I’m fat and handicapped, can’t lift more than 5 pounds safely, can’t walk a mile without exhaustion. Shows like “biggest loser” are a crime against humanity. They would have you believe all fat people got that way because they’re either emotionally damaged or just undisciplined and lazy. It’s a lie. It can happen to you like an earthquake, or a pestilence. It is an act of God. A sick, horrific god who delights in suffering for no other reason than a “bet with the devil.” Well if I’m the Job of the modern age, this time God loses the bet. I curse him and die.

Doctors. They think they’re gods, but they’re not. They know very little. These days medical school teaches them two things: 1. the latin names for body parts, and 2: how to read a chart of symptoms and prescribe exactly what pfyzer tells them to prescribe. They are shills, doing nothing but standing outside the modern version of a traveling wagon selling “mother mabel’s miracle tonic.” In the battle between the original start of true medical research and the shysters who sold tonics, the snake oil salesmen won. They can and will do nothing to help me, even though they caused this in the first place. And I am left obese and with an extremely large hiatal hernia from the last surgery. I’m too fat to make repair surgery practical. I walked in to the hospital for a simple hysterectomy and 3 1/2 years later am left this… monstrous, useless THING. Most of the world would agree, simply based on this horrific body, that suicide is not just an option, it should be a requirement. This is a cascade of crap rolling downhill onto me. Every day, I am sicker and sicker. Poisoned by toxic environment, toxic medicine, toxic food. Autoimmune diseases. Physical handicaps. Obesity. Fat fat fat why don’t you die piggy, you’re fat. I was never fat before this. And I don’t mean I put on a little padding… I am morbidly obese. Too fat to live. Maybe too fat to die easily. How many pills does it take to kill a fat person? Where is the rope strong enough?

I haven’t been able to work. Our finances are in shambles. My husband is exhausted from working and taking care of the house himself. My daughter is now grown and able to look out for herself. She doesn’t need me. I am a drain on our money, our lives, everything. I serve no valuable purpose.  I am torn up, physically and emotionally. I offer nothing to the universe and my very existence just takes and takes. Why on earth did this happen to me? Why? I did all the things I was supposed to do in life. Cancer would have been better than this, because at least cancer comes with an expiration date. You either get cured or you die. This? I’m just waiting for the heart-attack or stroke. With my luck, neither would kill me, and I’d just be a bigger drain on my family, and would no longer have the means or ability to end it. I owe it to the world to do something about this while I still can. I tried fixing it. It is irreparable. Now it is time to die and remove the problem, like a cancer. I am the problem. I am the cancer. I need to be excised.