Read Online It Was Me All Along: A Memoir by Andie Mitchell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andie Mitchell
Ads: Link
finger along the line, explaining that my weight since birth had increased rapidly, and that the rate at which I was still gaining was alarming, to say the least. He paused. “Andrea, my girl, you’ve got to lose weight.” What he said next has always stuck with me: “At this rate, I predict you’ll weigh three hundred pounds by the time you turn twenty-five.” As if in sync, my stomach and jaw dropped. My heart stopped beating for a solid ten seconds. Mom reached over to hold my hand. I was horrified. So horrified that big fat tears came rolling down my cheeks as he rattled off a list of suggestions to help me lose weight. “Eat more fruit, try whole wheat bread, don’t eat cookies …” I stopped listening after the one about joining a sports team for exercise, too scared to even feign interest.
To say I was overwhelmed in that moment would be as much of an understatement as saying I was a little pudgy. When my doctor left and closed the door behind him, Mom grabbed my face in her hands, looked into my saltwatery eyes, and assured me: “Francie, now you listen to me. You’re the most beautiful being I’ve ever laid eyes upon.” And though every mother might spout the same sentiments, I knew mine wanted nothing as much as she wanted me to believe her words.
We left the office, and I cried all the way to lunch at Pizzeria Uno, where we sat in a leather booth built for two and talked earnestly for the first time about losing weight. I felt vulnerable acknowledging with Mom how big I’d gotten, when weight hadalways kept a quiet and immutable existence. I didn’t say it aloud, but I recognized the oddity of talking about eating healthier while swigging a Sprite, just one of the many things the doctor suggested that I eliminate from my diet. I picked french fries from my platter of chicken fingers and brought them to my mouth quickly, compulsively, as though clearing my plate were the first order of business in making room for change. I finished my meal and even helped with some of Mom’s, and what I was left with was an odd tug-of-war between hating and pitying myself. I could feel the fat clinging tightly to me as it always had, and now, at the very thought of having to rid myself of it, I felt it cling tighter. At fourteen and two hundred pounds, I couldn’t help but feel burdened by my weight. Worse, I was saddled with the fact that I was the one who had to actively lose it.
I thought of my best friends, how they ate, and how I seemed to eat no differently. After school, we all ate the same Drake’s chocolate cakes with cream filling. We all stirred chocolate syrup into our milk. We all knew which houses handed out full-size candy bars on Halloween. I believed that my body had betrayed me. Unwilling to accept any responsibility, I thought I’d been unfairly stuck with fat for no reason.
Within a week, I grudgingly began my first diet. Mom had read an advertisement for a voluntary clinical weight loss study being conducted on young women at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston. She came home with a stack of forms she’d already filled out and signed. “It’s a good opportunity for you,” she promised, her voice soothing and hopeful. She explained that I’d learn a great deal, that I’d have a support system. And though I couldn’t muster enthusiasm or even a shred of confidence, I wanted badly to believe her.
The study aimed to observe the effects of a new and experimental weight loss medication called Meridia (sibutramine). The drug was an appetite suppressant whose desired effect was reduction of hunger and, in turn, food consumption, thereby encouraging weight loss. This exact medication type has since been withdrawn from the US market by the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) and in several other countries for its potentially dangerous side effects.
Half of the group of twenty volunteer girls, ages twelve to seventeen, would be administered the drug itself; the other half would be
To say I was overwhelmed in that moment would be as much of an understatement as saying I was a little pudgy. When my doctor left and closed the door behind him, Mom grabbed my face in her hands, looked into my saltwatery eyes, and assured me: “Francie, now you listen to me. You’re the most beautiful being I’ve ever laid eyes upon.” And though every mother might spout the same sentiments, I knew mine wanted nothing as much as she wanted me to believe her words.
We left the office, and I cried all the way to lunch at Pizzeria Uno, where we sat in a leather booth built for two and talked earnestly for the first time about losing weight. I felt vulnerable acknowledging with Mom how big I’d gotten, when weight hadalways kept a quiet and immutable existence. I didn’t say it aloud, but I recognized the oddity of talking about eating healthier while swigging a Sprite, just one of the many things the doctor suggested that I eliminate from my diet. I picked french fries from my platter of chicken fingers and brought them to my mouth quickly, compulsively, as though clearing my plate were the first order of business in making room for change. I finished my meal and even helped with some of Mom’s, and what I was left with was an odd tug-of-war between hating and pitying myself. I could feel the fat clinging tightly to me as it always had, and now, at the very thought of having to rid myself of it, I felt it cling tighter. At fourteen and two hundred pounds, I couldn’t help but feel burdened by my weight. Worse, I was saddled with the fact that I was the one who had to actively lose it.
I thought of my best friends, how they ate, and how I seemed to eat no differently. After school, we all ate the same Drake’s chocolate cakes with cream filling. We all stirred chocolate syrup into our milk. We all knew which houses handed out full-size candy bars on Halloween. I believed that my body had betrayed me. Unwilling to accept any responsibility, I thought I’d been unfairly stuck with fat for no reason.
Within a week, I grudgingly began my first diet. Mom had read an advertisement for a voluntary clinical weight loss study being conducted on young women at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston. She came home with a stack of forms she’d already filled out and signed. “It’s a good opportunity for you,” she promised, her voice soothing and hopeful. She explained that I’d learn a great deal, that I’d have a support system. And though I couldn’t muster enthusiasm or even a shred of confidence, I wanted badly to believe her.
The study aimed to observe the effects of a new and experimental weight loss medication called Meridia (sibutramine). The drug was an appetite suppressant whose desired effect was reduction of hunger and, in turn, food consumption, thereby encouraging weight loss. This exact medication type has since been withdrawn from the US market by the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) and in several other countries for its potentially dangerous side effects.
Half of the group of twenty volunteer girls, ages twelve to seventeen, would be administered the drug itself; the other half would be
Similar Books
