What if no matter what you did, it was clinically impossible to lose weight? How would that change your perspective of your body? Would you finally, after all these years, cut yourself a break? Would you stop body shaming yourself?
Eight years ago, quite by accident, I was surfing the internet and saw something that hit me like a ton of bricks. A picture of a woman whose body looked just like mine. That lead to several other pictures of women whose bodies looked just like mine. The same body I had gone to great lengths to hide. The one that I inherited from my mother and had become increasingly misshapen and immobile. The one that I beat myself up over mentally and physically, trying every diet and exercise program. The one I spent a lifetime learning to hate, fueled by the fat shaming of countless health practitioners. My monster finally had a name—Lipedema. I sobbed uncontrollably.
Firstly, Lipedema is not Lymphedema, which is asymmetrical swelling of limbs after lymph nodes are removed during mastectomies. According to the Lipedema Foundation, Lipedema is a chronic condition that manifests as a symmetrical buildup of painful fat and swelling in the arms and legs, sparing the hands and feet. It occurs almost exclusively in about 11% of women and is poorly understood. No kidding! Poorly misunderstood is an understatement. To make matters worse, the disease that has plagued my life has developed past stage three, has caused the small bones in my feet to crack, my hips to separate from their sockets, and my knees to grind down to bone…is considered cosmetic. This means that while surgeons have been recently trained to extract this diseased fat, insurance will not pay for it. So, I’m in a race to see whether I’ll end up in a wheelchair or my insurance company will recognize that this is more than just a cosmetic issue. Frustrating!
Yet something else has come from my journey. When I learned about my disease and my fate, I learned something else. First, I forgave myself. I realized that there was never anything I could do to stop the progression of this congenital disease. Second, I forgave my mother. She had spent my whole life shaming me because her greatest fear was that I would end up just like her…you see, she was never diagnosed. When I told her of my eventual diagnosis and explained the disease to her, we cried together for a long time. And then? We let go. Are we completely happy with our bodies? No. But we have finally cut ourselves a break and we see new beauty in who we are. Feel free to email brikhouz65@yahoo.com to connect with resources associated with this disease.