Down With The Fatty.

So there’s a lot of folks out there that hate fat folks. Course, there’s a lot of folks out there that hate brown folks, yellow folks, pink folks, and everything else in between. People are, at their meaty little cores, dicks a lot of the time. Not all the time, of course, and not YOU dear reader. But everyone else. Dicks. Full of dickery.

Let me get to the meat and potatoes of my post. In all of my years of being a chubby bitch, there has been ONE incident not brought about by my own psychosis and low self-esteem that made me feel lower than dog shit for what I looked like. I’m gonna share this with you because I think it’s one of those things that needs to be said so people can be more sensitive to size hate around us. And if you don’t think it exists you’re very, very wrong. A few years back I asked our own falconesse for a recommendation to a gynecologist – mine had gone off to have babies and not be a doctor anymore. Sorry dude readers, the icky doctor has been invoked, but I promise I won’t talk about the lady parts more than I have to. Anyway, Lauren gave me the name of a facility about twenty minutes away from my house that she’d been going to for years. The person she saw wasn’t accepting new patients, so I had to go with who was. There was a nurse practitioner there named Amy. I think her last name was Barrows? Considering I saw this chick once in my whole life and it was about five years ago, that’ll tell you how traumatizing this event was.

Anyway, I go in to see this lady for a pretty standard check up. She looked at my chart, and the first thing she asked me was “How much do you weigh”. No really, before she even examined me, talked to me at all, she asked me my weight. I told her, she frowned at me and said “you can’t even think about having children unless you take off 70 pounds.” No “hello, no how are ya?”, just “no kids for you”. Now, going to the icky doctor is a shitty experience to begin with, especially when it’s with a doctor you don’t know. There’s anxiety about it, like they’re going to look at you and think you’re gross looking down there, so to have this tension from the onset without her even LOOKING at my parts sucked. It only got worse when her exam was – shall we say – abrupt and uncomfortable. When it was over, she said “So we’ll see you in six months.” Again, no conversation, no nothing. I asked her to wait and said I wanted to go on birth control; I have irregular cycles thanks to my PCOS and it helps keep my hormones in check. Her next comment? “Well, fine, but don’t plan on it working as actual birth control. You’re too heavy for that.”

She wrote me a prescription and left the room.

I should have told her to go fuck herself, but I didn’t. I went home and cried instead.

Again, I’m going to reiterate – women don’t like going to the gyno. It’s stressful and unpleasant. This experience actually made me not go to one for three years afterwards because I was so upset. This lack of taking care of myself likely landed me in the health shit I’m in today regarding my PCOS and hormonal imbalance. I haven’t talked about it until now, and I honestly can’t tell you why it’s coming up, but I will say this: doctors and nurses and people in the health care profession are supposed to be there to help us, and that sometimes involves taking care of our mental health as well as our physical health. When a woman is vulnerable, like when she’s at the gynecologist, it’s a pretty bad time to make her feel like shit for her size. Yes, thank you health industry, I understand the risk of diabetes. I understand that heart disease, high cholesterol, and immobility are real and terrible dangers to people packing pounds. I can also tell you I know HEALTHY fat people, and that everyone — regardless of their size — deserves to be treated with dignity and respect.

To keep my message short and simple: doctors and health care professionals should talk more to taking care of us at the size we are at instead of how they envision we ought to be. I assure you as a fat person I know what hazards go along with my weight. I deal with my weight every day when I look in the mirror. I don’t need help feeling crappy about it, thanks. I also don’t need a nasty-assed nurse practitioner helping me develop a phobia of pap smears. It did me no favors and I can assure Amy Fuckin’ Barrows an abysmal bedside manner won’t do her any favors in the long run.

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