'I have always been fat. It's possible that I always will be, but regardless, I deserve to be treated with respect and identified as something other than a number on a scale.'
I was still in high school when I had my first encounter with a doctor who was more concerned with my being a fat girl than being a sick girl — or, maybe, it took me that long to become cognizant of it. I'd been diagnosed with thyroid issues and needed to see a specialist. I still remember him: a small, older man who seemed to take one look at me and decide that he didn't need to know me or my history, that he could deduce everything he needed to know from the curve of my belly.
The final nail in the coffin of our medical relationship was when he sat me down during an exam and bullied me into pricking my finger with a diabetes tester so I would, "know how it felt," and then promptly reminded me of the weight loss drug that he sold at his office. I remember an otherwise sweet nurse encouraging me — everyone at the office used it, she said. It's just a quick injection into your thigh, it barely hurts and the weight just melts off.
The thing that haunts me is the fact that my story is not unique. I can't really say that my relationship with the medical community has improved that much. Doctors rarely concern themselves with my lifestyle or, sometimes, my medical history; without their favorite treatment plan, I'm just a set of numbers that are too high — a countdown to a medical time bomb.
From the start of my visit, I'm told I don't fit in. When there isn't a gown I can fit into and a sliver of my belly is visible no matter how hard I tug the gown around me, that's a message. When the second thing a doctor tells me, right after asking why I'm there is that, as if I don't know, that's another message.
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