Post IV - Big Body Matters: Let's Talk Skin (2 days until surgery)

Stevie at 28 years old

I want to talk about my skin. It was stretched wide across my form for years – protecting a woman who at her largest weighed in at over 330 pounds. After I lost weight the skin formed colonies on my body that resemble pockets of fat, even though I was young, wore binding materials, rubbed moisturizers on my body, and exercised regularly. Sometimes, when I am feeling particularly frustrated with how my body looks, I pull the skin out into tents and stare in morbid fascination at its limpness. Skin is unlike fat in that you can pull it out far from the body. It takes on a mind of its own during movement, swishing one way while simultaneously swishing another.  When you bend over it hangs loose, folding in on itself in certain places and draping down in others.

To date I have excess skin on my:

**arms
**thighs
**abdomen
**upper back
**small of my back.


I had two rolls right below my breasts, but they were removed years ago because the rash that resulted was very painful and prone to infections that spread down my stomach – resulting in an angry red battlefield of heated splotches. I tried various medications to alleviate this, but each one did little to nothing to improve the problem – some even made it worse. So those folds were taken from me seven years ago. As a reminder I have a large scar that stretches from armpit to armpit. There’s a V in the center. When this skin was taken from me my breasts were made smaller, but I did not consent to a breast reduction. Also as a reminder there are two tents below my armpits with little bulbs in the center – these are called “dog ears” by surgeons. I can have them removed, but would likely pay upwards of $1,000 or more to do so. Instead I am a dedicated lingerie shopper who can, at sight, size-up a bra to determine if the band is wide enough for me to tuck the “dog ears” into.

A large portion of my self-presentation preparation and execution exists of me tucking and determining.

Going to the gym is a special little horror. I have to wear particular underwear that, again, binds me. This isn’t vanity. This is so the rashes and infections that would result from movement are somewhat alleviated though not completely avoided. Also, the humiliating smacking noise isn’t quite as loud, allowing me to focus more on form and less on who might be snickering beside me.

When I go shopping I am careful to purchase particular materials – often man made despite the kindness cotton and linen show to skin.

I own a small fortunes worth of binders and shapers to disguise the two back flaps on my upper back as well as the roll on my abdomen. These garments are what I imagine hell to feel like. If I buy the wrong cut they roll. If I buy a size too small my ribs scream each time I sit and stand. If I buy a size too large they roll. Sometimes I feel like one deep breath will cause them to bust at the seams. I have even daydreamed it would be so. Often times I refuse them and buy clothes a size larger than needed. Because some of my breasts were removed I often have to pin at the armpits or layer with tanks because I have to shop to fit the roll at my abdomen, which is a full size larger than my upper body.

Of course all of my dresses and skirts must be worn with bloomers. While thigh rub is a serious reality for most people, the skin does aggravate the issue. That is because skin moves differently, and in different directions. It clucks with each step. Tights aren’t enough, because holes are soon wear through them.

My arm flaps (called bat wings…charming) cause me no physical irritation. They are the only loose skin that does not. Instead they challenge me every time I wish to go out the door in a sleeveless top or dress. One time, while working in the kitchen of a pizza place, the owner asked if I lost a lot of weight. Yeah, I told him. He pointed at my arms and said he’s seen those reality shows where people lose a lot of weight and they always have “flabby” arms after. I gave him a half smile and generous grunt and turned away from the fryers. He continued to go on about how I should wear these skin tents like “badges of honor.”

I’ve heard and still do hear that a lot. In an ideal situation I would say, yeah, sure. That sounds great. I am damn proud and I worked damn hard. Yet here I am just frying up some chicken wings and there you are commenting on my body. It might be a different kind of comment than “fat ass” but it is bred from the same fascination to consume and comment upon someone else’s form when it strays from the tight skin we are accompanied to expecting.

Additionally, I was, at the time, dedicated to an arm routine that did little to tighten the skin despite various promises from trainers and online advice forums (I spent what is probably at least a year of my life researching how I could re-shape myself without surgery). My boss’s comments, though I thought him a kind and often considerate human, were a reminder that I’ll never pass as someone who, at one time, didn’t weigh nearly twice what I do now. I will always have marks that indicate the years I spent shamed in public spaces. I will never, despite effort, be free of skin flaps or – if I were to ever invest the thousands to restructure my body – generous scars.

Sometimes I research the costs of each procedure I would need were I to make my body resemble how it would look had I always weighed what I do now. It’s more than I have ever made in a year. Then I pretend I can look at them like “badges of honor,” but each time someone stares at my arms I fold into myself and blush a little. Granted, they are often looking at my tattoos, but the chance that it could be those delightful bat wings sends me into automatic tuck and cover mode.

I realize that what partially prevents me from viewing my body as something to be revered for its power and transformation is an insidious ideal of beauty that locks one image as the trifecta. I haven’t met a single person who meets this ideal, but everyone I’ve discussed it with (I am including men) is impacted by it or has been.

Yet I am not going to talk about this poisonous ideal, because really – I talk about it a lot and I will gladly talk with you about it too – just send an email my way.

Instead I want to talk about repetition.

My skin complicates self-love not only because of the ideal, but also because the efforts I have put into my transformation, the resources I have dedicated, and the daily struggle to maintain it doesn’t show through – least of all to myself. It isn’t solely about meeting or even coming close to an ideal.

It is also about living inside of a large body your entire life, being shamed for that body, hating that body … only to occupy a smaller body that still resembles the larger body. I still have to consider fabrics. Skin hangs over jeans in a manner similar to the way my fat used to, because skin is so pliable it even creeps and hangs over jeans that are too large. This is further complicated by the fact that my two back flaps fall right above my waist, giving me what I begrudgingly refer to as “flapjacks” even when I am wearing over-sized garments. Also, shirts cling to my back flaps (which would cost $5500 out of pocket to remove because insurance won’t cover that procedure) in the same way it clung to the fat roll that used to be there. I can’t partake in vigorous exercise without binding my body because it smacks the same way it used to when it was fat instead of skin. When I lift bare arms in public the skin swishes from side to side.

When I am in intimate situations I cover myself with my arms, stretch my back long, and apologize profusely for the way that I look. I believe women are programmed to apologize – especially when we can’t make ourselves smaller as we are so often encouraged to do, but I really did think the apologies would cease when I lost the weight. They haven’t.

Sometimes, because of my strange sense of humor, I contemplate writing a disclaimer card that I would give to lovers before the lights get low.

When I get into relationships my partners have to have “the talk,” where I tell them that sometimes I rage in front of the mirror when, binders and shapers aside, I can’t find a way to hide the “badges of honor” that fall over me. When getting ready for I night out I encourage them to avoid the dressing area until I reappear. I don’t want them to see the overwhelming frustration that is marked by throwing garments, cussing, and sometimes crying.

Even in situations where I am engaged in conversation with folks (such as seminars, meetings, etc…) I have noticed that I have a tendency to cross my arms. A professor once shamed me for this -- saying I should uncross my arms and “stop being so defensive.” I covered by saying I was cold (this was partially true, it was quite frigid in that house), but we were critiquing my paper and when multiple eyes are on me I have a tendency to cross my arms in the hope that they won’t look down to where they might see the multiple folds of skin whispering through fabric. The crossed arms are a barrier when there is no desk to hide behind.

I avoid this in the classroom through layering kimonos, blazers, and cardigans. I avoid sitting down so the lumps don’t bunch.

I find that, even after losing 140 pounds and keeping it off for 8 years, I am still working to bind myself. This is why the skin matters. This is why wearing the marks of weight loss as “badges of honor” isn’t possible – because to do so it would mean always illustrating a willingness to share my story and discuss my body.

I spent decades either discussing my body or hiding when folks were rabidly critiquing my body. Going out in public with my skin flaps showing as “badges of honor” means inviting more stares, critiques, and questions - though they may be different than those that followed my obese form they still come from the same problematic structure that encourages us to belittle difference or continually center it as spectacle. This spectacle is often used as a celebratory tool to prop up those “why didn’t they just lose the weight” questions or as a warning to others to never get fat in the first place.

While some days are certainly better than others, and I do feel much better about myself and my journey, it is important that we discuss why we expect folks who have lost weight to perform the skinny fat person role - someone there for our educational benefit. It is time we stop asking people why they didn’t lose weight sooner or how they lost it and instead just listen to what they want to say – trust me, if someone wants to talk about their weight loss with you they will invite you to participate. I often do. But pointing out someone’s skin – or hearing about their weight loss and interrogating them without invitation into what is essentially a personal and sometimes painful portion of their lives – only serves to situate these individuals as objects to learn from and symbols to hold others against. I don’t want anyone held against me, because I spent my life being held against others.

So, if you want to ask a question without invitation I implore you to ask how we, as socially inspired actors, can change the conversation surrounding obese bodies without consuming the scars of transformation as an inspiring gimmick (here’s looking at you Biggest Loser).

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Stevie at 18 years old