Ever since kindergarten, my weight framed every one of my doctor's appointments. It was a rhythm and routine I knew by heart. By second grade, there was the familiar belly-clenching breath as I stepped on the scale, the deep anticipation while watching the digital numbers dance on the screen, then finally came the invisible armor I'd put on to prepare for darts of judgments and guilt trips once those numbers finally settled.
I mastered the art of dissociation, but my first ob-gyn being lumped into this group of finger-waggy, weight-loss obsessed docs snapped me back into reality. When I was 15, I had built up just enough courage to ask about starting birth control. I did what I was told in sex ed: Plan ahead and seek out safe sex methods to prevent unplanned pregnancy and STIs. I felt proud that I put this guidance into action, but that sense of personal achievement from being proactive and thoughtful about my reproductive health and future was immediately undercut.
"You really need to prioritize your weight instead of this kind of stuff," she said. "I'll give you a three-month supply, but you have to come back to prove that you have lost weight, or I won't refill it." My doctor dangling a birth control prescription as an incentive for weight loss was not a battle I was prepared to fight. There was no way I could have been ready for my medical provider to hold my sexual agency, body autonomy, and reproductive future hostage...all because of my weight and body size. Three months came and went, my weight remained the same, and I watched my prescription *poof* disappear. I was spiraling and blaming myself for failing yet another weight-loss attempt. |
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