5 Reasons Weighing Over 200 Pounds Is Extremely Unhealthy

1. Eating Extremes: I won’t eat much next week. Since it is hard to lose weight, occasionally I resort to unhealthy measures to convince myself I have gone as far as possible to drop pounds. I’ll feel satisfied when my stomach growls. Accomplished even. I mean, my body must be losing weight, right? I must be tapping into those precious fat stores.

I’m aware I should focus on eating “healthy and balanced meals”. But I do that. That’s not enough. There are points in my weight cycle where every calorie feels like too much. Every calorie feels like giving my body what it “needs” instead of properly sacrificing to look a specific way. Every calorie is another day sentenced over 200.

2. Expectation Extremes: I can tell you I meal prep. That I don’t drink juice or soda. I don’t put sugar in my coffee, cut sodium, rarely eat anything fried, and only consume the most complex of carbs. In fact, I weigh my food and the weight on the scale saying over 200 pounds still doesn’t move significantly. But you’ll hear the number louder than the fact that I eat healthy as fuck and suggest Keto, or fasting, or juicing, or weight loss surgery, or even the breatharian diet, whatever the hell that is.

When you’re over 200 pounds you don’t get to just “eat right”. I must do everything within my ability to visibly reduce my weight. Moderation doesn’t apply to me. I need to be content with consuming the bare minimum to weigh the bare minimum. If the world can’t see the results of your nutrition, it doesn’t count.

3. Emotional Extremes: When I finally cave and eat, because I’m hungry, and apparently need the energy to function, I will feel disappointment mixed a little disgust. Then, I will question my mental fortitude.

Why can’t I just be anorexic?

Why can’t I be bulimic?

Why am I wishing some of the most dangerous and difficult illnesses on myself?

Why would I, even for a moment, seek that level of risk? Because when that heavy pendulum swings, it doesn’t pause to be rational. And sometimes not eating, even if involuntarily, feels like the only way to make it successfully to the other side of 200.

4. Physical Extremes: Strength training and toddler wrangling aside, I run about 11 miles a week. Not a record, but nothing to scoff at either. On the treadmill is usually when I’m kindest to myself. I congratulate my effort. I praise my strides.

Until I need to walk.

Until I need to slow the pace.

Until I need a drink of water.

Don’t I know how fat I am? Didn’t I see that scale? People over 200 pounds don’t have the option to not go all in. I don’t have the luxury of just being active. I need to see results. I need to go farther. I need to push faster. I need to perform to physical failure. Sweat needs to drench my clothes and sting my eyes. Throw up maybe? That’s how I can show you I have done enough.

5. Social Extremes: And although I have the temerity to be obnoxiously self-assured, despite the mental gymnastics I put my pride through, the world will not see success in my happiness. I’m not allowed to look in the mirror and see a body that moves well. Or see a woman with amazing proportions and killer curves. No, when you’re over 200 pounds every visual of yourself must be a baseline to determine what else you need to improve. Rolls are for thinner women. On me, they are a justification to be call me names, make memes about the sugar content of my blood, and question how anyone can find me attractive. You’re not supposed to be eligible for self-esteem over a certain BMI. So over 200 pounds, my existence becomes a point of medical commentary. My confidence a constant physical protest. My attractiveness a debate, a point of social contention, a basis to question everything that I have ever done to not look the way I “should” but manage to still think I’m the shit.

Oh, you thought being over 200 pounds was unhealthy because I had high blood pressure. That I can’t move fluidly, I binge on twinkies and bathe in grease, while hating myself. You thought this was going to be a reinforcement of your weird ass standards and a condemnation of fat people because we exist a size above what you’re comfortable with.

Honestly, you’re the same person that thinks slow metabolism is a choice, but doesn’t question my slim husband’s difficulty to gain. You claim concern, but don’t think twice about the health of NFL linemen. You say it is about longevity, but you would rather I take my body through excessive strain, stress my limbs, miss sleep, family time, down time, participate in negative self-talk, try a little starvation… to make you happy. Look, I am capable of being smaller. But the avenues to that size are both emotionally and physically unsafe. Some things aren’t worth the weight.

So, you’re right, being over 200 pounds is extremely unhealthy. Constantly worrying about that number over whether I’m living a healthful lifestyle is not healthy. See, I may be confident, but I am still human. I may be secure, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be shaken. Questioning, even for a minute, whether there is something wrong with me, because you think my body is your business, is not healthy.

Ultimately, these extreme thoughts and measures bringing down my happiness is the only weight I need to lose this year. I’m positive I’ll feel lighter in wellness than I will at 199.