Diagnosis Fat Druggie


I’m crying in the doctors office again.

This is turning into the very worst types of patterns. I feel helpless and hopeless and the woman in front of me couldn’t care less.

The last time I cried in the doctors office it was for a different, yet interlocking reason. It was in another office, with another doctor in the same practice. It was during my first visit with my new primary care doctor, a slender yet very visibly pregnant young woman who somehow looked more like a rock star than a doctor.

That time I was crying because my doctor derailed our introductory visit to ask me the same open-ended question over and again.

“What about your weight?”

She asked, an overabundance of faux concern dripping from her voice.

I told her that all of the women in my family are skinny until they have kids and then look like me afterwards.

“What about your weight?”

I told her how I had gained weight with my first pregnancy, then gained more afterwards, then lost so much weight in my second pregnancy that I was below the chart.

“What about your weight?”

I told her I had lost weight when I had a routine walking schedule, but gained it and a little bit more when my schedule changed and I was unable to keep it up.

“What about your weight?”

I wasn’t crying yet but I was frustrated. What did she want me to say? What kind of question was that?

“I need a doctor who can treat me as a whole person,” I told her, fighting the tears in my eyes, “not just concentrate on my weight.”

She told me I would have a long hard struggle to find a doctor like that. And seemed fine with being an obstacle in that path.

Now I’m crying again in the rheumatologists office. Ever since my diagnosis of fibromyalgia a year and a half ago–I don’t know if my symptoms are worse or if I’m acknowledging them more? But it’s been hard. So much pain! Pain that tracks certain precise pathways, gathering at trigger points and shooting through my forehead like someone took a knitting needle and jabbed it from the base of my neck to my pineal gland, or  crippling me with pain in one shoulder so bad I can barely move only to abandon that shoulder for an equally intolerable pain in other one the next morning.

And when it’s not pain it’s fatigue. An overwhelming fatigue and/or brain fog that drags me down into uselessness and makes my brain barely functional.

The rheumatologist has me on a low dose of Gabapentine. Really low. I’m supposed to take 200 MG but I’m taking 100 because 200 causes so much fatigue I am afraid I’ll hurt myself or someone else, get into a car accident maybe.

But it’s helping. It feels like a blanket muffling my pain, muffling my brain, acting as buffer between me and this evilness that is my flare-ups. I can feel it from when I take it at night, and I can feel it wearing off roughly the same time the next day. I can also feel the sharpness of the pain on days I forget to take it, along with my sharpness of thought, still dampened by fibro fatigue but freed of the drug induced haze.

I told her all of this.

When I researched it online other Fibro sufferers said their doctors prescribed them something to counteract the fatigue. Some people were proscribed adderoll but most were proscribed something else that I can’t remember at this moment. Why didn’t I write it down?

I’m struggling to remember it now because I don’t think it was a classic stimulant and because of the look my doctor is currently giving me. I just asked for something to counteract the fatigue and now she is looking at me like I’m a junkie searching for her next fix. Besides coffee I have never taken stimulants–don’t even really like the idea of taking them but I just want to not be in pain AND get out from under the smothering blanket of fatigue that makes it impossible for me to function at home or at work for hours on end.

“Why do you need to counteract the fatigue, what about trying a different medication?” She asks.

“Well it’s not just the fatigue of the Gabapentine,” I reply, I get fatigue from the fibromyalgia, too.

“Fatigue is not a symptom of fibomyalgia.”She states baldly.


Wait–what? My world is spinning. Every bit of research I’ve ever done had fatigue and brain fog as the second and third most reported symptoms after pain. (A quick google search would later confirm this).

“You need to do a sleep study to find out why your so tired. Then maybe they will proscribe a stimulant”

It sounds like too much, at the moment, another hoop to jump through. I had so much hope going into this appointment that she’d adjust my dosage a little bit, and maybe proscribe an extremely mild, low dose something to clear the fog, but no, it’s more hoops, along with disbelief, distrust. Hostility.

Tears streak down my face. It feels hopeless. I feel helpless.

“I’m going to proscribe you cymbalta,” She says, and declines to explain any side affects except that it has a negative interaction with gabapentine. “so take gabapentine at night and the cymbalta in the morning.”

“But what about the fact that the gabapentine lasts 24 hours?” I ask, but I can see the answer in her eyes. “Oh right, you don’t believe me.”

“Just exercise!” She belts out as I leave, a wreck, crying, barely holding myself together. In my head I hear “you fucking fatty!” at the end but I don’t know if that’s what she would have liked to say or if I’m reading into it.


I’m sure both these doctors thought I was a difficult patient. Now I read that doctors are less able to to do their jobs if they perceive their patient as difficult. Since I’m a bad fatty who refuses to prostrate herself to doctors as the bad bad bad bad fatty that I am and who has a basically unknown and barely recognized disease AND whose body responds differently from the textbooks to medications I feel like I will always be “difficult”.  I wonder if I will ever find a doctor who will treat me like a human being? Will I ever find a doctor who I can trust? Have clear communication with?

How can I trust a system to heal me when it sees me as a deathly fat lying druggie?


Weight Loss Ambiguity

More To Love with a pic of a volluptuous white woman

I don’t feel proud to be losing weight.

Probably because I didn’t  feel ashamed to gain it in the first place.

When I started this blogg, I named myself Bigmama2x, and that’s still my email address, but–like my clothing– the name no longer fits.

Over the past year I have lost 43 pounds. If I lose eight more pounds, I will be down to my full-term pregnancy weight. That may sound ridiculous, unless you know that I lost 50lb. During my last pregnancy–weight that I gained back immediately afterwards.

If I go down one more shirt size I’ll be the same size I was in High School! Only with much bigger titts!

So why aren’t I all proud of losing all of this weight? I don’t feel like I’m doing anything to cause it. I’m not a binge eater fighting cravings. I’m not on a diet. All that I’ve done is take a few more walks and tried to make good eating choices.

I’ve never felt that my weight was something I had direct control over: when I was a lazy teenager who got little exercise and ate poorly, I weighed 140 lb. (I’m 5’8″)
When I was a malnourished, extremely active homeless girl, I weighed 140 lb.
When I had my first baby my weight went up to 200.
After he was born it went all the way up to 250.
I had just lost a little when I got pregnant again, and my weight plunged back down to 200–that’s including fetus & water weight. I felt like I was starving the whole time!
But I went right back up there!

My weight’s fluctuated mildly since then, but I’ve never lost weight at such a pace. My body feels strange: my hips & thighs and ass feel tight, although of course my stomach is still bigger than I’d like.

Still, I don’t feel proud of losing weight. Everyone tried to make me feel bad for being “overweight” or “obese” but I refused.
I refused to buy into the guilt and shame that society tried to feed me.

I realized that I preferred my lovers thick–so why shouldn’t they like me that way too?

Don’t get me wrong–I’m glad that I’m losing weight–the death of my Beloved of a heart attack at 35 woke me up to the dangers of poor diet, low exercise and bad food choices, but I’m not proud either.

Because if I was to be proud of losing weight–that would mean that before I was ashamed!

Femme-Packing Part 1

Disclaimer: the below is a my opinion and/or a parody of my opinion. I am not affiliated in any way with these companies, although I might have a Sears and Layne Bryant Card–I think they give those out to anybody, though..

Fucking hot volluptuous femme

I’ve been in somewhat of a frenzy getting ready for this weekend. Women of Color Weekend in P-Town! Two whole nights away from my kids and holed up in my Soft Studs rented love nest:-)

But this trip definitely required updating my wardrobe.I want to look nice. I know that there will be some fine, well-dressed women there, and my Boo will be dapper in her low-key jockish way, and I want her to be proud to have me on her arm

Plus with all of the weight I lost my old raggedy bathing suit would hang like a bag! So that called for a stolen few hours at the mall.

Since I’ve thinned down to the 14 side of 14-16, shopping has become soooooooooooooooooooo much easier! I started out with Layne Bryant out of habit.

Plus those Layne Briant models looked fucking hot in this bathing suit, and I wanted to try it on:

Fucking hot volluptuous femme in a peach, fortyie-style-almost bathing suit

Unfortunately, that bathing suit looked like crap on me! Really. It looked really, really bad! I will not burn your retinas with that view.

I fond a blue bathing suit top that looked petty good, along with a really good shaper-bottom.

Then I went to Sears, and went a little crazy. The last time I went to Sears and headed for the Fat Ghetto, that tiny little corner where women size 16 and up can choose between like 12 whole outfits that are all horribly unflattering and garish colors. I was grumbling as usual about the selection, when I noticed an Xtra Large tank top that looked like it would fit.

I tried it on, and, low-and-behold, it did! Big Mama 2x is now an extra large!

I ran out of the changing room for an orgy of choices–I was like Oprah giving out cars–I can try on this, and this, and this! All those cute clothes that had been denied to me for so man years were now there, on discount, double discount and triple discount! I loaded up me arms!

Of course, I couldn’t go crazy with the actual purchases, but I definitely found some good work clothes on that shopping trip!

On this trip, I located a really cute black bathing suit lop from Lands End:

Skinny b lond bitch in a bitchin black Tankini

It Looks Better in a D Cup

The skirt looked terrible (it really doesn’t even look good on this model–it makes her torso look even longer then is is and obscures her waist– but the Layne Briant bottoms made it work! Still, I couldn’t stop there! There’s a pool party, so I needed a cover-up, plus a nice Maxi day-dress for the Wine Tasting and maybe going out to dinner.

I wanted to get a little black dress, but, sadly, ran out of time…

Nice Ass For a White Girl

I often I get asked: “Are you sure you’re not mixed? Cause you have a nice ass!”

It’s not a jaw dropping, spot-it-across-the room booty, but it’s damn nice for a white girl. It’s especially nice since I’ve been loosing weight. (Due to daily walks and weekly dancing, none of that dieting crap for me.) That’s right y’all, Big Mama 2x is now more of a Big Mama size 16.  I think all that shakin’ it is paying off!

Somewhere there’s a black girl with a bee-sting booty cursing god for giving me her ass.

Probably one of my ex’s come to think of it.

Just havin’ fun don’t take it serious.

Adventures in the BBW District Part 1

We walked into the room like a thicker, sexier, lesbian version of Girlfriends. (Wait, does that make me Lynn? I am the lightest, thinnest of the four of us, and I have been known to be something of a hippy…okay I’m Lynn lol)

Four femmes walking across the room and we were invisible. I found myself wishing we had a stud with us so that we would be instantly recognizable as the Lesbian posse that we were. Not that were really invisible–three gorgeous brown-skinned women with their cleavage and legs proudly displayed (and their slinkily dressed white friend) strutting through a room full of plus-sized white women and thinner black men is hardly invisible.

We were at a BBW party. That’s a Big Beautiful Women (and the people who love them) party. My friend Chelsea had the idea that this would be a good place to meet women. She brought her friend Tami: a drop-dead gorgeous, golden skinned, curvaceous woman with a neat short puff and a deadbeat stud wife. (Whom she conveniently left behind.) I brought my off-the-hook friend Kiki: dark-skinned, extra thick, with a cute smile, WAY too much ass, and more sexual energy than I could handle. (I think…I don’t know…I feel a combination of intrigue and terror at the thought of getting intimate with her.)

We found a table and sat down. Over drinks the conversation got kinky. I realized how nice it was to be out with women whose minds are possibly dirtier than mine is, and mouths that would make a trucker blush.

Rather tame sample of our conversation:

“Justa’s like you Tami, she doesn’t use toys.” Chelsea announced. Tami and I high fived.

“Not me!” Hollered Kiki, “I have a whole bag full of toys!”

“Me too!” Put in Chelsea.

Me: “My toy box is just the place I keep my batteries.” (Hoots from the ladies)

“So what do you like?” Tami asked me.

“I like eating pussy.”

“Mmm me too,” Tami responded, showing the piercing in her tongue and making prolonged eye-contact with Kiki. “I can make a woman come in five seconds.”

“I’d like to see that!” Kiki replied sceptically.

“Me too!” I chimed in, trying to think of a time I came in less than twenty minutes…or forty…or longer. I can be a tough nut to crack sometimes, even for myself.

A curvy blond in a leopard print shirt approached our table and started flirting with Tami. Tami complemented her on her shirt, then she complemented all of us on her titts….Tami reached out and playfully squeezed her ample tit in response. A slenderish blond woman joined us at the table, hovering around her ‘friend’ as she and our table bantered.

“So there are some pretty hot guys here, huh?” The blond asked.

“I don’t know.” Kiki replied, “I’m gay.”

“Well, I’m not GAY,” The ample blond replied, “I just like women.”

Part 2

I Saw Red–at Target

I ran into Target yesterday to get the final item for my Stud costume (See previous post)–a sports bra.

After going through the bra section and not finding any, I headed over to “Active Wear.”  Combing through the sports bras I was disappointed to see that the largest size I could find was 38D.

“I guess I’m too big to be considered active?” I quipped out loud. (I’m a 40D)

“No!” a pretty, slender redhead nearby reassured me.

But Target thinks I am.

(I haven’t been so mad since I went to JC Penny and could not find one matching suit my size in the slovenly plus size section–which was right across from a pristine array of at least  40 “miss” sized women’s suits. It’s only my pure civic-mindedness that prevented me from following my instinct and burning the place down–but believe me, I saw flames all the way to the door!)

My Ex’s Worst Nightmare

I’ve decided this Halloween to dress up like my ex’s worst nightmare: a stud. What? but I thought she was a stud? –That’s right, every stud’s worst nightmare is that their femme  will go butch! I think I’ll text her a picture in my costume. (See, totally over her, not thinking of her at all.)

So, being the broke bitch that I am, I headed down to the Roxbury Goodwill to raid the men’s department. I know, if I really wanted to get in the spirit of this, I’d buy new–no self-respecting stud shops at Goodwill. They could be living in they mama’s basement, but everything they wear has to be new and name brand–preferably payed for by they girl. (I know some of you might take this wrong, but some of these studs are just as bad as the black men they emulate. It’s a damn good thing they can’t reproduce the same way or they’d leave a string of fatherless children behind them too.)

It’s not the first time I’ve shopped in the men’s department, but it’s been a while. (The clerk at Tello’s called his friend to tell him about the white girl trying on hoodies last time I did.) I can tell from the looks some of the men shoot me that I’m not entirely welcome either.

I went through a period some years ago where I wore all men’s clothes–a period that was also the (coincidentally?) the first year of what would be a three year stretch of involuntary celibacy. With my shaved head, felt hat and baggy pants hanging low (so much more comfortable that way), I was often called sir during that time. Although I was not really trying for that effect–I just wanted to be comfortable–I learned to smile and shrug off the apologies I inevitably got when I opened my mouth. I didn’t want to be a man at that time, nor did I want to be treated as a woman, I was just me.

Finally I realized that aside from the occasional girl kissing me in front of her boyfriend, people found me much more attractive with hair, and grew it back, but it would be another two years before my drought ended.

So back to Goodwill. I’m going through the men’s clothes in a state of semi-shock. there is so much in my size! And look how well constructed the clothes are! What is wrong with women that we let stores sell us so much cheap clothes that fall apart so easily? And they make us shop in special sections or stores that usually have even cheaper, uglier clothes if we’re “above average” in size?

I find some salt-stained Reeboks that should look okay once I put them through the wash and a stack of jeans and shirts that I take into the women’s changing area to try on. I find a nice pair of jeans that look appropriately baggy when I wear them around my hips, but look good belted around my waist too–I’ll wear these jeans on other days besides Halloween. I want to find a long, baggy hip hop shirt, but end up with the kind of striped, collared shirts I see a lot of studs wearing.

Most of the shirts fit–but there’s a problem. Most of the reveal way too much of my unbound breasts and muffin top. I am not built like a boy! I settle on one that doesn’t show off too much, and decide that once I get a sports bra and some boxers–and my friend lends me a lid–It will work out.

Still have to work up the courage to actually go out in this outfit…