Fuck Off You Nutritionists

In one of my first posts, I alluded to my ill-fated trip to a nutritionist back in 2007. It was one of the more humiliating experiences of my life, mainly because I totally let it get to me and force me back in a destructive, depressive spiral, but it wasn't a total fail. Two good things came out of it. The first was a new found passion about where health, nutrition, beauty and women's self-esteem issues intersect. The second was my first long-form essay in years. I've gotten a few personalized rejections for the piece over the last few years, so I know I'm on the right track.

Here's a snippet of what I wrote about my visit:

On the day of the appointment, as the doctor, a small, bird-like woman with thin, pursed lips, led me back to her office, I told her my story of why I was there. Before the door to her stuffed, windowless office was even closed, she glanced over at me and said, “Well, you’re obviously overweight.”

I felt like I had been punched in the stomach and I tried desperately to pay attention, but my mind was screaming, “Obviously? OBVIOUSLY?” I could accept the overweight part. If you believe that the Body Mass Index is a scientifically sound way of determining someone’s health, then, yes, I have been scientifically proven to be overweight. But I knew that. I was more shocked by “obviously.” What did that mean? How obvious was it?

She asked me to stand on the scale, and I retreated. I was burning with shame and could barely concentrate on what she was saying.

“177.”
FAT.
“And how tall are you?”
Not tall enough for all this fat.
“5.7. Well, 5.6 1/2”
Just plain big.
“Yes, that’s much too high.”
Yeah, I know.

Any shred of dignity I had left disappeared. I sat down in her rickety office chair and let my mind wander into the familiar bad places, the fantasy places, as I was instructed to pick up plastic replicas of standard foods to learn proper weights and portion sizes. She knew I wasn’t paying attention and punctuated every statement with a condescending, “do you understand?”

What are you, fat AND stupid?
“And how much do you exercise?”

Here, I perked up. Finally, something I did right. I told her about my 25-mile bike rides on the rail trail and my yoga class. I told her about the running program I just completed and how I started running 5Ks.

“That’s not nearly enough. You need to exercise five times a week if you want to be serious about this stuff.”
I’m surprised you can even move around at your size.
I nodded solemnly. I neglected to ask what it was that I was being serious about. She pulled out a handful of photocopied colored sheets and detailed my new, healthy eating “plan.” It looked suspiciously like a diet, but she assured me that this was not a diet, but a way of life. She told me to come back in a month, when she expected that I would have lost at least five pounds.

I thought about Miss Huntyface Nutritionist a lot today. Earlier this morning, I was exploring some local graduate nutrition programs (read: slacking off at work). I have been fantasizing about one particular certificate program that specializes in Nutrition Communication, but I was looking at more structured programs and imagining what kinds of jobs I could have. Could I be a nutritionist? And if I was, what would I specialize in? All I know is that I would never, ever shame anyone the way I had been shamed.

Later today, my good friend, SKB, posted on Facebook about her own horrific experience with a nutritionist. I won't give all the background details -- it's her story to tell -- but she is one week away from her due date and was instructed to see a nutritionist after getting some borderline gestational diabetes results. Her experience was similar to mine in that it consisted of tons of shaming tactics ("only you can decide how much artificial sweetener is good for your baby") and bad feelings all around. My friend has nurtured and cared for her body (yes, that's a lame phrase, but whatever) during this much- wants pregnancy, and works out as much as anyone else I know -- she is not a sloth or lazy or stuffing herself full of fried foods 24-7. She's normal and tries her best to be healthy, like most other people I know. I shared my story and asked what the name of her nutritionist was.

DEAR READER, IT WAS THE SAME FUCKING BITCH.

Cue my righteous indignation.

If you look around the Interwebs, you will find all sorts of different definitions of what a nutritionist is and how it's different or the same as a nurse or dietitian or counselor. I like this one: A nutritionist is someone who specializes in the study of nutrition, including nutritional deficiencies, sources of nutrition, and nutritional challenges which may face individuals or communities.

When you treat everyone that walks into your office as an idiot who just needs the right amount of your "expertise" to change their life, you are ignoring all of the physical, emotional and psychological reasons why they might be there, what their history with food might be, cultural leanings, eating disorders, etc. I have absolutely zip, zero health training, and I know that. I also know that shaming rarely works. If it did, I'd be a size 0 supermodel by now and would never let processed food anywhere near me.

That's not real life. And I am rambling. But hoping to channel all my bile and rage into something productive.

Like a bag full of flaming poop. Or a mailed fart.