People think of weight-loss surgery as the easy way out. Maybe even I thought of it as the easy way out when I first started considering it more than ten years ago in between eating disorders. But then I failed as a candidate for the surgery and went back to puking. By the time I finally did stop throwing up, I was working at the phone sex office filled with plus-size women. Everyone around me was full grown and thriving . . . Oh, I guess you wouldn’t call simulating blow jobs and wetting your hand to slap the other hand with it to fake the sound of a wet vagina thriving but, shit, I felt pretty accomplished back then! I was fine. Being among those beautiful, black, plus-size women helped me to find my own beauty and I am grateful for that. While I was there, I made friends with a girl who was bigger than I was and working toward her surgery. She already had a surgery date but was told to lose twenty pounds beforehand. Every day I’d watch her come into work from the gym, force herself to eat healthy foods she wasn’t accustomed to eating, and leave work to hit the gym again before going home. I wasn’t aware that you had to work that hard to get the surgery. Like if you’re going to work that hard, why not just keep doing it instead of having surgery? I was young and stupid. I had yet to realize that whatever weight you are, your body wants to stay in the general area. Losing more than twenty pounds and keeping them off is extremely hard. My friend was going to take a month or two from work in order to heal from the surgery, but in the meantime, she had to take every and any shift possible in order to save up money to pay her bills during her time off. She also planned to take phone sex calls from home while she was recuperating. Yes! You can totally take phone sex calls from the comfort of your own home! Isn’t this world amazing? I couldn’t take that kind of time off and I couldn’t take phone calls from home. I decided that surgery would be what I did when I had exhausted all other options.
Several years later my doctor was telling me I needed to start seriously considering the surgery. I had just started the first season of The Big C, my first TV series. When I wrapped that, I had to start filming Tower Heist, my first studio film. I didn’t know when she thought I could take the time even to consider surgery, much less have it! My career was basically brand-new. And people liked me in this body. I might not have been that busy in a smaller body. Sure, there were the haters, fat-shamers, and plain old assholes who called me terrible names and then claimed that they were really just worried about my health. (Bullshit. No, they aren’t. My parents are concerned for my health. Fat-shamers are just shitty, unhappy people, and they know it so they have to make fun of others in order to feel better about themselves.) But for the most part, people seemed fine with and even intrigued by my body. Probably because I was fine with it. I felt beautiful and, in fact, I was on People magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful list that same year. While I knew that I was more than just my body—fat, skinny, or otherwise—I wasn’t sure people who followed me would be aware of that. I was new to fame and I didn’t yet know how not to give power to criticism and judgment. I couldn’t even kick myself for not having had the surgery sooner, because if I had, I wouldn’t have been right for the role of Precious and I’d probably still be on the phone sucking my cheeks to imitate the sound of a wet vagina. (There are SO many ways to fake a wet vagina! I’ll give you a list later!) The surgery, when to do it, when not to do it, if I should or shouldn’t do it, all felt like a catch-22. Damned if I do, diabetic if I don’t. I decided again to give a really big push to lose weight naturally. It would take longer than surgery and I’d probably never get skinny, but I thought I could keep my weight in a manageable range. That’s what I wanted. (I didn’t want to be a skinny person. How would my skinny body support the weight of my huge ego?) I rehired my trainer. I started eating better. I got super into kale and shit! I started taking the stairs more. My weight went down and I was back to being prediabetic again. Then I got busy and distracted and hungry and lazy again. The weight came back. I went back to training and lost fifteen pounds or so again. Then I got busy again, but this time I was in New Orleans. It is impossible to have a bad meal in New Orleans! It is almost as impossible to find vegetables that aren’t sautéed in butter among other delicious yet unhealthy things in New Orleans. I gained back all the weight and then some. No regrets. As I mentioned before, the food in NOLA is crazy delicious.
I finally made an appointment with the bariatric surgeon my doctor wanted me to see. I told no one. Again. No family, no friends. The receptionist told me about a seminar that I would have to go to before meeting the surgeon. A seminar with other people. Strangers. I was arguably one of the most famous fat people in America. That’s a crazy category. Anyway, I didn’t want to sit in a seminar full of strange people. I’m also super bad at saying things like “Hi! I’m famous. May I have special treatment now, please?” But I needed special treatment, so I had my doctor call and talk to the surgeon and explain why I should be able to skip the line. You bet your ass I went into that appointment with sunglasses and a wig. To be fair, that’s like my normal daily wear. I’m never not wearing sunglasses and a wig. But that day I was extra sneaky about it. The surgeon asked me all the normal questions and weighed me to make sure I was a candidate for the procedure. He seemed really tired of me the whole time. Like he had much better things to do. I thought, Perfect! This guy doesn’t care who I am. He’s just gonna be super professional about this and do his job. But then, as we were finishing up the appointment, he asked, “So you’re a singer or something?”
“No. Just an actor.”
“You don’t sing?”
“No.”
“My nurse said you had an amazing voice. You don’t sing?”
“Again, no.”
“But you’re on Glee. Don’t you sing on Glee? They said you were on Glee.”
Here’s the thing. Amber Riley is on Glee. Amber Riley is not me. Amber is black, young, and plus-size. Amber is still not me. We don’t even look alike. No matter the many labels we may share, she and I remain two separate people. Amber happens to be one of my really good friends. I’m talking grown-up sleepovers, fixing each other plates, flying out to birthday celebrations, and borrowing each other’s wigs. She’s my homie. I will still be incredibly offended if anyone confuses one of us for the other. Not because I don’t want to be compared to her and her greatness, but because it’s racist. Anyway, this surgeon was now basically dead to me. I didn’t want him to do my surgery. I was actually still figuring out if I wanted it at all, but I knew this guy wasn’t the guy for me. He should’ve stopped asking after the first or second no. I was already a ball of anxiety about the procedure. I was alone. I hadn’t discussed it with anyone for privacy reasons, and to know that the staff there was talking and giggling about me, and not even the right me, turned me off. The surgeon told me that I would have to pass the psychological evaluation before going any further.