GrUeberfest 2005: Shifting Weight (1076 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.71 on 33 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by pen_name (View user info) at 2005-10-31 05:49:40 EST
I weigh close to five hundred pounds. I got a condition known as Prader-Willi Syndrome.
Prader-Willi is a genetic defect. It seems that one of dad's chromosomes was lost during conception, misplaced like a goddamn ballpoint pen. When that happened, nature was free to fuck me over. Without her endorsement, you can't sign your way into the world.
You're just another illegal alien.
Most people with my condition run into a number of problems. We have weak muscles. We're born flopping around like gummy worms, our arms and legs swinging back and forth out of our control. Adding to that, our glands never fully kick in. We don't grow as tall as we should. Our metabolisms remain slow and dormant. Then there's the thyroid deficiency, the hyperphagia...
The overeating.
The thyroid produces the chemical signals that tell us when we're full. It's what makes you stop and push away from the table. Prader-Willi sufferers don't have them. We're always hungry. We're hungry when we've just eaten. We're hungry while we're eating. The desire to gorge ourselves, to taste cakes, pastries and fried foods with heaps of grease and fat—it never goes away.
But nature doesn't stop there. People born with Prader-Willi lack sexual development. The men have small genitalia—their testosterone levels no higher than your average teenage girl's. The women remain infertile, with zero shot at having children of their own.
I'm 20 and I've never even menstruated.
But that should be OK, shouldn't it? Prader-Willi also comes with a greater chance for learning problems, for mental retardation. Our social development stops short. A lot of us remain kids in our own minds.
But, of course, Prader-Willi didn't slow my brain. No. With that, I am exceptionally gifted. I have an I.Q. of 157.
I can tell you why my biological clock never started. I can tell you why my breasts remain small and flabby despite my size. I can also tell you why I cry every single day of my life. But I can't tell myself to stop eating. I can't control my urges.
There is no cure.
Sure, people can have great lives with Prader-Willi. Many marry, travel, and get good jobs. But most have their independence taken away. They are controlled like children. Food is measured, weighed, and stored in locked cupboards. When we find ways to sneak around that, they stick us in clinics—in homes for the well fed. Places where anorexics would thrive.
In the clinics, you don't go on diets—you go through withdrawal. Normal people limit themselves to 1500 calories a day when they need to lose weight. We have to drop to 800 - 600 calories a day. Our metabolisms are just too slow. There's no other way.
But there is a consequence when we follow our diets. We get sweaty and our walking becomes harder. We get dizzy, like our inner ear just took a vacation. We need a fucking fix and they say we can't have it.
That's why I never stayed at one of those places. That's why I always ran away.
And, of course, that's why my father locked me down here in our basement.
He brings me food as if I'm an animal in the zoo. "It's for your own good," he says, as he hands me my lunch—an apple, or maybe a bowl of bran if I'm behaving. My leg is shackled to the foundation. I wander around in half-circles throwing my weight against the wall. I shout obscenities up the stairs:
"Cocksucker. You fuck!"
Each day I fantasize about killing him. I want to rip his head off his shoulders and stomp on the skull until it fractures, until it caves in at the ear and I feel the squish under my foot. I can see the blood in my mind; see it as it drains away from his severed head, thinning as spinal fluid joins from the cracks in his temporal bone—like a damaged pipe leaking onto a muddy surface.
He doesn't realize how hungry I am—he will today.
...
It all started with the survival shows. I love them. Perhaps it's my own desire to see somebody a little worse than me. I want to see how someone can overcome the impossible.
I want to see miracles.
There's a man who broke both of his legs when he fell off his ATV. He had to drag his twisted body five miles for help. Each inch was painful, and he passed out three times before he found a phone.
He wrote a book. A hero, for doing nothing more than saving his own life.
Then there's the kid who fell off the roof and impaled himself on a tree limb. It tore up his ass and shredded through his colon, only stopping when it hit his diaphragm. This kid was there for five hours—blood dripping between his legs like a virgin bride, writhing in agony and probably facing his mortality for the first time in his life. He should have gotten an infection from the bits of bark and leaves that filled his wounds. He should have died.
The bastard doesn't even need a shit bag.
Even someone like me can find motivation in stuff like that—especially after being down here for three fucking months. I've watched my humanity slowly erode away with each passing day. I'm a goddamn animal. All I got left is my anger, and my will to survive. But what do I do?
Of course, the solution was simple. No more leg, no more chains. Last night my dad told me I would be here indefinitely. I was ready
I started by tightening a belt around my lower thigh. The first step is the toughest, they say. I've heard that line all my life, from every nutritionist under the sun. It was time to give it new meaning.
I lifted my right foot and dropped, knee first on the concrete floor.
Thump. Pain shot up my right side, but no broken bones. I struggled to my feet using a stool to lift myself. Then I dropped again.
Thump.
The pain was the same, running through my muscle like fire. I let out a whine. I didn't need to look up. Nobody would care. All I do is whine.
On my third fall, my knee opened along the base. Even with the tunicate around my leg, blood sputtered out, streaming around my calf until in hit my sock and started filling my shoe. Unfortunately, it was only a cut.
With the world coming into focus again, I decided to try it from a different height. I steadied on my feet and raised myself onto the first rung of the stool. To balance I had to squeeze my thighs together and hold the top with my outstretched fingers. Then I climbed to the next rung. My knee was screaming. Probably a fractured the patella—but that wouldn't cut it. I heaved myself to the top.
My knee kept buckling from one side to the other. It didn't matter. I pulled my foot up and the chain rustled on the hard floor. Then I leaned forward.
This time there was a crunch—like the sound of shredded wheat. I wanted to scream, but I shoved the stool leg in my mouth and bit hard onto the metal. Then I looked at my leg. It had broken higher than I wanted, with a chunk of the femur jutting out right above my makeshift tunicate. Blood poured freely from the wound and I broke a molar trying to clench away the pain.
Quickly I removed the belt and placed it higher up. As I cinched it tight, I wanted to die. The pain was that intense. But I couldn't. Not until I was free. I lied back on the concrete and waited, staring at the dusty floorboards above.
Now, I knew I'd have to cut my leg with something, but my father had stripped the basement of anything useful. Nothing remained except the cot he had brought in, the stool for his vacant workbench, the TV, and some toiletries.
If you watch enough cable, you start to learn a bit of everything. Watch a few quilting shows and you learn about patches and cotton batting. With prison shows, you learn how to make weapons.
"When you're behind bars," one guy said, "all you got is time to be inventive."
I couldn't agree more.
One show demonstrated that you could drag a toothbrush along a coarse material, like a rough floor, and hone it into a decent knife. I had done just that. My toothbrush wasn't sharp, but it was sturdy.
I grabbed it and rammed it in without thinking, stifling a cry as drew it back and forth. It was duller than I expected. The flesh just bent with each stroke, like I was cutting with a spoon. After five minutes of torment, I stopped and wiped the sweat off my face.
I realized what I had to do. The end was still sharp where it came to a point. I'd have to stab through the muscle and sinew, hacking until it slipped away. I took a breath, put the toothbrush deep in my palm, and thrust it down into the hole.
The pain was more than I could bear and I fainted.
I came to hours later, and tried again. I still felt it, each thrust sending tears down my soggy face, but it didn't matter. I was getting through. The trick was to stab repeatedly without slowing. When you slowed, you felt the pain more. It had a chance to swell up like water rising over a dam. But if you kept your rhythm, and focused on the work, it was manageable.
I didn't see the time tick away. When I made my last stab, and freed the dead leg, dawn was coming up over the horizon. Blood seeped out of my brand new stump and the concrete was covered with it. In a few hours, Dad would come, unlock my door, and bring me my breakfast. Almost done. Almost.
...
I put on a pair of jeans and let the empty pant leg hover over my useless right shoe. Shifting weight to my left side, I balanced on the stool, holding it with my left palm. I'm completely upright. With the shutters closed, and only the dim light of the kitchen to guide him, he'll think I'm up to give him a jolly hello.
He'll know soon enough.
The door knocks; my fist tightens over my toothbrush.
"Good morning, Katie."
I smile pleasantly while he walks over with a pear and a glass of orange juice.
"How are you today?"
"Fine."
My leg doesn't hurt anymore. And if it does I'm enjoying it.
He's a foot away. I bend forward and show him my teeth..
"Fuck you, Daddy"
I plunge the toothbrush into the side of his neck. I hold him close as he convulses, hugging him like I did when I was five.
When he slumps to the group, I realize I can't stomp his head flat anymore. No leverage
I climb the stairs and laugh with each jittery hop. When I reach the door I go through it. I don't even turn to say goodbye.
User Reviews
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2005-11-02 22:22:39 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
oh noes!
hahahahaha
Submitted by nogagreflex (user info) at 2005-11-02 22:19:24 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
don't make fun of fat ppl
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2005-11-02 19:22:32 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
nope. i'm all man, like farva is all highway.
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2005-11-02 15:22:17 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I'd like to ruffle your feathers......
Ummm. you are a girl right?
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2005-11-01 00:26:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Hey, I don't even consider myself in the money. No need to ruffle feathers over this shit.
Submitted by lordofduct (user info) at 2005-11-01 00:13:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-10-31 18:35:38 (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by lordofduct (user info) at 2005-10-31 06:09:48 (#)
Ranking: 1
Ummm, there really is a genetic disease that causes this? Well it's a damn good thing it usually hinders them from being fertile; mother nature does such a good job at weeding the weak out... to bad us fucking humans have this stupid thing called 'compassion'.
--
You're on the computer and you can't open another window to do a quick Google search to see if it is real or not? Even if it was total BS, it would have been convincing BS.
Stick to rating the story. If you want to push your eugenics agenda, write your own fucking post.
---------------------------------------------------
Hey ass hat... you notice the one? That is called a rating. I rated it and then made my own personal comment. Yes I can go search it, which I did. Prior to reading this post I never really heard of the disease so what would make me search it?
Anyways, the one is my rating... when it comes to a contest my rating is a bit stricter. I liked the read, but it wasn't +2 worthy for the contest in my opinion; not scary enough in my opinion.
Submitted by Mike00295 (user info) at 2005-10-31 21:42:12 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Holy fucking shit. +2 doesn't say enough.
Well done.
Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2005-10-31 21:27:47 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This was totally out there. Not at all what I expected. Very Good!
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-10-31 18:36:33 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Sorry, pen_name.
I'm having a meltdown.
The story had a few minor bumps, but it was balls-to-the-wall weird, so +2.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-10-31 18:35:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by lordofduct (user info) at 2005-10-31 06:09:48 (#)
Ranking: 1
Ummm, there really is a genetic disease that causes this? Well it's a damn good thing it usually hinders them from being fertile; mother nature does such a good job at weeding the weak out... to bad us fucking humans have this stupid thing called 'compassion'.
--
You're on the computer and you can't open another window to do a quick Google search to see if it is real or not? Even if it was total BS, it would have been convincing BS.
Stick to rating the story. If you want to push your eugenics agenda, write your own fucking post.
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2005-10-31 18:32:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by lordofduct (user info) at 2005-10-31 10:23:40 (#)
Ranking: 2
ope... sorry for the zero. Here is a +2 to counter balance it.
************************
Hmmm, I retract my earlier accusation of tool-ism. My bad.
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2005-10-31 18:31:31 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by LadyPlural (user info) at 2005-10-31 13:48:48 (#)
Ranking: 2
Caes, darling, most men don't menstruate. And although the narrator does not menstruate either, the main difference would be that most males don't really comment on said inability.
**********************
What -- ??
Oh. Ohhh! I remember reading that part, but by the time I had gotten to the end of the story I somehow totally forgot.
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2005-10-31 18:28:35 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by lordofduct (user info) at 2005-10-31 09:57:22 (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2005-10-31 07:39:07 (#)
Ranking: 2
Lordofduct is a tool.
---------------------------
How does my comment make me a tool? Not knowing something doesn't make me a tool.
******************
I called you a tool for two reasons.
1) lamenting the existence of compassion, which is just one of those things that sounds like something to say to make yourself seem badass.
2) More significantly, I got the impression that you rated it a 1 instead of a 2 because you were more concerned with social commentary than the actual piece of writing.
However, I might have been mistaken and making assumptions. I was cranky this morning.
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2005-10-31 16:12:53 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This put the grue(some) in Grueberfest.
The descriptions of her de-legging were priceless. I think I involuntarily crossed my legs at one
point, because they were so vivid.
Bra-vo.
For some reason I was expecting the staircase to collapse under her as she tried to climb - since she'd have to hop up the steps - trapping her with her dead daddy. But only because it'd have probably resulted in her eating parts of him to stay alive until rescue came.
Considering her hunger and all...
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2005-10-31 14:01:53 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2005-10-31 13:42:59 (#)
Ranking: 2
Cringeworthy. Was the part about the kid getting impaled at all based in reality?
_______________
yeah, only it was a gardener who slipped and fell on the tree he was pruning.
This whole thing seems to be based on specials i've seen on TLC.
Submitted by runswithscissors (user info) at 2005-10-31 13:52:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
<shudders>
Nice work............thoroughly disgusting .......... heightened by my own knee problems.....
shit, I cant even watch the Karate Kid without my knee aching......
Submitted by LadyPlural (user info) at 2005-10-31 13:48:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Caes, darling, most men don't menstruate. And although the narrator does not menstruate either, the main difference would be that most males don't really comment on said inability.
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2005-10-31 13:42:59 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Cringeworthy. Was the part about the kid getting impaled at all based in reality?
Submitted by lordofduct (user info) at 2005-10-31 13:29:30 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Oh, the answer to that little problem is
24*arctan(x)
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2005-10-31 11:41:26 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by a_reader (user info) at 2005-10-31 06:40:34 (#)
Ranking: 2
The only problem I had was with the word "tunicate."
It's spelled "tourniquet."
Other than that, I enjoyed it.
__________________
blame that on a couple things.
one, it was six in the morning when i finished.
and two, i'm an idiot.
*****
caes, i figured with the light off, and if she did her work close enough to her bed, the blood might not be visable. as for the leg, i couldn't think of a good way to hide it. if i put her sittiing up under the covers, dad would have to walk through the mess.
If it helps, I was going to have her stuff some rags in the pant leg like a scare crow--i just kept putting it off, and then it seemed creepier to me if was empty.
*****
merlina, it's really more complicated than i could adequately describe. If a kid with PW has money, he isn't going to chose steamed fish over fish and chips. One tastes better than the other. When they grow up thet retain their preferences, along with depression and probably a "fuck it" personality.
then there's the constant desire to eat. Imagine eatting 4 bowls of rice crispies for breakfast, drinking half a gallon of milk, and stepping out your door with hunger so strong you feel like you haven't eaten for 3 days. Alot of the adult pw's stop at the first place they can get somethign to eat. most of the time, it'll be a convenience store and all they'll have to chose from is candy bars and ice cream.
and, even if they eat something healthy, they'd have to eat that thing 10-15 times that day to feel good. calories are calories. That's why they need a degree of support and supervision when eating. I can't even imagine how tough it would be to go through life with that.
Submitted by lordofduct (user info) at 2005-10-31 10:23:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
ope... sorry for the zero. Here is a +2 to counter balance it.
Submitted by lordofduct (user info) at 2005-10-31 09:57:22 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2005-10-31 07:39:07 (#)
Ranking: 2
Lordofduct is a tool.
---------------------------
How does my comment make me a tool? Not knowing something doesn't make me a tool.
If it does then integrate 6/(x^2+16)
can you? If not then I guess you are a tool and that was an easy problem.
*****
Then you may be saying I am a tool for complimenting mother nature for weeding out the week. Well sorry, but that is the damn truth. Nature is a dog eat dog world and if you a deficient in some way it tends to kill you off. Improper evolutionary track possibly, it may have decided to make a drastic change with our genome and it didn't make a positive effect. As a precautionary it probably through in the infertility to make sure the defect in evolutionary track died off. This is only theory though.
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2005-10-31 08:02:32 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Good story, made me want to hug a fat bird.
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2005-10-31 07:39:07 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Lordofduct is a tool.
This was awesome, man. What a fucking terrible condition. Gave me the willies. And while she was jumping off the stool repeatedly, I was cringing unpleasantly. Gah! Interesting that you didn't reveal her gender until near the end. I liked that...I assumed, of course, that she was a boy.
I don't know about the standing-and-waiting-for-her-father-as-if-she-had-two-legs business. You'd think he'd notice the blood all over the place. After all, she couldn't stand far away from it if she still wanted to stay in the radius of her chained-up place.
Submitted by stardamage (user info) at 2005-10-31 07:39:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This had me shuddering. Ugh!
Good fucking job!
Submitted by Spam (user info) at 2005-10-31 06:50:02 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
lovely
Submitted by Merlina (user info) at 2005-10-31 06:45:57 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
My only curiousity about this syndrome is although it stops you knowing when you are full.... it doesn't make you eat unhealthy food.
Surely the best thing to do would be not to eat pastries and fried food.
If you constantly ate good food - steamed fish & vegetables - although it would make you big from constant eating - it would be better?
Being hungry does not mean eating bad food. Or am I wrong?
Submitted by a_reader (user info) at 2005-10-31 06:40:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
The only problem I had was with the word "tunicate."
It's spelled "tourniquet."
Other than that, I enjoyed it.
Submitted by Barnymeinhoff (user info) at 2005-10-31 06:18:56 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
this made my testicles go back inside me.
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2005-10-31 06:12:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
yeah, it's real. Here's a link if you're interested.
http://pwsa.co.uk/main.php
Submitted by lordofduct (user info) at 2005-10-31 06:09:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Ummm, there really is a genetic disease that causes this? Well it's a damn good thing it usually hinders them from being fertile; mother nature does such a good job at weeding the weak out... to bad us fucking humans have this stupid thing called 'compassion'.
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2005-10-31 05:57:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
"slumps to the group" was supposed to be "slumps to the ground." I write it with one eye open.
sorry.
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2005-10-31 05:53:33 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Thank God this contest is over.
Some notes:
I can't see straight.
My brain is fried.
This probably isn't all that scary. I apologize for that.
Congrats to everyone else...it was a hell of contest.