CW: This post mentions eating disorders and restrictive eating.
I am fat. Yes, fat. Fat is my second favorite f-word. I like it for a lot of reasons. I like it because it makes people uncomfortable and that honestly gives me a little bit of joy. As one of my favorite influencers recently mentioned, we as fat people are allowed to relish in people other than us sitting with uncomfortable feelings surrounding this topic. So often we are burdened with holding this discomfort, so it’s kind of nice when we don’t have to. We don’t necessarily hold discomfort about our own weight, rather we live in a society that does not accept or support our feelings as fat people, and that is very uncomfortable.
Let me give you a little bit of background information: I was really skinny when I was a little kid. I can still remember someone telling me around the age of 4 or 5 that I was “thin as a rail.” I didn’t know what it meant and I went home and looked at the wooden rail on our staircase wondering what that could possibly have to do with my body. This was the first time I remember someone commenting on my body and as you might guess, it did not stop there. I was not thin for long. I plumped up and I was a fat kid. I struggled to find clothes in my age group that could fit me and I was constantly taught that there was something majorly wrong with that. Grown adults would talk about their diets in front of me, would comment on my clothes being a little snug, and would encourage me to run around more at recess. I learned very early in life that my fat body was something shameful.
I was fat for my entire childhood. I was fat until I was 14 years old. I mercilessly dieted from as far back as I can remember. In the fifth grade, a friend and I sat inside during recess to make diet and exercise plans for ourselves. This behavior was very normal to me. I watched all the adults in my life obsess over the very same things; I heard them talk constantly about food and weight. I tried any diet that was accessible to me as a child and thought that because I was still fat, I was a failure. I often cried going shopping for clothes with my mom and I watched her heart break over my hatred of my own body, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted to be thin my whole life. Every grown woman in my life made it clear that that being thin was the pinnacle of success, and we were to spend our whole lives chasing thinness.
Well, I finally did it. My first year of high school, I stopped eating carbs. I would not eat one single carb-ridden food. I wouldn’t even eat fruit for fear that I would halt my progress. I would typically skip breakfast and follow it with skipping lunch or picking at something, telling friends that I had a big breakfast or didn’t feel well. I was miserable. I was even more miserable because people noticed, and they noticed often. My friends would encourage me to eat more than a sugar-free jello cup for lunch and I refused. I told them it was none of their business and that they didn’t have a right to comment on what I ate. Others praised me to no end. My family celebrated every pound lost and showered me with compliments. It was the first time in my life I ever heard things like that. Because I was now tall and thin, people told me I could be a model. I ate it up, no pun intended. Their compliments fueled me to push myself harder. I grew thinner and thinner, but I also got progressively unhealthier. I developed a list of symptoms ranging from GI issues to reproductive system issues to chronic headaches, none of which I had before. I would sleep for hours when I got home from school every single day. I was so exhausted I couldn’t function. I went to doctor after doctor and I didn’t get answers from anyone.
I was ultimately diagnosed with an eating disorder when I was in college, far after most of the damage was done. Not-so-coincidentally, I was also diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder in the same timeframe. There is significant data that links the prevalence of eating disorders to autoimmune disorders in women. The same doctor diagnosed both of them in me and she always felt there was a strong connection given my history and timeline of symptoms. The damage I did to my body during that time will stay with me for the rest of my life. Because I deprived my body of so many essential things during my formative growing years, it stopped working and started attacking itself. I eventually gained all the weight (and more) back, and I’m so thankful I did. However, I wasn’t thankful at the time, believe me.
Years after weight gain came some major healing. I didn’t start to truly heal from this until after college. I realize I am in the minority and really privileged by what I’m about to say, but something just finally clicked with me. Many people suffer through decades of relapse and treatment and I am truly thankful I didn’t go through that. Something clicked that told me that I shouldn’t worry about it anymore. Maybe it was because I made some pretty great progress in life quickly after college and realized I did that without being thin. I suddenly realized I am worthy of good things as a fat person, not even despite being a fat person. I no longer have a goal to lose weight. I don’t think I ever will again. I started focusing on my other goals, like those related to my relationships and my career. For lack of a better saying, I realized I have way bigger fish to fry than to worry about the number on a scale.
I previously mentioned feelings of discomfort that fat people live with sometimes. For me, those feelings come when I realize I am someone else’s worst nightmare. Not only am I overweight, but I openly enjoy “unhealthy” foods and celebrate my body. That scares people. That does make me sad sometimes, but not for me. I’m sad for the people that think that. All too often, I find myself surrounded by people (mostly women) who talk tirelessly about their eating habits, about “being good”, and about those holiday pounds they’ve just GOT to get off before swimsuit season. Here is where I challenge you to ask yourself: why does this matter to me so much? What about being fat makes someone unworthy? What about having a fat body is your worst nightmare? I know it might make you uncomfortable to really, truly think about those answers. I invite you to sit in that discomfort and get to the root of why you’re so deathly afraid of being fat. There is a lot of work to be done by our society in this regard.
Fat people deserve to live how they damn well please. We are allowed to exercise without the intention of losing weight, we are allowed to eat ice cream, we are allowed to cover up or show every single inch of ourselves if we like. We are allowed to be fit AND fat, wildly unhealthy, or somewhere in between. We are allowed to do what we want, and you can’t judge us. I really wish I didn’t have to say that, but here we are. As a final reminder that some of y’all desperately need: someone else’s body, whether it’s fat, thin, or anything else, is never any of your fucking business.
Cheers to the last 99 days, and on we go to the next.
