Hi, I’m Fat!

I’m 5’2” and I weigh 13.8st. I do not carry my weight well, because I’m short, and my body shape is what fashion magazines refer to as a “pear” because I have a big arse, and my tits don’t quite balance me out in a way that’s deemed acceptable.

Thankfully I live in a society where people very kindly point out my fatness whenever they get a chance. It’s so thoughtful of them, because I would have no idea otherwise. I mean, I certainly never weigh myself, or buy my own clothes, or look at myself in a mirror, so strangers, friends, and family telling me I’m overweight is such a service.

I mean, what fat person is aware of their body? And if we do realise we’re overweight, we can’t possibly feel indifferent about it! After all, outer appearances are far and away the most important thing in a person. Right?

… That was sarcasm right there, folks.

You know, I don’t understand why anyone thinks my body is their business. I live here. This is mine. I own all this, and you know what? If you don’t like it, you can go any time. I don’t need any help with disliking myself, thanks.

Despite that, people seem obsessed by it. My body is treated like public property by complete strangers, who make nasty comments or shout in the street. Society sees me as a “before” photograph, and adverts try to appeal to me by highlighting what parts of my body are problems that they can help me hide. It never occurs to anyone that I might be perfectly content with my appearance.

Then you get the super fun people who try to hide their open revulsion behind the guise of concern for my health. I can say that I eat well and exercise, and they will either smile in that knowing way or bluntly call me a liar. People hide their thinly veiled disgust behind claims of concern, and even medical professionals will not take me seriously. I actually had a therapist tell me my depression would stop if I lost weight, and when I asked if being happy with my body wouldn’t be more helpful, she literally said no.

Along the same vein, the unhealthiest I’ve ever been was at my very lowest adult weight. Between the ages of 18-21, I was anorexic because I was made to believe that being skinny was more important than anything else. It didn’t matter that I was funny, or creative, or caring. It didn’t matter that my hair was falling out, or my skin was basically hanging off my bones, or I stopped menstruating. No, being skinny was the important thing!

And do you know, even years and years on, it’s still so hard not to fall back into that toxic mindset. I didn’t eat or drink all day yesterday because I knew I was being weighed in the evening, and today I’m so angry with myself for thinking that was okay.

I am actively trying to lose weight, but I want to live my life without that being a central concern and preoccupation. Still, it seems like everyone around me is obsessed with my body, and it makes it very difficult to cultivate any kind of self-love or acceptance. When I say that my biggest insecurity about the way I look is my nose, their suppressed urge to point out that I jiggle when I walk looks almost painful.

People act like being fat is the whole sum of me as a person, and it isn’t. Honestly, I think it’s high time society stopped acting like being fat is worse than being cruel or rude or shallow, because it really isn’t.

I don’t care what anyone thinks; it’s time I started caring about myself, because no one is going to do that for me. Maybe if we all did the same thing, the world would be a much better, happier place.


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