NOTE: This is stream of consciousness. It will likely not make sense, and I am not looking for any sympathy or anything. I simply had to get it out and written down.
Two hundred and eighty three.
That is what my scale said to me, the last time I was masochistic enough to step on it. That is 128.4 kg, or 20.2 stone, for those of you who are not in the US. In short, I am fat.
I know this, though. I knew it even before other eyes could see it. I knew it when my belly was flat, and I could wear a crop top, though I never did, because even then, I knew.
Back when I looked like this:
Rather than like this:
I knew because, when I looked in the mirror, I could see it. I knew because, when other people looked at me, I just knew*it was what they were thinking. When they whispered, I knew they were laughing about my size. Even though, probability says that I couldn’t have been farther from the truth.
I look at those pictures now, the ones from so many years ago, and I wonder what I had been thinking. I can see now that, back then, I wasn’t fat. Why I couldn’t see it then still eludes me. I wonder often if, perhaps I had seen it then, maybe I wouldn’t be fat now. Maybe the reason I am fat is rooted in my adolescent belief that I *was* fat.
I honestly do not remember the process of gaining weight. In these pictures, I was a size 8. I have no clue what size that would be these days. I vaguely remember being an 11, then a 16, and, finally, a 22 before I gave up on jeans. I don’t know what size I would be right now, and I don’t want to know.
I have tried losing weight. Exercise, counting calories, portion control, cutting back severely on soda and sugary drinks… nothing has helped. I was down to 1400 calories, when I had a panic attack because I felt like, if I cut back any further, I would not be able to eat any food I actually enjoyed. I have never been able to eat for the sake of eating. If I put something into my mouth that I do not like the taste of, I will just gag on it. I can’t bring myself to swallow it. Another thing is that, if I am to eat something, it has to be something I am specifically craving. Even my favorite food will sit, untouched, if it is not what I want at that moment. For these reasons, I usually eat only once each day. Sometimes twice. Almost never more than that.
I know, it isn’t healthy to eat in this fashion, in fact, it is, quite probably, contributing to my weight issue. The fact is, I have been neither gaining, nor losing weight lately. I like to think that, if I had someone to help keep me on track, someone who would help me to exercise more faithfully, someone who would help keep me on a proper eating schedule, I would be able to actually get somewhere. I shouldn’t need help. I should be able to do it alone, but I can’t. I don’t have the willpower, or strength, or whatever to do it for myself, and, frankly, that’s a good thing. If I had the willpower, I would probably do it in the least healthy way possible, due to the fact that I don’t give one single fuck about “trying to get healthy”. I just want to be able to look into a mirror without wanting to cry or be sick.
I don’t want to feel that every time someone looks at me, they are disgusted by me.
I have read a few posts lately about how fat girls are gross. I have also seen a lot of comments from curvy women who say they have no problem finding a man who wants them. That they basically can have their pick from whomever hey choose. I do not have that. I actually have nobody who lives in a reasonable vicinity, who wants me. The only men who tell me they want me are far enough away that they would never have to worry about proving their words to be true.
If you are a bigger woman, and you have confidence and self love, I envy you. I applaud you, truly. I wish I could have your confidence. I wish I could be happy in the body I have. That said, being told that I should love myself, being told that I am beautiful, and I need to “shut up”, or that I need to see myself differently, doesn’t help. I wish I knew what would, but, at this point, I only have a list of what doesn’t.