Being Fat

I’ll get down to it. I’m fat. I weigh 240 pounds and wear a size 18. There’s no way around it. I’m fat. I’m not lazy. I don’t gorge myself on junk food and candy. I eat three meals a day and have snacks on occasion. Sometimes, I drink soda. But I’m fat. And it’s no picnic. There’s a lot of pressure for women to be thin. Every newsstand holds magazines that show women photoshopped into oblivion to appease some contrived notion of beauty. Even Faith Hill needed 11 points of alteration. It’s so pervasive that some European countries have forced magazines to apply a health label similar to those found on cigarette cases. Many models are anorexic because of this conceived notion and so are a plethora of women.

But things change when you’re fat. And I don’t mean "OMG! I have to wear a size 12!" I mean going to Lane Bryant and not Forever 21. I mean shopping in the plus size section of every clothing store imaginable searching for the one pair of jean that’s your size because you don’t want to deal with the fact that a regular 18 doesn’t fit anymore. The level of self-consciousness that derives of being overweight oppresses every aspect of my day. From what I eat in front of other people, to how I eat, to what I wear and how I carry myself. Out in public, I put up a front. I’m confident with my body and my personality. But at home, I can’t escape the mirror. I sit at my desk and criticize my body. I pore through my memory, trying to remember what I looked like the year before in an effort to punish myself for gaining seven pounds last summer. I avoid wearing old t-shirts because they fit tighter than they used to. When I’m around my boyfriend’s younger sister, I’m intimidated. Not by her personality, but by her looks. And all while I visit his family, I can’t help but wonder if she sees me as the "fat girlfriend."

I write this not to gain your sympathy. I don’t want it, nor do I need it. I write this as a testimony to how much influence society has on us and our bodies. I am in the process of trying to love my body. When I look in the mirror, I try to imagine that how I look is beautiful and normal. The process is arduous but beneficial. I began to feel more confident in how I look. But processes are not without their setbacks. Before French class today, I met up with an old friend. She used to be fat too. Then, she took initiative and started working out with passion. It worked and she looked great. After she left, I felt the shame echoing in my mind, "Look at yourself. That’s what you could’ve been if you only tried harder. She’s what you should be now. You can’t even use your Wii Fit." The clothes on my body became tighter. I noticed every lump of fat and began to rationalize and visualize being thin. Being her.

Don’t tell me I’m lazy because I don’t work out. Working out is a hobby. Don’t tell me to just stop caring what other people think. That’s like telling a depressed person to "just cheer up."

Just realize I go through this.