What it means to be fat: a stream of consciousness consideration
Fat doesn’t look nice. It looks blubbery and wrong, like I’ve been blown up with an air pump, like I could be a fine human being except for this one thing that is so glaringly obviously wrong with me.
It’s like having a huge scar right across my face that tells the world I’ve been hurt and I’m just too traumatized to do anything about it. Or too lazy. Or too stupid. Being fat means I’m lazy and stupid, because I’m doing nothing to fix the problem.
I am fat because I am lazy, stupid, doing nothing to fix the problem, and apparently I don’t even care enough about my fatness to make it stop. To DIET. If I am not constantly dieting to make sure I’m not fat, I will just get fatter and fatter and fatter.
This is evidenced by every single time I’ve ever NOT dieted, I’ve gotten fatter. Including with intuitive eating. I’ve gained so much weight, I have to buy 2XL clothes.
I want to believe in this thing, and I appreciate being able to live life without food being at its center. But being fat means I am broken. I am not fixable. I am permanently and forever unattractive, overloaded with extra flab, and shaped like the Pillsbury dough boy.
Being fat means if I return to China, they will laugh and point and say “happy Buddha!” Because nobody in China is fat, and all the Americans are. Being fat means that I fit in with all the stupid Americans who weren’t able to stop themselves from being fat.
It means that I am incapable of controlling myself when I eat.
It means that I am forever traumatized by my mother saying I’m eating too many croutons on my salad, my bowl of cereal is too big, I should eat green beans instead of candy bars, carrots instead of cookies.
It means that I can’t think for myself; I can’t take care of myself. It means I will always be fat, and I will always be broken. It means that my body isn’t under my control. It means that I am out of control.
Being fat means I am lazy, stupid, unattractive, out of control, traumatized and broken – and everyone who sees me knows that, just by looking at me. Because I’m fat.
Fat is the creepy guy who lives in my closet and comes out in the mornings to follow me around and whisper: You can’t control yourself. You’re flabby and ugly and stupid. You were never beautiful and you’ll never be beautiful. Nobody likes you. Nobody wants to be like you. And everybody knows you’re disgusting inside, too.