“Fat girl” lives inside of me. You may not see her based on your opinion of what’s fat or not, on a BMI calculation or what size clothes you think I wear. You may remember when I was 188 pounds and so this size, 133 lbs at 5′ 3 1/2″ seems impressive to you. Last year, in the height of the stress surrounding Preston’s illness, I was 118 lbs. Alas, I digress and numbers and sizes are NOT the point of this post. You may find it offensive based on your own size and shape that I reference myself as “fat girl.” I’m sorry if you make my post about me, about you. Never in my adult life have I EVER looked at another human being and judged them on their size and weight as far as an attraction factor goes. I may see the size and shape of someone and have my medical background kick in and want to share with them my opinion of their risk stratification but again, not the point of this post. I know fat is an offensive word and there are many other words out there to describe someone with more generous proportions. I use the word fat to describe “fat girl” because she is offensive, ugly, broken, damaged, destructive, lost, abandoned, alone and unloveable. I first remember meeting fat girl when I was 17 and had left high school midway through my senior year after being accused by an administrator, who was a pious nun, of having sex with a boy. I didn’t. I could never go back to that ridiculous institution that was a farce when it came to shaping young men and women. That nun single-handedly damaged my faith in religious orders forever and mad it hard to trust authority figures. I left school and went to the community college to get the credits needed to get my diploma. I also met a man who was 22, Asian, armed, and emotionally dangerous. Much to my parents disappointment, I got sucked into his world and was pinned under his thumb. We had a sexual relationship that wasn’t always on my terms but at least I had reliable birth control. I used the Depo Provera shot and the weight began to build on my small frame. I was never a care-free teenager, being adopted and having depression and anxiety prevented that, but things got much worse after I entered into a relationship with him. He was possessive, obsessive and manipulative. I thought I was loved. At that point, I’d spent my whole life looking for unconditional love and while I most certainly knew what we had, wasn’t that, I was sucked in and couldn’t get away. I had very little control over my own destiny, so I thought. I was unhappy and unhealthy. I wasn’t getting much exercise and I ate to make myself feel better. (I’ve always done that. As an infant, mourning the loss of Caroline, my first mom, everyone fed me to make me content.) I’m 35 years old and rarely content. The point is, I’ve been trained to feed my negative feelings. I don’t blame anyone for this and any negative feelings I’ve harbored against loved ones for the self obsessive behaviors that were taught to me, I’ve forgiven them for.
So, hormones, unhappiness and bad eating habits made “fat girl” grow into her own. Now when I find myself wallowing about my clothes not fitting or being plagued with the lazy gene, I blame “fat girl”. Rather than hate all of myself, I can direct my anger and aggression at just her. If I don’t compartmentalize this self-disastifaction, it creeps into my daily life. It begins to seep in where my children can see it. There is a battle that is waged between mostly healthy Rebecca and “fat girl”. I think about the clothes in my closet that don’t fit. That I have to make sure that my laundry is done midweek since I haven’t want to break down and buy bigger scrub pants. This weekend my anger at “fat girl” has gotten riled up because the bi-annual scrub sale is happening at work. I intended to pretend to accept her and get bigger pants. Why the hell should I? I feel good at 124 lbs and the size that is. Rather than give into the side effects of “fat girl” and her bad habits and subversive behavior, I’m going to make her get her ass on the elliptical and fly right, dammit. I’m not letting her win.
The reason that I won’t accept this size and weight is because I know I got here with bad, unhealthy habits. If I exercised daily, didn’t restrict or binge on food, stayed away from Diet Soda, ate more fruits and veggies than carbs, prayed or meditated instead of abusing food, I would give myself a break. I would be realistic that I had done all I could do and I would accept me. I may never like the lumps and bumps and stretch marks but that’s a post for another day. I have a lot of work to do to be so healthy that I can’t hear or see “fat girl.” In an effort to encourage Rebecca in her battle against “fat girl”, I intend to post fitness goals and successes on FB. I need to be visible and supported.
In closing, I’d like to reiterate that the only time I see size, is in the mirror, in myself. I love everyone based on who they are on the inside. Someday, I can do the same for myself.