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My Story
KD Victoria - Jan 2008
Fatty, Fatty, Two-by-four... [Can’t Fit Through the Bedroom Door]
Obesity feels like a brain disease that I inflict on myself. At five-feet and
four inches tall, and three hundred fifty pounds, I have forfeited a neutral
first-impression in favour of being first and foremost the fat girl. I live in a
different world; there are few stores in entire cities that carry clothing in my
size; seats in theatres, classrooms, buses and airplanes cut into my sides; I
can’t walk down the street without feeling judgment and disgust crawl all over
me, and I have no one to blame for it but me. I have fallen into this niche, a
lifestyle of second helpings, inactivity, and relying on the TV to keep me
abreast of the happenings outside my door. Somewhere along the line, food became
medicine and a tether over emotion, and my body broke the mould.
I was the fat kid. I was only mildly overweight, looking back, but I might as
well have been the marshmallow man for all it mattered to my peers. I excelled
in writing and art, but my physical shortcomings in gym class would keep me near
the failing mark for my entire adolescence. I wasn’t a terrible athlete, my
mother kept me busy with everything from ballet to the softball team in my spare
time, it was the fear I had for my peers that held me back. Anyone who has stood
in the center of taunting, laughing kids who have rocks in their fists, or has
been singled out and sexually assaulted-- learns how valuable staying invisible
is. I’ve never learned how to fully recover from the abuse I endured, and to
this day I still cross the street when I see children and adolescents coming in
my direction. I’m the myth come to life of the elephant who fears mice. I get so
caught up in the fear of mockery that I forget how much damage I could inflict
by sitting on them until they apologize and buy me presents.
I’m not sure where I got the idea, but when I was thirteen I stuck my fingers
down my throat and watched—with satisfaction—a chewed hot dog leave my throat
and bob around in the toilet bowl. I began running everyday, eating little and
throwing up multiple times a day. Blinding migraines, thinning hair and a throat
that now regurgitated involuntarily was nothing compared to the feeling of being
the same size as my peers. I suddenly had my choice of friends, clothing from
regular stores, and a boyfriend. I still felt like an impostor though, and my
headaches and inability to keep my food down at romantic dinners were constant
reminders of who I really was. Being in love couldn’t make everything right. At
fourteen, my father committed suicide, and at fifteen my first relationship
ended in heartbreak. I quickly discovered the pain relief of bingeing without
purging; a stomach filled-up with food felt like a big hug. This is when I began
to view my body as a monster, and my brain as a ticking bomb of agony that I
could quiet only with food.
I’ve tried living in the southern hemisphere, in a university dorm, and back
in my mother’s basement, and I can never find escape. She’s always there, that
fatso, looking back at me in the mirror. And yes, I hear you screaming for the
logic. I see your calorie charts and health statistics, the simple connection
drawn between calories taken in and calories expended. I see your charts, and I
raise you an eating disorder and a brain that reacts to food like a shot of
heroin. In clinical studies, the brains of obese people react exactly the same
way to food as an addict’s brain reacts to illicit drugs. Food has become a form
of medication and an addiction, and Obesity is now an epidemic, with nearly 25%
of all adults in Canada weighing significantly more than they should. With
millions of people around the world suffering from malnutrition and starving to
death every day, the shameful hypocrisy is not lost on me.
I’ve gone through a lot of counselling, and I’ve been told there is a method
to my madness. All of my counsellors have tried to convince me that I use weight
as a barrier between me and the rest of the world, protecting me from the
vulnerability of romance and friendship. I’ve never denied the possibility, but
I can’t believe I would intentionally hurt myself so constantly and without
relent. It just doesn’t make sense. I’ve been fat since I was a baby, and I’ve
suffered from severe clinical depression since adolescence, and now I have a
hard time separating the two. Am I fat because I’m depressed, or am I depressed
because I’m fat? Maybe they can’t be so easily separated or explained; maybe
they feed off one another.
Emotionally, fat is a lonely place, but physically it isn’t so terrible. I
have a lot of soft skin, in rounded bundles around my waist and limbs. I have
many curves and dips, and surfaces that will cradle a head like a pillow. I
don’t jab or poke, and my hips and breasts are large and inherently feminine to
the palm. In the dark, I am full and soft and I am twists and turns, but in the
stark light of day I am an overripe blight to society. There are certain men and
women who are attracted to my heft, but I’ve never been comfortable dating the
infamous chubby chaser. I’ve let my curiosity get the best of me, and I’ve
posted personals on “size friendly” websites—but I’ve immediately taken them
down. Somewhere inside, I don’t believe my fat should be acceptable, and I
despise my size far too much to grant someone the allowance to appreciate it.
I’ve met several partners on general online dating sites like lavalife and
match.com. Under body type, I selected “more to love” and left it at that.
There’s something about communicating online that helped me feel more access to
the romantic world. Right beside my photo I had a whole page to introduce
myself, my likes and abilities, my humour, and I didn’t have this mountain of an
appearance to compete against like I would face-to-face in a club or bar. I have
dated people who had never been with someone considerably overweight before, and
discovered that I have the personality and smile that could help them overlook
it. Yes, I often outweighed them by a hundred pounds, but my experience and
wisdom also outweighed theirs.
Because of my appearance, I’ve naturally focused on finding other ways to
impress; I’m a great lover and an incredible kisser, an accomplished artist, and
a great singer. I am currently in a serious relationship and I weigh almost as
much as two of him would, and he’s still head over heels for me. He says my
weight doesn’t have anything on how beautiful my face and personality are, and
he tries his best to accept me— bannock-ass and all. One of our biggest issues
as a couple is my self-hatred, and we have regular scheduled break-downs where I
am convinced anyone could make him happier than I could, just because I am fat.
Beautiful celebrities in magazines and on TV most often leave me feeling like I
shouldn’t exist in comparison, but I can’t get enough of them. I’m a sucker for
punishment. I’m the mean kid holding the rock.
I have my good days and my bad days; Some days I can block out the social
anxiety enough to go for a walk, eat my vegetables and take a multivitamin, and
some days I stay in bed, eat my weight in cheese and imagine how a speeding
truck could take me out of my misery. I really don’t blame it on my fat though,
I blame it on my brain and on the depression that has threaded itself into my
mental framework. I think that being obese is one of the side-effects, a
complicated one, and I’m working on finding out what makes my monster really
tick. A Psychologist makes house visits once a week now, and Tuesday mornings on
my couch have become a quest. I have torrents and oceans of suppressed emotion,
and counselling is teaching me to address them instead of feed them. I have hope
that I’ll conquer my obesity someday, and in the meantime I dream about the
possible support of weight loss surgery, and live my life the best way I know
how— facing away from the mirror, and always on strong furniture.
KD |
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