EDIT: This was originally written and posted prior to my gastric bypass surgery, and subsequent weight loss, that took place three years ago. While many of these things are no long an outward daily struggle, a good deal of this psychological burden still lives heavily in my subconscious – and I felt it made sense to keep a post like this active so that those reading my blog would understand my thought process.
So, I am fat.
Does that make anyone feel better? It’s the first time in nearly twelve years that I’ve actually said that. I’m tired of tiptoeing around my “weight problem,” or timidly stumbling over the word “heavy” whenever the conversation curved that way. I’m want to talk to you about what it’s like to be twenty-two, and fat. I’m going to share with you what it’s like to go through life knowing that people are staring, are judging, are sizing you up for disaster.
I’ve been fat since I was ten years old. Most girls were picking out training bras-nothing more than another layer of cloth to make them feel grown-up and important. I was already fitted for a B-cup, the straps cutting very real marks into my shoulders and causing sweat lines through my GapKids tees. I didn’t need to feel grown-up. I had already been tossed headfirst into it.