Fat
by Cheryl, posted on September 6th, 2010 in Just me
It is hard for me to talk about my weight. It is hard, because I’m not fat.
I know this, logically.
But over the past month, I’ve gained 10 pounds. I’m at the heaviest non-pregnant weight I’ve been in years. I am now just above the number I promised I’d never get over again.
And yet, here I am. It’s scary.
Because weight is baggage, isn’t it?
We carry it around with us, if not literally, than figuratively. Especially if we’ve ever been heavy.
I was not an overweight child. But my sister and brother were very skinny, and being average-sized next to them made me look puffy.
My father called me Fatso Fogarty.
You don’t want your dad calling you names. If your father is says it, it must be true: there must be something wrong and unlovable about you. Because it was not meant as a compliment.
The irony of it is both my parents were overweight. I can’t quite figure out the psychology of calling your youngest child fat, and anyway, what the fuck is Fatso Fogarty? (You know I googled and the only hit I got was for some bar in North Jersey, in a town I only have heard of because a friend from college was from there. Maybe my parents danced on the bar there when they were younger? …. The pause is me laughing hysterically at the idea. But they WERE young once. I think.)
Along came college. Sure, I put on the freshman 15, as I hadn’t yet discovered the concept of “Lite” beer. My final semester of school, though, was the worst. I was in a bad roommate situation. I was in a bad guy situation. And by the time I came home to get ready for graduation, I was 168 pounds. My family? Laughed and told me how fat I was. I immediately drove back to school. There was no pride in my accomplishment of earning a degree. No. It was all about the size of my thighs.
That summer I lost 30 pounds.
I got my first newspaper job and entered my first serious relationship. It was a thrilling time, and yet, I felt like I always had to be vigilant about my weight. That if I let down my guard for a second, my ass would swell like a souffle.
Going into Major League clubhouses made me very aware of my appearance. I was being stared at by men all day (not because I was hot or anything, it’s just that most baseball players will look at anything that’s female) and I always wanted to be dressed appropriately. I also didn’t want to be fat.
If I mentioned my concerns to friends, they were dismissed: I was looking for compliments at best and was dysmorphic at worst.
So I stopped talking about it.
I realize that nobody understands the fear: I’m afraid I can’t control my weight. I’m afraid of having to lose it – again. I’m afraid of letting myself go and those extra pounds becoming comfortable. I’m afraid of giving up.
I’m afraid I’ll be unlovable. That what my father thought was, in fact, true.
Pounds are not just pounds. They are judgement. They weigh on my psyche. If my father lied and said I was fat, then how can I believe those who tell me I’m thin? And why does this matter, anyway?
I know this sounds ridiculous. Vacuous, even. There are a LOT worse things than some extra pounds. I should be over it. I get that. I know my weight has nothing to do with my worth as a human being. I am happy and confident with many things about myself. I’ve accepted other stuff: the old-lady skin on my stomach that forms a heart-shaped pooch – the place where three babies grew in five years – when I bend over, the little bags where my breasts should be.
And yet, there is a part of me that is still that small child. I am my father’s daughter after all.
My friends now just see a 41 year-old woman with three little kids who wears a size 6 and they don’t want to hear me complaining and I should shut the fuck up. That’s because they don’t look a few months ahead. They can’t see the unpleasant image I construct of myself if I don’t get a grip right this second.
They didn’t see my father, so skinny in his hospital bed you could see every bone in his skull, getting the news that he was going to die – a result of myriad complications from years of untreated diabetes caused by his awful eating habits and obesity.
I don’t want that to be my future.
I run. I’ve been running regularly now for the past month and a half, which makes this recent weight gain a bit puzzling.
It’s not muscle weight. Trust me.
This is not a comfortable size for me, and now I must diet.
I hate dieting.
But I will do it, and keep the wolves at bay once again.
I have to.
I can’t run forever.
Tags: dysmorphia, father, fatso fogarty, running, shut up, take care of yourself, weight loss
I often think I have won the battle and that I am “okay” with my weight and then I am reminded that I am not and probably never will be. *sigh*
And yes, it does make sense. We know it’s our issue, we’re aware of it, so that is part of acceptance. I think. 
Rachel M Says:
Trisha Says:
Janine Says:
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Elissa Says:
Cheryl Reply:
September 6th, 2010 at 6:30 pm
it’s such a weird thing, isn’t it? I sincerely hope my daughter is spared these issues!
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