Big Girl
I used to be fat. I’m not talking about baby fat. I was not a little bit chubby or pleasantly plump. There wasn’t more of me to love, and I didn’t have big bones. I was, according to the CDC guidelines for calculating body mass index, officially and undeniably obese.
I have always been hyper-aware of my size. When I was a kid, my superhuman child’s metabolism and tendency to spend all day, every day running around outside playing Indian kept me underweight. As a child, I swelled with silent pride when people commented on my bird-like arms or my grandmother pushed another helping on my plate, asking what my parents were feeding me. I was fascinated with the minimal amount of water I displaced when I climbed into the tub. There are pictures in my scrapbook of me standing in front of the mirror, trying on the clothes of everyone in my family, and solemnly studying my reflection. My parents thought it was cute, but I remember just trying to figure out where I fit in, with my child’s belly and twig-thin legs. My mother always assured me that my weight was something I would never have to worry about.
“You’re so tiny, bubba. My little stick baby.”
Although I, like most of the girls in my class, began to fill out around seventh grade, the big changes didn’t come until my freshman year of high school. Due to a combination of crippling panic attacks and a severe serotonin deficiency, I found myself on a prescription drug called Risperdal. Turns out, a common side effect of Risperdal is extreme weight gain. In three short months, I was forty pounds heavier. I spent the next two years popping Risperdal, sitting sedentary, and stuffing my face, getting larger and progressively more uncomfortable with my body.
Eventually, it was two much. My self-loathing was at an all time high. I couldn’t wear anything in my closet without hating the way I looked, and I wouldn’t even leave the house, because I didn’t want anyone to see me. I probably shed enough tears to fill a few bathtubs during this period of my life.
The turning point came at a doctor’s appointment. It was a routine check-up, but I had been freaking out for days. Seeing the doctor meant stepping on a scale. I was left alone to wait and worry in the sterile examination room. I peeled my clothes off slowly, growing more and more disgusted with my reflection in the mirror. Every piece of clothing I removed showed me another thing to hate about myself. I slipped into the scratchy paper gown, grateful to have something to cover up with. I listened to the soft murmur of bustling nurses through the door. When it came time to climb onto the scale, I took a disinfectant-scented breath, steeled myself, and stepped up. My throat tightened, and my stomach knotted. My eyes stung with tears and I was doing my best not to cry. I was huge. A whale. Disgusting.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. The next two years were the closest to Hell I’ve ever come. Trying to lose weight was infinitely harder than dealing with being fat. I would starve myself for days, subsisting on fruit and cereal, and lose tiny amounts of weight, due mostly to dehydration from intake restriction. Then I would lose self-control and binge until I had gained back every pound I shed and then some.
I finally had to find a happy medium. Starving myself completely didn’t work. I stocked up on low calorie foods and did everything I could to avoid the kitchen, opting instead to lock myself in my room and do anything but eat. I have no doubt I lost too much weight too fast to be healthy, but I don’t care. I’ve kept it off, which is all that really matters to me.
Even though I’ve lost the weight, I still feel fat. Although I no longer wear a size fifteen pants and I can walk up two flights of stairs without stopping to catch my breath, I still feel the same. Inside, I will never feel normal. I will always look in the mirror and see a fat girl, which is something I just have to learn to deal with.
I recognize that I haven’t been healthy, not about gaining the weight, or about losing it. I’m still not healthy about my weight. If I wake up and weigh myself, something I do every morning, and I’m not happy with what I see, I think nothing of skipping a couple meals or going to bed hungry. This isn’t something I plan to change. As much as I know dealing with my insecurities this way isn’t the best thing for me, I feel like it’s worth it. We do what we have to just to get by, no matter the situation. I’ve been on the other side of fat, and I never want to go back.
allie 