The Weight of it All

When I was in high school, I thought I was fat. Because of this, I barely ate. Sometime only once a day. Basically, I starved myself until my teachers noticed my hair was thinning badly. Still, no matter what I did, I still thought I was fat. So, I continued starving myself until I graduated. And just like a house of cards falling down, I got really sick the day after graduation. In fact, I was sick all that summer.

This ugly self-image followed me when I entered the university of my dreams. But I kinda forgot about it because I loved my time in college. They judged me based on what my brain could do and not by my body mass index. This marked the time of my liberation from my sense of fatness. But from time to time, I still backpedalled.

When I graduated college, I got really busy teaching that I had no time to think about being fat. I was actually so focused on what I was doing, barely even having time to eat, that I got thin without even thinking about it. Did this make me feel good about myself? Hell to the no. I still felt fat every time I looked at myself in the mirror.

Now that I’m doing what I love and I find myself happy every damn day, I’ve left behind seeing myself as fat. I’ve begun to become comfortable in my self-worth and I actually look at what I see in the mirror. Sure there are extra pounds here and there, but I don’t see myself as fat anymore.

But there are days—when the fat comments come from my own mother—that I think I might spiral back into starving myself to the point where my hair will fall out. When I’m feeling good about what I’m wearing my mother would sit beside me and think she’s doing me a favor by saying I shouldn’t be wearing dresses because I’m fat right now. That I should think about losing weight. Sometimes I want to scream at her to just leave me alone. She thinks being thin will make me feel better about myself. What she doesn’t know is when I was at my thinnest, which is a hundred pounds at my 5’3” frame, I still felt really fat.

I love my mother. This is why I don’t scream at her. I just remind myself that I’m happy with who I am now. That I don’t need someone telling me what weight I should be to feel good about myself. I believe losing weight is a gradual process. That it’s step by step. Curbing what you eat. Switching to eating healthy. That true weight loss takes at least a year and not just a month to do. But sometimes, no matter how good you feel about yourself, hearing your fat from your own mother who thinks she means well can derail your happy thoughts. It’s like your own family teasing you for not having wine at dinner knowing you’re an alcoholic who has been sober for years.

Every day is a struggle. I struggle less and less each day. I just wish my mother would get off my back about my weight. If I tell her so? A fight will break out. She’ll think it’s my fault and she won’t understand why I’m questioning her. Believe me, I’ve done it before. I just want a place to vent. So here I am…venting. Feel free to vent in the comments section too.

Okay, I feel a hellovalot better.

Thank you for reading! *hugs*

Now, back to work. I saw my editor just take out a whip.

1 comment:

  1. You are beautiful. In every way. I look at pictures of you and that's what I see. A beautiful, healthy woman.
    I had the opposite reaction to my weight when I was a kid-- too skinny. I had knobby knees, ribs poking out. I was so happy in high school when I finally gained weight and got "womanly" curves. Still, I felt ugly, a byproduct of a distorted sense of what defines beautiful.

    Today, I'm at my heaviest. I was feeling down about it because I don't feel healthy. So, I got back on my bike this weekend. I'm training for a 35 mile ride at the end of April. I'm super sore, but I also feel empowered.

    Happiness brings peace and acceptance. Love brings true beauty both on the inside and out.

    Love you, sis.


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