Fat Girl Fabulous

Ink and Blood and Soul

I've grown up writing. Putting thoughts and ideas and feelings down on paper. Now I go to school full time and I write even more. I'm about to go to grad school and when I get there, I'll have to write my dissertation. Writing is a part of my soul. Like breathing or sleeping or drinking. Maybe it's more a part of me than any of those things. Breathing and sleeping and eating are facts of life. I enjoy them. I need them. They don't really touch my soul, though. Writing does that. It offers expression to the inexpressible, like art or dance. Arranging words on the page is like writing a symphony. Taking note of every syllable and sound. The soft whoosh of sh followed by the sharp, clipped p in ship. When I write I try to take these sounds and arrange them in a way that makes my heart hurt. It is as though my heart is speaking. When I open my mouth to speak the words come out jumbled and out of order but when I write, it is the purest form of expression. I'm writing this article because I believe I have something to say but I'm really not sure how to say it. The thoughts are fractured and messy and beautiful as they are. This is my attempt to show you the beautiful, crazy mess inside my head, spoken through my heart.

Fat

Chubby. Thick. BBW. Fat. All my life I've battled with that word. With the shame and disgust that accompanies it. I've battled with being chosen last, being out of breath, knowing I don't belong. It's been a weird battle. One in which I both love and hate myself. As I've grown, the hate has lessened and the love has grown. I guess that is how all great loves happen. They increase over time. Still, just because I love myself doesn't mean that I am never embarrassed by my Reuben-esque form. In fact, recently, I was faced with a situation that it felt impossible to escape with dignity. I was with my friends at a theme park and we had waited in line for over an hour for the best ride at the park. We get to the front, all three of us giddy. This was the ride we had been waiting for. The one we had been talking about for weeks. We were finally here. I sat in the seat and pulled the restraint down and it clicked into place. It was tight, but I didn't care. I was finally going on this ride. Then they stopped me and had me get out. Turns out, the restraint has to click twice. Once is not enough, it has to be twice. I was crushed. Ashamed. Mortified. Still, that is not my everyday norm and I don't give that any more credence than I do when I look in the mirror and my boobs look smokin'. I know that I need to lose weight for health reasons, and I'm trying, but not for vanity's sake. Not because I think I'm not good enough unless I'm thin. Now when someone tries to figure out how to describe me, I'm honest. I'm fat... and I'm fabulous. Isn't that what we want the next generation to learn? That it doesn't matter what you look like on the outside, it is what is inside that matters? Isn't that something that humanity has been striving for for centuries? Equality. In a time of Black Lives Matter, gender positivity, and the PUSSYHAT PROJECT, shouldn't we be pushing for everyone to be treated equally, regardless of race, gender, sexuality, or even size?

The Root of the Matter

I mentioned already that I'm trying to lose weight for health reasons. I'm fortunate that I have friends and family who support me and hold me accountable. The hard thing is that it's not just that I have an unhealthy relationship with food—it's that too, but what it really boils down to is that I'm a food addict. I've been addicted before to self-injury, smoking, and you could even say sex. Food is by far the hardest addiction I have faced. Food is the easiest to find. It's necessary for survival. Yet I cannot get enough of it. My portion sizes increase and increase. The quality of my food gets worse and worse. Even when I try to make healthy choices, like salads, lean meats and whole grains, I can't help but get the fries, empanadas, and enchiladas too. I am generally pretty self aware. I know my motivations and feelings. I know where I struggle and where I have improved in my own mental health over time, yet, for some reason, this addiction is a total mystery to me. I sneak food, horde food, eat privately so that no one really knows how much I eat. I don't understand why. I have no shortage of food available to me. I am happy in my life and doing well so why is it that I cannot control what is going in my mouth anymore than I can control what comes out of my mouth when I hit my shin on my bed frame? I don't know. I guess I will learn. Someday. In the meantime, I'm doing my best and you know what? My best is okay, even if it means I fail sometimes.

Confident and Maybe a Little Crazy

I think what matters the most, more than what we eat, or what shape we are, or what color, or what gender, or even how we feel about any of that, is how we view others. What does how we view others have to do with confidence? It seems that the biggest killer of confidence is comparing ourselves to others. I have to admit I am guilty of this. I look at peers at school and how well they are doing and sometimes it seems to tarnish my own accomplishments. This habit is something that can be changed though. It takes time, but the brain can be retrained. When I find myself comparing myself to others, I switch it around when I can. For example, yes, they are a straight A student at 18 and I'm a B average student at 32, but I lived abroad for a while, but I saved money because I waited. Not necessarily denigrating the accomplishment of the other person, or claiming that I am somehow superior, rather, reminding myself that I am different and I have worth. Only through assigning ourselves worth can we achieve confidence and the ability to love ourselves despite our flaws. And that is what is important—not just loving ourselves, but doing so in spite of, or maybe because of, our flaws.