Bigger is always better. The more the merrier. Large portion sizes, hidden fat traps and magic diet pills. It’s all so very overwhelming to me. And to every other “fat ass” on this planet. In 2005, I lost an astonishing 80lbs. Oh, how excited everyone was. More so than myself. No breasts left, no stomach-just a wide set of hips that will never leave me.
What they didn’t know is that I became obsessed with it. Skinny model photos splattered my room walls. Crying almost every night became the usual for me. Dear God, why can’t I be 5’9 and 120lbs?
A combination of no carbohydrates and starvation did me no justice. It depleted me both physically and emotionally.
A spring break trip to my grandma’s house was the last straw. She looked worried when she seen me, “You look sick. What’s wrong?” I broke down and said, “I’m so hungry.”
And this sad moment catapulted me into a non-exercising, could-give-a-hell-less-about-losing-weight type mentality. I had been derived of my one and only love. Food. And I was never going to let it get away from me again. That is until I packed on the 80lbs I lost…and then some. At this point, I believe that my body hates me. It’s been tricked by me. Confused by me. Used by me. The resentment is there and I don’t blame it.
I was in denial about being-big for some years until someone called me “the fat one”. It hurt. A lot of my friends are in the one-digit clothing sizes. And don’t exercise and eat what they want. No guilt there. Curse them! But deep down inside I know it’s not their fault. And they complain how they want some of my curves. Please go ahead and take whichever roll, tire, dimple and crinkle that you want. Be my guest. If I could make a business out of selling my “curves” I would be a millionaire…maybe a billionaire.
So, six months ago, I went on a die…lifestyle change and lost 50 lbs. ok, things are going good or so I thought. Then I hit a plateau. And just stopped losing. The dreaded plateau. Now I have about a lot more to lose and just like that it came to a teeth chattering, bone splintering halt. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Go to jail. In this fat flabby body.
The scale and I have a love-hate and more hate relationship. Especially when it gives me the wrong number. One day, I threw the scale into the closet and then shut the door behind it as if it would come out and taunt me. The number on the scale set my mood for that day and many other days. And I hate that. Something so insignificant like that could throw me into a tizzy. I am to blame for letting my weight spiral out of control. But there are other culprits out there to assist in me feeling like crap when I don’t hit my weight loss goal for the week.
The air brushers and the photo croppers. How dare you make me feel bad under false pretences? How dare you take part of Demi Moore’s hip out that magazine cover to make her look way skinnier than she already is? Are any of these models even real? Because we the population are dying to get these results that were never attainable in the first place. Setting ourselves up for disaster before the strive even begins. That’s deep.
I think that we should probably dig deeper into ourselves and see what’s real and what’s fake. And set attainable and realistic goals-weight loss or otherwise- in life. Believe half of what you hear and none of what you see. Powerful statement to all you air brushers and digital photo modifiers. Weight loss and living healthy are still my goals but not my last or only. No matter what, I’m still me inside and supposedly that’s what counts.
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