I’m fat, very fat, morbidly obese infact. There aren’t many moments when I’m not aware of it, aware that I may be making somebody feel uncomfortable or intrigued as to how I can live like this, be happy like this? I do often look in the mirror and think I’m quite attractive. Infact I imagine I have as many ‘I hate my body days’ as any other average Joe, how shocking for one so ugly. So to constantly feel pressure to change, and feel as though I can’t go on this fat forever, when actually I feel the happiest I have in a few years, is a very conflicting place to be. Why would I put my current contentment in jeopardy?
I met with an old friend today. We’re at the beginning of building a friendship that never fully developed whilst at art school together 10 years ago. She’s incredibly funny and I imagine actually a bit odd underneath her beauty, wit and charm. She made us feel very welcome in her homely home. But as I dressed this morning I dressed the best I felt I could to feel like I was comfortable, me and not going to cause alarm with my horrendous stomach. When I arrived she was making gingerbread dough for our 3 boys to make biscuits with, I tried a bit, it was warm, sweet and yummy. The day bumbled on, playing, chatting, building track, moving from room to room, sitting at the table, propping up the sideboards, sorting altercations over miniature vehicles, sitting on the floor, dealing with poo, wee, crisps, tea, water, sand and rain. What a perfect day to be a 2 year old boy. I enjoyed chatting our way through the madness, a lot. It came time for us to leave, and shoved into the side pocket of my faded, faithful backpack wad a tied up sandwich bag full of raw biscuit dough, for my journey home. How marvellous. That dough never fulfilled it’s destiny to become real, cooked biscuits.
The postman had been when we got home, there was an interesting looking letter on the matt. I opened it. Inside was a lengthy piece of prose from an elderly relative detailing how awful it is, how curious it is, that I’m so fat and Jon is not, and suggestions, no instructions that this should be corrected. With handy hints and tips on how to do so. Well that nearly caused all the raw biscuit I’d eaten on the way home to come shooting back up out of me all over my poor neglected boys. The letter is not rude or unkind, it simply states what everyone around me thinks but does not have the audacity to say. The reason Jon is slimmer than me, although he is getting a good middle-aged spread, is because I eat, a lot. And I don’t move enough. I’m not thick, I’m well aware what’s healthy and safe and what I need to do to not be at such a high risk of premature death (please God no more suggestions or helpful hints), but I can’t imagine it possible. How can I get through the day without ‘naughty’ food? I obsess constantly about where the next installment of fat or sugar is coming from and any lack of it causes great anxiety, panic and outbursts of extreme anger. I secret eat, I gorge, until I feel sick, and the idea of not doing so is not a pleasant or safe one. So I’m stuck, not wanting to change but feeling the need to, probably for about the 109th time in my life. Maybe I’m raw, squidgy, fat dough and I’ll never cook and become a beautiful solid gingerbread woman.