With Each Pound I've Gained I've Lost...

I don’t have a thyroid problem (I had that checked) or any other medical reason for weight gain. In fact, I don’t have any legitimate excuse to be fat, at all. I’ve suffered no serious emotional setbacks in recent years (though I act like I have, at times; but I tend towards the dramatic on a good day). I simply must have decided, at some point, that I would no longer limit myself in the areas I could control. Food, obviously, being one of those areas. I guess I decided I wouldn’t like it restricted in any way. I likely would have allowed myself some unlimited spending as well if I didn’t think they might restrict my food in jail. I feel like I’ve taken on the attitude of those fat cats that I so admire. You know, the ones that say, “I want it all and I want it delivered”. Those cats, those self-serving little assholes have kinda been my heroes lately, and maybe that’s not for the best.

By the way, this isn’t going to be some declaration that my attitude changes today, or worse, an invite to follow me on my weight-loss journey because I’m still working on those things and I don’t really want to share it with you or anyone. Part of my problem, you say? Perhaps, but that’s not for you to worry about, is it?

This is, however, a journal, of sorts, of some of the things gaining the weight has caused me to lose.

With each pound I’ve gained, I’ve lost a little more confidence. I do boast the fiery temperament and the strong liver my Irish heritage affords me, so it might surprise you to know, that I have serious confidence issues. Maybe you relate? Maybe, if you know me, you’re thinking, ‘she wasn’t lacking confidence Saturday night when she argued loudly that a Barrister was a person who served gourmet coffees.’ But I do feel inadequate in many ways, with my weight at the top of the list. Sometimes, I think what appears to be confidence might, in fact, be just the opposite.  We fat girls have to compensate somehow, I guess.

With each pound I’ve gained, I’ve lost the energy to do the things I used to love. This is the worst of it, I think. I do want to set a good example for my girls. I do want to be healthy and strong, and really, really rich (well, I do). I remember how it feels to have the energy and strength to play with my kids and to ski with my husband. I am rudely reminded with every new ache and pain that this weight is going to stop me from doing those things, or at least stop me from doing them without fear of a major injury.

With each pound I’ve gained, I’ve lost the ability to shop in a regular store. Do you know how purely shitty it is to love clothes and fashion and basically be shunned from it because of your weight? Sure, I did this to myself, but can this fat girl not even get a sweater without that fucking keyhole cut-out at the neck that reminds everyone that fat people dare only show that tiny triangle of skin. How I despise having one store to choose from for all my clothing needs. How I hate when I see every other fat woman wearing the same Fall wardrobe and we exchange a glance that says: ‘I hate these fucking fat girl clothes and I know you do, too.”

With each pound I’ve gained, I’ve lost the respect of strangers. If I’m not crazy, there is a difference in the way I am treated in public. Strangers are less kind and less helpful. I lack an authority that comes with being thin and put together. Maybe I’m assumed lazy, or unpleasant. Maybe I make those same assumptions about other fat people and feel shitty about it.  I wish I didn’t have to wear it day in and day out. But, if wishes were fishes right…

Anyway, you know me. If I’m over-sharing embarrassing personal thoughts to ten thousand people who’d really rather chat about autism, it must be Thursday.

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