Guess what…. It might surprise you, but you don’t need to tell me I’m fat.
It’s true that I’ve long-suffered from body dysmorphia. When I was anorexic I thought I was fat and when I first graduated from overweight-to-obese (or fat), it may have taken a while to sink in.
Even now I say I’m ‘overweight’ because the F word comes with such baggage, but the F word is what I am.
I’m sure people don’t believe me—when I say I know I’m fat. Naturally you assume that I’d do something about it, IF I really did know.
And because you assume I don’t really know you might feel compelled to tell me. Perhaps you shout it at me as you drive past; or you look me up and down in barely-concealed horror; or perhaps you look straight through me as if I’m invisible.
And then of course you might be well meaning, like my darling mum. You might be worried about me. About my health. So you tell me so. Again and again.
And yet… guess what? I already know. I worry about my health as well. I lie in bed at night and wonder what I’m doing to myself. Worse still, I feel uncomfortable,unfit and unhealthy.
So you’re telling me nothing I don’t know. And #spoileralert: You probably can’t make me hate myself and / or my body more than I already do.
Sadly I’ve learned from my own inner voice that tough love doesn’t always work, so your efforts are kinda wasted. Moving forward from a position of shame just isn’t helping and it hasn’t worked on any of the 14,432 diets I’ve been on in the past.
It doesn’t mean I don’t want to change. It just means that reminders from others are usually pretty redundant.
Anyway… no questions to ponder or feedback to provide. A version of this post has been sitting in my drafts folder for 6wks now and I’ve written and rewritten it on several occasions. It’s just something I (and others like me) might want you to know.