FatGirl Speaks

fatgirlspeaks @ 2003-11-04T16:42:00

2003-11-05T00:44:06Z

I folded the cheese slice half, and then in half again -- folded each half into another half, over and over again until each piece was too tiny to fold. It was a meditation in proceessed cheese food, a mantra of comfort and a ritual of soothing. I slid each sliver into my mouth, one at a time, and felt the satisfying squish against the roof of my mouth. The Coke bottle clinked against my teeth and I slid my tongue along the smooth, cold glass - the refreshing liquid sliding into my mouth with a slight burn to it and a tickling fizzle.

While I swished my soda and smooshed my cheese, it didn't matter that my polyester pants were 2 sizes too small, or that my poorly permed hair made me look like a frazzled Q-Tip. It didn't matter that the children at school called me Big Butt Bias, or that the last time I saw my father he'd been face-down drunk in a plate of mashed potatos.

This was my zen. This place in the sunken chair next to the television set. This quiet time alone between the end of school and the time my parents returned home from work. This space was my solitude and my calm and the only place I ever felt safe. This space was free from humiliation and judgement, save my own, whose voice was overshadowed by an urgent need for comfort.

No one knew about this space, or that slice of cheese, or what that soda meant to me. I was the fat kid. The kid who ate too much. That's who I was to them. But to me, I was only devastatingly alone and eternally empty.

Journal #9

2002-03-20T20:07:19Z

Self Absorption. I touched briefly on this in the first installment of FatGirl Speaks, but it's a topic that's been weighing heavily (pardon the pun) on my mind this week.

I'm finding that, as I get older and as my weight becomes a larger issue to me -- as my youth ebbs slightly and the burden of extra pounds on my frame make aches and pains a part of the routine of my day -- I'm becoming a far less detail-oriented person. There was a time in my not-so-distant past when I could stop midway through a book, glance casually down at the page number and come back days, weeks, even months later and pick up exactly where I left off. No bookmark required. My mind was a steel trap. I could trust it to carry me through extremely busy periods of my life without losing important, or even unimportant details. I was dialed in and ready.

These days, I am busier than ever. I have more balls in the air than the Shriner's Circus and I'm generally successful, but there are days when I come home and my girlfriend reminds me of a conversation we've had and my mind draws a complete blank...and that scares me. I've worked at my present job and interacted with the people there for nearly a year, and I still have trouble remembering people's names. That scares me too.

I am being forced to become, of all left-brained things, a "LIST Person". I shudder to think it. I have to make hastily scrawled additions to my "To Do List" each day or I will invariably let something slip. And while the logical side of my brain says "Oh, c'mon. Lighten up! You're busy!! Lesser women would need a personal assistant to keep track of everything you do!", there is a side of me that knows that I am capable of more than this. There is a side of me that knows that something is wrong.

And so my mind crawls back over the folds of itself, looking for the bread crumb trail of reasons. Why am I so tangential? Why does my head wander from task to task? Why am I so un-invested in the people I interact with from day to day? Sure, some of it can be attributed to the fact that 85% of the people I work with are white male middle-class engineer types (not a demographic that makes a huge impresson on me as a rule), but I've come to the conclusion that most of my problem is that, over the years, I have become utterly and very-nearly completely Self-Absorbed.

This, however, isn't a typical self-absorption. I am not cocky or self-centered. I am not overbearing or demanding. (Well, not any more than anyone else is.) What I am is something that is only personally exhausting. What I am is devastatingly self-conscious.

Logically speaking, how am I truly to remember an individuals name when half of the time I'm talking to them I'm making sure that my shirt isn't clinging in an unflattering way? How am I to catch everything that's said in a meeting when, for a portion of the time, I'm greatly distracted by the fact that the chair that was designed to appeal to the 20-something, gym-haunting, up-and-coming young executive generation is chaffing my outer-thigh?

There is an undercurrent to every moment of my life. There is not an instant when I am not aware that I am heavy. Heading for the restroom, I tug casually at the hems of my shirt to make sure it does not cling. Walking briskly across the campus to a second building for a meeting, I make sure that I'll have a place to stop and catch my breath before I enter the room. Walking from my car to the office, someone who pulled in after me reaches the front door before I do, and I am humiliated.

It is an exhausting, time-consuming habit of self-awareness I have. There is no wonder that there is so little room for other details in my head when so much of my time and energy is spent following my own every move. I think, more than any reason I might ever have for wanting to find a place of satisfaction with my weight, this is the reason that matters to me most. I never in my life imagined that I would be so turned inwards.

I miss you. You as the page of a book I put down three weeks ago. You as a pair of eyes I meet without question. You as my focus. You as the world.

Journal #8

2001-12-15T23:04:07Z

It's been a while since I've written a new piece, but it's not for lack of a desire to do so. I simply seem to be stuck on the same question I was on when last I wrote. I'm still making and breaking promises to myself on an almost daily basis. The thing is, everything else in my life seems to be falling into place. I am happier, more confident, I am reaching beyond my comfort zones and doing things that heretofore I had used my weight as an excuse not to do. I always thought that when I found my place of inner joy and confidence that my weight would naturally just drop off. I wouldn't have the "hole" to fill (to coin a sad-but-true cliche) and thus I wouldn't overeat or under-move as much. Perhaps it's just too soon in this genesis of my sense of self for it to really have shaken me out of my habits, but it seems that the weight is remaining a lone island of compulsion in a sea of self-control.

I am wondering more and more about what it is that makes me stop once I've started going to the gym or walking or doing anything that resembles working on this issue. I love the physical activity -- I love how strong and vitalized I feel after, I love the ego strokes that I feel justified in giving myself, I love the way I feel lighter on my feet, more energy, more joy -- So why is it that, knowing full well I will receive instant gratification for whatever energy I put forth, I still can't seem to build up any consistency in my exercise schedule?

In a discussion earlier today, a friend of mine had some good insight on it and I walked away from that conversation feeling more hopeful than I have in ages. I thought I'd share this with you.

We began talking about promises and naturally progressed into a discussion on why we can't keep promises to ourselves. This took me to my frustration about giving up every time I hit even light turbulence in my exercise routine. Example; I've been to the gym consistently each morning for a week. On week 2, I have a dentist's appointment, and the day after, I end up talking myself out of going to the gym. I miss one day, and I just don't go back.

She asked me to tell her what goes on in my head while I'm exercising, and I gave it a good hard think. Surprisingly, I found that I actually overachieve while I'm exercising. In my mind I am constantly pushing myself to go harder, faster, one more lap, just a bit longer, just a bit further -- counting strokes, footfalls, laps, miles, minutes -- reminding myself that I went longer yesterday and that if I don't at least reach that new benchmark, I have failed -- and if I only reach it, but do not exceed it to raise the benchmark for the next day, I am merely being adequate, and that's not good enough.

Stepping back and taking a look at that from an outsider's perspective, the first thing that pops into my head is that news story about Richard Hatch being arrested for mentally abusing his son when he'd gained weight. I mean, I'm really giving myself a huge ration of shit there. It's no wonder I'm so easily distracted from the exercise...While I may be experiencing some good things after, during I am torturing the hell out of myself and making it absolutely impossible to enjoy even a moment of it. If I had a personal trainer like that, I'd not only fire them, I'd probably give them a swift kick in the ass to remember me by!

My friend likened my mentality on this to Insomnia. Without going into the intricacies of what Insomnia is, the basics of this comparison lie in associations. Some Insomniacs have a few rough nights and then begin to associate things about that with restlessness -- bed, darkness, blankets, pillows, etc -- and so when night falls, the dread comes and the worry reaffirms itself until the whole situation becomes a well-established pattern. The same holds true for me in regards to exercise and self-abuse. Who knows where the roots of it are, but it's there. The second the tennis shoes go on my feet, my inner Drill Sargent blows revile and off to war I go. Scenery? What scenery!? I'm walkin' here!

My friend told me about how she used to go biking with a friend who would tell her sex stories on big hills to distract her from the workout. After I got through laughing at her, I began to think about what a great idea that was. If I could send my mind off on flights of fancy (not necessarily sexual, though what the hell -- if I'm desperate picturing my girl on her knees might get me through a few laps) while I'm exercising it might not only make it go faster, but take the pressure off and give me something more to look forward to, not only after, but during my workout. I'll be Pavlov's Dyke, drooling when my stopwatch dings and diving in to see what new adventures my mind has for me that day. A mental recess while my body is at work and a permanent vacation for my inner 4 Star General.

I imagine it'll take a great deal of work to get that voice to quiet itself and to allow my mind to roam, but framing it this way really gives me a sense of good things to come. And hey, if I have to imagine Jo from Facts of Life in nothing but that leather jacket to get me healthy, I guess I can put up with that.

Journal #7

2001-12-15T23:03:36Z

Trust is a vital part of any relationship. This much is fact, passed from generation to generation, spanked into the mind and bottom of any child who dares compromise it with a lie. We are taught to respect one another and to, above all, be true to our word. We are taught to honor our promises and to have faith in the promises of others.

Trust. Respect. Honesty.

So why is it then that, even though I cannot remember the last time I broke a promise to anyone around me, I so consistently break the promises I make to myself? Why is it that I've lost any and all ability to ever take myself at my word? I have no trust in myself, I have no respect for myself and I lie to myself every single day...

I wake up in the morning and I think "I should go to the gym," but I'm tired, so I promise myself that I'll ride the bike when I get home that night instead and I roll over to hit the snooze button. No sooner has that promise been made than it is forgotten and that night, when I get home and I'm tired or cranky or in any of a thousand other moods that could serve as an excuse, I put it off again by telling myself that I'll get up and go to the gym the next morning. And so the cycle continues.

It's a scary thing to realize that your word holds no sway with you anymore. Were I a friend of myself, I would have dumped me long ago. It's a sad truth, but when I think of it in those terms, there's really no other way to put it. Would I put up with a friend who was constantly making and breaking promises, who lied to me at every turn and who demanded I suffer through a daily barrage of insults and beratements? Nope. Probably not. In fact, not only would I dump myself, but I'd probably kick my ass for good measure.

So why is it that I allow me to be to myself everything I despise and abhor in others? Why is it that I can't apply the same determination and motivation to keeping my own promises that I can to keeping the promises I make to others? Why is it that, in those early morning hours, the snooze button and my pillow have more control over me than my own ambition to be healthy and happy?

The same sad cycle applies itself to so many situations in my life, big and small... and yet, I am a good friend, a good employee, a good lover and a good person to everyone else in my life. How is it possible to be two such distinctly different people at the same time? And how can I learn to be the same quality of friend to myself as I am to everyone else around me? How can I learn to put stock in my own promises again? How do I go about learning how to not keep letting myself down?

I suppose the beginning to finding the answers to these questions is the fact that I've finally figured out that they needed to be asked. Maybe I'll take myself out for coffee one of these days and talk it out.

Journal #6

2001-12-15T23:03:02Z

OK, OK, OK... I hear you. My vast apologies for taking so long between updates. I thank you all for your requests(demands) for new entries. It's nice to know that I'm reaching people. I adore you all for that.

Have you ever seen the movie Awakenings? If not, skip this paragraph because I may spoil something, but if you have - maybe you'll get my point here. The thing is, in this movie, the patients all had this severe form of palsey that had their bodies shaking so violently and quickly that they appeared immobile. That's kindof the state I've been in mentally lately. So many new thoughts and ideas buzzing around in my head that I haven't been able to focus on one of them long enough to get it out on paper. I'll do my best to be more reliable with this column in the future.

What I'd like to talk about today is the P word. Not the one that gets your mouth washed out with soap, but the one that puts everything in your world in slow motion, that keeps the tides from coming in and that keeps the future at bay... Procrastination.

I can't imagine the number of action words I've tacked the phrase "When I'm thin" at the end of, or "I can't wait until I'm thin so I can..." at the beginning of. Such a red light... such a roadblock. Being fat has always been the consumate excuse for me. It can get me out of doing anything and everything I'm scared of. It keeps me in a state of daydream by putting everything that seems possible WAY off into the future.

From things as small as cutting my hair or hiking a trail to things as large as traveling the world and reaching my ultimate goals, I've used being fat as the ultimate form of procrastination. It's a powerful tool...

"I can't hike through Europe because I'm too fat. I'm too out of shape. It'll be too hard. When I'm thin, I'll put that pack on my back, buy a one way ticket and go."

"I can't cut my hair off yet. It's my security blanket. It covers me... plus, my face is too round. When I'm thin, I'll chop it all off and dye it blue!"

"I can't speak at that conference... I'd look stupid. The fat girl at the podium. No one would take me seriously. When I'm thin, I'll be more respectable, so I'll go then."

"I'd really like to go to that reading, but no one can go with me today. I don't want to go by myself... people will think I'm a loser and have no friends 'cuz I'm the fat girl there all alone. When I'm thin, they'll think I'm independent and it won't matter."

... just reading those statements, seeing them on the written page, makes my stomach turn, realizing how much time in my life I have wasted.

Part of my journey of late has been attempting to make myself aware of those statements as they plod across my head. There are so many, and they've been there for so long, that it's somewhat difficult to catch them all. But when I do, I sit there with them for a while. I examine them, look for the molehill inside the mountain and try to turn them over enough in my mind that I can come to some reasonable compromise with myself. For example:

"I can't hike through Europe because I'm too fat. I'm too out of shape. It'll be too hard. When I'm thin, I'll put that pack on my back, buy a one way ticket and go."

Turns into:

"Well, I can't do the 20 mile jaunts that some people can, but there's nothing stopping me from buying a eurorail pass, walking as much as I can, resting when I need to and seeing Europe. It would be the experience of a lifetime even if I didn't make a jock of myself..."

I also cut my hair. It looks fan-fucking-tastic.

Journal #5

2001-12-15T22:57:32Z

There are few moments in my life when I am actually confronted on a slap-in-the-face level with how differently fat women are treated in this society. When it happens, it generally takes me a few weeks to truly come to terms with the experience. Such was the case with my recent doctor's visit.

As I've mentioned before, I am fairly surrounded in my daily life by very fit, active people. My wife is a martial artist (soon to be a brown belt - which is 1 belt below black). Her close circle of friends consist of a PE Teacher, a softball coach and runner, a basketball/snowboarding fiend and other such fitness freaks. My own friends run the gamut from flabby as hell to thin as a rail, but they're not the focus of this rant, so let's move on.

Now, my wife and her friends tend to all flock to the same dentists, doctors, hairdressers, etc. If one goes, they all go, and that's the way it is, has been and ever shall be. I'm more of the independent mind, but I've unfortunately been sucked into this particular habit. The most recent of these "referrals" was a new doctor. After hearing everyone rave and glow about how personable, sweet, funny and comforting she was, I decided that not going to her would be a silly way to rebel and I made an appointment.

To be honest, at this point, I barely remember what body glitch necessitated the visit in the first place. What I do remember, however, is how this doctor in front of me; blank-faced, withdrawn, lacking in warmth and personality, business-like and somewhat condescending, was so completely NOT the doctor that my wife and all her friends had described. I remember feeling somewhat like a dog on a vet table - poked, prodded, faceless. I remember being so profoundly saddened by this - the contrasting degrees of humanity, dished out in perfect proportion to size - as if by the bulk of my flesh, I had used up all of my allotted space and there was simply no room for her compassion to seep in around me.

To make things worse, at the end of the visit I decided that - since I was headed towards a more active lifestyle - it would be best for me to discuss this with my doctor. I wanted opinions on what types, and what amounts of exercise were appropriate for me at my current fitness level, as well as any dietary suggestions she may have had. To her credit, she didn't suggest any of the new and terrifying weight-loss drugs - however her suggestions were not only vapid and undereducated, but rather insulting to boot.

She said to me, "You should go to Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig! A woman in our office is doing it and she's lost 40 pounds!!!"

I was shocked. I'm after a healthy lifestyle, not a tape measure around my waist and a before and after poster with a brilliant yellow starburst beneath it flashing "Lose Weight Now! Ask me how!" I'm after a healthy glow, not a Versace pant-suit; the ability to do a hike that's in the "Difficult" section of the book, not the ability to look good in the goddamn hiking shorts. Places like Jenny Craig profit from women's poor body image, and worse, they further the perceptions that you have to be thin to be beautiful in a very mainstream way with their "My life was shit. I was a fat, pathetic loser! And then I lost weight and now everything is glorious and perfect! Thank you, Jenny Craig!" commercials.

Now, I can see my inbox filling as I type this with scads of women who've found glory between the 4 walls of their local Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig, and I'm not saying it doesn't work for some people. What I am saying, however, is that it is unbelievable to me that a doctor would recommend a "diet center" where you essentially remove the power of choice (and accountability) by eating your pre-packaged diet meals or counting your 'points' and calories instead of simply dishing out nutritional advice and relevant exercise tips.

I think the thing that stands out most in my mind is how terrifying it is that there really are no true experts in this life. Too many people, even (and sometimes especially) those we want to trust the most, are sleepwalking, taking spoonfed "facts" as gospel and questioning nothing. Wanting to be healthy doesn't necessarily equate with wanting to be instantaneously thin. It's a lifestyle change and putting on a microwaveable feedbag 3 times a day doesn't equate to changing your lifestyle unless you're planning to do it for the rest of your life. At some point, in order to be healthy, I'll have to learn to fend for myself - and any discouragement from that course of action by anyone in a position of 'authority', medical or otherwise, seems to me to be vivid symptom of a society who would rather cover it up with a band-aid than fix it.

Journal #4

2001-12-15T22:49:08Z

There's something truly sexy about a long, strong, naked leg tapering off into the thick, stocky fold of a scrunched black sock and hiking boot. Sitting here, staring down towards my much-beloved Steel-Toed companions, I'm pondering the line of muscle that slopes gently down my calf. Muscle. Well-formed, thick and strong. Muscle that moves as I move, rumbling beneath my fragile skin. Muscle that bears me up and brings me forward.

In the midst of my own battles with self-esteem and body image, I sometimes (ok, more than sometimes) forget to pay attention to the amazing things my body has done for me. I forget to look at myself and admire some of the beauty that is unique to my circumstance. My glorious calf muscles are a good example of that beauty.

In summertime when I pull out my shorts, people comment on them. The tone of surprise in their voice is sometimes hard for me to take. They cannot imagine that someone overweight could also be strong. It defies their stereotypes. I joke with them... saying "You try carrying me around for a day or two and see if you don't work up some muscle." But it's true. I am a strong woman. I am powerful. I suppose the weight has given me that to some degree. I certainly would have to do more than walk up a flight of stairs to have calf-muscles as well-defined as I do now were I thin.

It's not much to go on... but it's a start. It's something positive that's come of my weight. It's something besides my face that I can appreciate about myself physically. It's a part of my body I can love and take pride in.

A FatGirl and her Boots, and never the two shall part.

Journal #3

2001-12-15T22:48:32Z

I was asked last week what I thought I would wear when I lost weight. The truth is, I have no idea. I don't know what my personal sense of style is because my style has been dictated to me not by what works with my personality, but by what fits my body. If it fits me comfortably and doesn't look *too* much like something my grandmother wouldn't even wear, it's probably going home with me. It's a sad thought to not know yourself in that way. Style can tell so much about a person; what they wear, how they wear it... Hell, I can't even do the things to my hair that I'd love to do because I'd look like a punk in yuppie clothing.

There's also this weird trend at the "FatPeople Store" towards things that are skimpy, skin-tight and shiney. I've seen it coming for the past 2 years and it's finally arrived with gale-force glitter. This woman came out of the dressing room on Friday night and, I tell you truly, she looked like a goddamn disco-ball with legs. Round and covered in silver sequins from neck to kneecaps. I had to avert my eyes.

I'm wondering what this trend means... and who, besides myself, refuses to wear ridiculously sparkly clothing or leaopard print "stretch" pants, even if it means I'm stuck wearing my current pair of jeans until they wear out completely.

That being said...

I have new pants. This, in itself, isn't truly a revelation. However, I love these pants. I am absolutely, completely enamored with them. They're comfortable, good for walking / exercising and they flatter me. All at the same time! It pisses me off that this feeling is so rare and that, my friends, is the revelation.

I bought them at an online retailer of women's sports and fitness wear. That, too, is rare. I was amazed that they had anything for the "Plus Sizes", much less the wide selection and range of sizes they offered. (Lucy.Com - check it out.) Even stores that cater to fat people rarely, if ever, have 'sporty' clothing to offer. Occasionally these stores dish out a spandex jumpsuit or two, or perhaps a poorly-made gold lam? jogging suit, but these are always featured in the clearance section.

Is it such a common misconception that overweight people do nothing but eat fritos and watch made-for-TV movies that even our retailers buy into it? What happens when I want to go up to the mountains and scamper about in the snow? What are my options? It's very frustrating to be on the front-lines of this battle and not be able to adequately attire myself for it. A girl needs her armor, doesn't she?

Journal #2

2001-12-15T22:47:46Z

So, it's been a week now and I've gotten a great deal of feedback from the first entry. That's amazing since this journal isn't really featured anywhere except by a tiny little text link on the main page of this website. It shows me there's a need for this, and that makes me happy. It's sad to know there are other people out there struggling with this same issue, but it's good to be "out" and to know that we needn't suffer silently in shame.

Speaking of shame, part of what I've learned so far is that there truly is no real need for shame in regards to obesity. That right there is an epiphone, folks. Such a load off! (if you'll pardon my weighty cliche...) As I said in the first entry; Everyone has issues, ours are just visible. We could take to the bottle, or to violence to any other in a multitude of escapist possibilities. Instead, we turned to food. It's actually not a bad choice given some of the alternatives...

But what's funny, still speaking of shame, is that in the midst of all the positive response this column has received, there was one loud, brash and unnerving voice that sought to shame me for my attempts to come to resolve my weight issues. Spouting "facts" and "figures" about weight-loss grim enough to make my proverbial balls shrivel, this individual chided me for contributing to the negative stereotypes of fat people. How dare I not accept my body the way it is? How dare I fight "genetics" and not simply sit back on my dimpled ass and scream "LOVE ME, RUBINESQUE GODDESS THAT I AM!" at the top of my lungs for all the world to hear?

For those of you who didn't glean this from the original posting, let me explain one thing, loud and clear, and get this over with right now. This is not about weight... this is about Control. The weight is a symptom.

The fact that my body is not built to sustain the weight that I am tells me that genetics, while playing a role in the speed and ability of my body to gain/lose weight effectively - does not rule me completely. And while some women are happily fat and sexy, I am not one of those women, nor will I ever be. I do not wish to invalidate anyone's right to be happy with who they are. I find fat women sexy as hell. But there are things that I cannot do in this life simply because I lack the self-control to walk for 30 minutes a day or eat one less hamburger per week... THAT is the issue. Not the weight.

So FatGirls - MORE POWER TO YOU! And I'm not ruling out the possibility that I'll end up a proud member of your ranks... But if and when that day comes, I want it to be because I DECIDED to have it that way, and not because I simply wasn't strong enough to give myself an alternative.

this is a mirror of my articles at technodyke.com

2001-12-15T22:38:12Z

Journal #1
The clock strikes noon as I meander through the suddenly brisk air of the new winter. The sun is shining brightly through the trees as the breeze rustles the crisp, orange leaves. By all accounts, I should be doing nothing but (to coin a cliche) enjoying Nature's Display... instead, I am wrestling with myself about what to have for lunch.

It's the same thing every day... The angel with the carrot sticks on one shoulder, and the devil with a stick of beef jerky on the other. I wonder, sometimes, if anyone who's never experienced this particular form of self-punishment can truly understand the repercussions it has on nearly every single facet of existence. There's nothing worse than having your most shameful secret exposed, yet this is the reality of living as a fat person. At least, as a fat person who hasn't learned to accept herself.

Everyone has secrets... Everyone has "issues", but when you're overweight, your "issues" can't hide behind a smug exterior, a bottle of wine or a sense of humor. They're right out there in the open, clinging to your thighs and pulling at the seams of your jeans... And no matter how hard you try to conceal them, it's fruitless. You can eat nothing but salad, cottage cheese and celery in public, but your ass still won't fit well in an airplane seat. You can sneak quietly to the kitchen at midnight, unseen and unheard, and eat an entire pint of ice cream without being discovered... but the tell-tale signs will be there in a few days when your jacket won't zip.

Is eating too much a crime above beating your wife? Not at all... Yet a violent man can pass much more easily through our society than a woman with a penchant for cheese doodles. Someone can be a liar, a thief, a world-class prick... but you'd never know it unless you experienced them on a deeper level. Fat people don't have that luxury... Our exteriors are the first thing people see, and the first thing by which we are judged.

Far worse though, than the exterior judgements, stares or (and this is the worst) looks of pity that others wittingly or unwittingly bestow are the judgements, the endless barrage of insults and constant deprecation I pile upon myself. If the phrase "You are your own worst critic." has ever been applied in its truest form, it's been applied to a fat person. When, with every breath, your stomach rises against the confines of your jeans... and with every step, some part of your flesh jiggles... how could you not be fully aware of yourself and your circumstance? Imagine the stress when every social situation requires some sort of maneuvering, be it mental or physical, on your part to maintain a low profile for your weight problem... Will I fit comfortably in that booth? Is that lawn furniture made with overweight people in mind? Will I be able to cross my legs in that movie seat? Can I find a formal gown that won't make me look like I'm 65? Can I find a pair of shorts that won't ride up when I walk? Imagine the sheer exhaustion of having to make every decision in a way that's designed to minimize humiliation? When embarassment is only a loose seam or a wobbly chair away?

This journal is the first step in a journey. I hope to educate you on the challenges unique to those of us struggling with our weight, and I hope to glean from this process of educating *you* a deeper compassion and understanding of myself. I will be as candid as possible, and so this is anonymous. Perhaps at the end of this journey I will have learned to love myself through the shame. Perhaps I will be thin and at peace. Perhaps I will be fat and happy. Perhaps I will be somewhere in between. But a journey of self-discovery is never a bad thing.

- FatGirl