I Am The Fat Girl

When I go banana balls crazy, I go all out.

I mean, why lose it only partially? If you're going to lose it...GET THAT NONSENSE LOST.

But in order to tell you about my descent into full-on basket case, I’m going to need to rewind a few years. 18 years, to be exact.

Age 12 on my way to class

Considering my status as the eldest child of two middle-born parents, it wasn’t really a surprise that I was a major learning curve for our family. 
Throw in my strong-willed temperament and a dangerous level of curiosity, and a sincere sympathy should be extended to my parents.




But when I had a size DD chest by age 12, NONE of us knew how to handle all that…business. So when the neighborhood girls laughed at my bizarre form of uni-boob (THANK YOU stupid-ass sports bra), I was humiliated and started shoving socks down the center of my chest to force the girls apart.

Shortly after my 13^th birthday, I was in my grandmother’s living room when she took me aside. What followed was a lecture on how to attract a mate. She told me that because of my unattractive body weight, the likelihood of a good man choosing me was nil. So she was taking it upon herself to teach me how to use my sexuality instead. If a man wouldn’t find me beautiful, he should find me sexually appealing.

The only way a man would want me is if I was good in bed.

Age 13 at my brother's birthday

At the time I brushed off the lesson. I had seen my Disney movies, I had heard my fairy tales, I had listened as my parents told me I was beautiful and worthwhile. I knew better than to believe I would ever be repeatedly tossed aside because I wasn’t enough for someone...right? Right?!

Age 16

At 14 I stood at Civil War dances and smilingly waited to be asked to dance. My father and his peers frequently took pity on me so I didn't spend the entirety of the dance on the sidelines. Sadly, my father wasn't always there to rescue me.

At 15, I discovered that if I wanted a boy to like me, I had to be sensuous. So I became an excellent dancer, and mastered the art of public school dances. This simply resulted in boys trying to kiss me in back halls (see here).

At 16, every boy I managed to have a crush on that year was besotted with my beautiful and thin best friend (luckily, she was awesome...or that would have sucked so much more).

At 17 I got called a cow at the grocery store.

18 and in a wedding

At 18, a vehicle full of boys drove by barking and informing me that my work clothes weren’t sexy enough for public consumption. In the same year I was also told that it wasn’t in the cards for me to attract someone with a similar level of intelligence and upbringing, because I looked too much like trailer trash.

19 found me in love with a foreign boy, who accidentally called me by the name of his dream woman…a beautiful and petite blonde he had adored.

19 and no...this is not the boy.

At 21 I cared for a boy who cared for me. He spent so much time with me that our friends and family assumed that we were a couple. But only I knew that while he spilled his heart and his secrets to me...he fully believed he was destined for the petite blonde that led worship at our church. I was almost what he wanted, but not quite. His family, thinking that he actually wanted me, decided to brand me a harlot in an effort to sway his opinion (they must not have communicated with him often).

21 and taking my first selfie

So I proved them right and dated a boy whose sole purpose was to collect the trophies of conquested virgins. He told me I was pretty, and I soaked it up like I was the desert in a rainstorm. 

Age 22 and literally painting myself.

At 22 a dear friend looked piteously at me and told me to not reach so high, because I would only be able to attract the level of beauty that I had to offer. She was pointing out that my lack of hair styling, makeup, and expensive clothes would seal my fate. My heart fell, because I knew full well that my priorities in life would never be painting and altering myself. 

23 and getting married

At age 23 I decided that I had it all wrong. Fairy tales were for chumps. So I chose my closest male friend and I married him, deciding that I could choose to love the hell out of him, because love is a choice. I did all the things I was told to do, including becoming constantly sexual and getting downright good at it as well.  Only, hilariously, I wasn’t enough for him either. Sadly, I discovered this while 3 months pregnant with his child.

So for years I hid in my basement and took care of my baby girl. Every time I had the urge to look pretty and venture out into the world, it wasn’t long before I got chased right back into my cave…reminded of my own worthlessness. 

 

Sure, people tried to say nice things. I was very pretty…for a fat girl. I carried myself well…for a fat girl. I had lots of confidence…for a fat girl. I was an amazing dancer…for a fat girl. All my skinny friends let me know that if they HAD to be fat, they wished they looked like me.

But I knew what they meant. Being fat was the WORST POSSIBLE FATE to befall a person. "And really," they would ask, " why haven't you just worked hard enough and lost the weight?" 

I would tell them how badly I wanted someone to choose me as I was. 

I would talk to them about how many times I DID work hard, and how little difference all that work made.

I would tell them how I was never willing to sacrifice my personal relationships and my art in the pursuit of physical perfection.

But they would simply look at me with their noses slightly out of joint and rebuke me for using excuses when I should "be out there doing something about my body".

And so I was at war with myself. I wanted to work to be pretty, but somewhere in the back of my head I felt the injustice of it all. I shouldn't have to "work" to be pretty. I should be pretty based on the fact that I am a good woman who loves and learns and grows and delights.



But it didn't seem to matter to anyone else. If I didn't do my makeup, my hair, wear nice clothes, and behave in the most charming way possible, people didn't give me the time of day. 

Except my family. I give them a wild card for being awesome.

Part of me has always been completely confused that people didn't think I was beautiful. And the other part of me likes to beat people to the punch. I have to let them know that I KNOW I'm not beautiful...so they won't constantly feel the need to "let me down easy". 

Because the humiliation of not being pretty enough is massive. Because the fear of not being worthwhile is massive.

But this past year did it.

I got pissed as hell.

First came turning 30. Then the wrinkles on my face. Then the slight thinning of my glorious hair. A boy I loved couldn't see me as enough. A job I was qualified for said I was too fat. I re-pierced my nose in an attempt to look pretty, and it got unceremoniously ripped out by my lovely and rambunctious daughter. I started trying to save money to buy pretty clothes. I started attempting makeup and teeth-whitening. I waxed...a LOT. 

But the turning point? I looked at my beautiful, healthy, active, organically fed little girl and panicked.

She looked ever-so-slightly overweight. 

"Am I feeding her too much? Do I need to get her into more sports?!" I shouted in my head as I raced her to the doctor to make sure I hadn't ruined my daughter's chance for happiness. I nearly had to use a paper bag...because I was terrified that my 4-year-old would end up just like me.

The doctor looked at me and told me she was as healthy as a horse. Later that night, my daughter looked at me and told me how she wanted to look as cozy as I did when she grew up. "I want to have a big, soft tummy like you...not like the other mom's tummies."
All I could do was cringe.

And last night was when everything collided. I was near-desperate for some kind of affirmation about my worth from somebody... anybody. But instead of affirmation, I was buried in a landslide of rejection. And I started to cry, throw things, go outside and scream... essentially losing all of my bananas temporarily.

It wasn't the rejection that flipped the switch, it's what I did with it.

I got down-right self-abusive. 
I started re-reading every unloving thing that had ever been written about me. I looked up perfect-bodied women and tried to picture myself like them...because THEN someone might love me. I looked up women fatter than I, just to see if anyone loved them. I googled men who hate fat women just to read the spiteful and horrid things they have to say about us. Each new minute found me sinking deeper into a pit of self-loathing and anger at the injustice. 

But at some point in the wee hours of the morning, my daughter nuzzled into my side and flopped an arm over my face. I turned to look at her while she slept, tears still choking me up, and realized that if I continued to do this to myself...she would learn from me. 

She would learn this from me.

And the very thought of her doing to her heart what I was doing to my own was devastating.

But no parent can teach what they don't know.

I was going to have to learn how to love and value myself so that I could teach my daughter how to do the same. I was going to have to see my own value even if it meant standing against the whole world and proclaiming my own beauty and worth in the face of prejudice and fear and anger and hatred.

Easier said than done.

Because I have to see myself as beautiful and worthwhile at the worst of times. 

When I'm wearing a sheet and have greasy hair because I've been creating for days and completely forgotten to shower or do laundry.

When my hair is dreadlocked and the bags under my eyes look like death itself.

When people I desperately want to affirm me look at me and tell me all that I am failing to be.

When I've eaten nothing but hohos and bean sprouts for days because I feel like a lazy pile of writer's block.

When yet another person tells me that I just haven't dieted the RIGHT way, or I would be skinny by now.

Or when boys who want to use my time and heart talk about the beauty of other women as opposed to my own lack thereof.

Or when men won't give me the time of day because I don't look worth it.

I am smart. I am sexy. I am adventurous and adapt well to change. I thrive with positive input. I can solve almost any problem. I excel at anything I put my effort into. I can dance. I'm honest to a fault. I can clean, cook, and budget like a boss. I would give a stranger all I have if he or she needed it. I look at the world like an awestruck child, full of wonder and delight.

And though I am still full of flaws, I don't want them to be the legacy I leave behind.

Love your neighbor as yourself, says the Bible.

How can we love our neighbor, if we don't know how to love ourselves? How can I teach my daughter to understand her own worth, if I cannot grasp my own?