Originally Published February 2nd 2018
In a way I like being fat. I like having a low self image and only a few friends. It’s easier that way. Let’s talk about the weight issue. It’s a relatable enough issue. Being overweight means less men hit on me. This means less unwanted attention. As much as you may think it makes a person stand out, it has been my experience that it pushes me to the sidelines. After all, you want the skinny, lithe player out in the spotlight and the chubby donut-muncher on the sideline in any game- including the game of life. Yeah, maybe people notice when I walk in a room or when my hips bump into a chair trying to squeeze through the desks to my seat in class, but otherwise people prefer to avoid me. And I like it that way.
Sometimes, I will get a wave of confidence. I don’t know where it comes from and at this moment it seems completely unwarranted, but when it has happened I sometimes get the urge to dress well and cannot help exude that unrighteous confidence. After a while, it wears off though and I’m left feeling more self conscious than anything. Then my brain flips and beings to wonder how it ever occurred to me that I could pull off an outfit like the one I got on my miserable body. In between this brewing storm, I catch the not-so-subtle glances of men and a few women. I tell myself I’m being paranoid. After all, who would check me out? I’m an abomination. It doesn’t matter what kind of bow you put on a trash bag; it’s still a bag of trash.
Being fat is safe. Less people bother me or bother with me. I don’t worry about getting raped. Why rape me when a giant pillow would prove the same? I don’t have boyfriend or crush problems because neither exist for me. I won’t ever have the urge to have a one night stand with anyone because it takes unrelenting coaxing to wear anything more revealing than a tank top. The days I wear tanks I feel like a whore. If I wear shorts or a skirt above the knee out in public without tights I feel like a whore. I’m not used to showing my body. I don’t want to get rejected. One of my theories is that I wasn’t bullied enough as a child. I wasn’t bullied so I am afraid of it happening. Like I mentioned in a previous post, I’m afraid of the unknown.
It’s nice to be fat because that way, when things go wrong it makes sense. “Oh, of course nothing happened when I stayed the night with that guy once. I’m fat. It didn’t ever cross his mind to lay even a foot on my flabby flesh.” These are the things I think about myself. And that’s just as well. Better this than the alternative. “Oh, of course your friends don’t like going out with you. You’re a shame to look at. It’s better you stay inside. Hidden.”
I know this isn’t healthy. But I won’t say I don’t like it. It’s familiar. It’s a pain I know how to deal with. Or at least one I feel like I know how to deal with even though a throbbing repetitive pain is still pain. I could change, but I’m not convinced. I enjoy the anonymity. I enjoy the solitude. Or, I think I do from the Stockholm syndrome. Being attractive would bring about a whole new set of troubles I am not prepared for. Though I yearn to be skinny. It makes little sense, I know, but I tell myself that if I were skinny most of my problems would go away. Suddenly I’d have confidence with myself. I’d thus be more social and outgoing. I’d be happier. I’d like myself. But I don’t. And a change, even if major, to my hardware would not change my software. I’ve been wired for self-loathing since I can remember. Time to get back to it.