I look like I’ve been plumping up in preparation for hibernation. A narrator with a lovely accent will voice-over me sitting here saying something along the lines of “this female human has literally stuffed herself stupid with everything in sight for weeks and has developed a lovely layer of fat. Look at those rolls! She’s increased her body mass by nearly 30%! It’s an amazing transformation! She’ll survive the winter slumber with fantastic body condition because of her planning and determination to eat every damn thing.”
I will never be skinny. Ever. I’ll never know what it’s like to put clothes on and not obsess about the fabric clinging across my gut or the cellulite showing through the thinner fabric of dress pants. While I can and do, look at other people and am not fazed by less than svelte forms (I think Ashley Graham is gorgeous and her body is perfect and if you don’t like her cellulite you’re stupid), I can’t look at myself with anything but hatred and loathing. It’s a thing. I know it’s not healthy or productive or whatever, but it’s honest. I absolutely hate my body. I hate myself. I am a fat, pale wad of hatred and neurosis.
I’ve spent most of my life in various forms of dieting but the weight comes off of me so slowly it might as well be a sloth in quicksand. Low-fat diets, low-calorie diets, low-fat AND low-calorie diets, exercise, combinations of types of exercise and types of diets and don’t eat after 7 and fast and only eat after 7….you name it I’ve tried it. I’m still fat. I could give you lectures on nutrition and still…I’m fat. I could tell you a surprising amount of information about exercise for one so ridiculously unathletic but still…I’m fat. And while I love that people are accepting themselves when they don’t have the body shape you’re supposed to have (supermodel thin yet giant boobs and perfect, hairless skin…do you feel me?) I can’t. I am too old and set in my ways I guess, but I’ve never been able to view myself as anything other than grotesque. I’m the palest Italian I know, I’m blessed with super dark body hair that makes me so self-conscious I could throw up thinking about it too much yet an inability to do much about it as I also have the MOST sensitive skin on the planet and react to shaving, waxing, bleaching, lasers, etc., as if I’ve had acid poured on me. I’m obsessed with my arms. I stare at all of you people with no hair on your arms. Or blonde, barely noticeable hair on your arms. You are all so lucky. You jerks. I could knit a sweater with my arm hair alone. A very dark, very noticeable sweater. So, in case you are not keeping up, I’m fat, pale, fuzzy, and there’s more. I have horrible skin and allergies and I’m getting tons of gray hair that is, again, extremely noticeable in extremely dark hair.
So I’m not living my best life.
I decided a little over a year ago to try the keto gig. There’s a ton of debate about the health benefits vs risks, but as someone who just does not lose weight with conventional diets (and I’m pretty sure I’m rocking some PCOS)…I thought, whatever. I don’t have to do the super high-fat stuff. I don’t have to eat bacon for every meal. I can eat healthy fats like avocados (my love for those fat green little morsels of deliciousness is out of control…I’d slap a baby to get an avocado) and cutting out most sugar and starch doesn’t seem like it would have a negative impact on nutritional intake as long as I’m smart…blah blah blah.
I lost weight. But I have had all sorts of stupid health junk going on and sometimes I just don’t have the energy to think about it. And sometimes I just want a damn donut. And for the past couple months work has been insane and life has been insane and I just didn’t care. I am so used to hating myself it didn’t seem like it was something I needed to focus on. And even though I feel better when I stop eating sugar, the unhealthy relationship I have with food says “go sit outside Walmart and eat a huge bag of Reece’s by yourself before going home because hiding your binge eating is super healthy and okay”.
Today I put on jeans that were pretty loose a month ago. They hurt my feelings. They were so tight I thought I’d picked up the wrong pair. Nope. I just fattened up like a grain fed steer. My blubber is doing well. It oozes. I’m thinking about naming it.
I thought about sitting down and crying but my rosacea/eczema/allergies are all acting up at the same effing time and I don’t have any redness to give to a weeping session. Plus I get all snotty. Plus, it’s my fault. I knew I was out of control. I just didn’t care enough to stop.
I’m getting back on the sugar-less wagon this week. I’m going to just feel strange about it and prioritize my health. And I’ll still hate myself. Even if I lose enough weight to feel okay about my body (let’s be really honest here, I’ll never be cool with my body but I’m hopeful I can hate it less) I’m still going to have a bright red face and a pale, fuzzy body and skin that’s trying to divorce me and weird features (why are my eyes so very small…no one else in my family has little tiny beady eyes…and where the hell are my cheekbones?). I will still find plenty of details that disgust me. I’ll still have an unhealthy relationship with food. But the only thing I know to do is to keep trying. And I’m hoping that trying will calm the loathing. And I’m also hoping that knowing I’ll screw up will keep it from being impossible.
If it doesn’t work I’m hoping I’ll morph into an actual bear and just be considered adorable and deadly when fat. Plus I’ll get to sleep all winter. Win-win.
PS. I couldn’t stomach (pun intended) taking a picture of my fat gut and stock photos are a pain to come by and I don’t want to be sued because I don’t have any money anyway so the featured image is me making a stupid face. It does show off my very squat, fat nose and double chin highlighted in green though. So…it’s kind of equivalent to a gut pic. You’re welcome.