It’s not my fault

It’s not my fault.

People seem to think that. That’s their first reaction. Actually, no, that’s their second reaction. Their first reaction tends to be disgust. Disgust and that thank-god-its-not-me feeling that’s somewhere between pity and selfish schadenfreude. But their second reaction’s always that it was somehow my fault. That I started out just like this and, in some conscious laziness and insolence, I turned into this.

Can I tell you a secret?

I don’t eat any more than other people.

Honestly. I eat just as much as everyone. Three meals a day. The occasional snacks. Sometimes I skip a meal. Sometimes I eat more. Sometimes I eat less. Sometimes I get hungry. Sometimes I don’t feel hungry.

That’s the other bit people don’t believe. No one believes that fat people can ever be full.

We have an appetite just like everyone else. And sometimes we lose our appetite just like everyone else.

In fact, I lose my appetite a lot more than normal people. I hate eating. I hate food. I hate having to eat.

When you’re the fat kid, eating’s like talking about orgies or blowing smoke into people’s faces. People see you do it and judge you. They assume that if you eat, it’s nothing to do with hunger. When fat kids eat, it’s to maintain their bulk. It’s to make sure that they remain fat. Fat kids don’t get the opportunity to enjoy food. Fat kids are expected to be on a diet.

If I eat a bar of chocolate, people will assume that I’m responsible for how I am. If a skinny kid eats a bar of chocolate, no one bats an eyelid.

If I dance, people look sickened.

If I run, I get out of breath, and people laugh.

If I read, people raise their eyebrows and remind me that sitting reading doesn’t burn calories.

Anything I do that I enjoy is tainted, is blackened by references to lazy, calories, exercise, waste, fat fat fat fat fat fat fat.

The thin kids don’t understand. They think that I don’t know. They think that I think I’m normal, and that they’re doing me a favour by letting me know that I’m fat. They mutter things, they murmur things, things like that’s a big sandwich and aren’t you watching your weight. They say things like does it ever bother you – being, you know, being…you know…the way you are? They think that by mentioning it, they might turn on the neon light in my head that flashes red against the darkness YOU’RE FAT, DIET. They think they’re saving me from myself.

They don’t understand. They don’t see.

Fat isn’t about what’s on your waistline. Fat isn’t about size 12, size 14, XXL, sizes for larger women, princess size, goddess size.

Fat isn’t about if you eat chocolate or celery, or about whether you watch sport on the TV or partake.

Fat’s about what’s up here. Fat’s about how you see yourself

Fat’s about how they can make you feel.

Fat’s about closing your eyes when you walk past a mirror, and looking up in the shower. Fat’s about the clothes you wear and the makeup you wear and the fuck-off attitude you wear to hide it.

I’m not a fat kid because I’m fat. I’m a fat kid because I don’t know what else to do.

And it isn’t my fault. Let me eat chocolate and dance, let me read books and run, and let me laugh, without being disgusted by my double chin.

Let me have friends, and let me have fun.

Size 0 is just as unhealthy as size 22. But no one believes that. Everyone likes the kid who’s size 0. She’s skeletal and mysterious and interesting. Everyone likes her. She’s always got a beautiful boyfriend.

There’s such a beautiful boy at school. He’s dating a girl with a flat stomach and twigs for arms.

Nobody loves a fat girl, but oh, how a fat girl can love.