***Consider yourself warned. This post contains major TMI***
It probably comes as no surprise that I am a fan of the Fat Acceptance movement. Parts of it anyway. The public shaming of the overweight is out of control. The whole country has this concern troll thing going on where they are “just worried about your health!” When in reality, they are just grossed out by us fatties. There is, of course, a real crisis happening but it revolves around our food sources, drugs and poverty, not overweight individuals. Two great quotes I heard this week:
“Shame is a tool of oppression, not change.” ~Lindy West
“You cannot hate someone for their own good.” ~Kate Harding
Until we address the overwhelming problems involved in what we eat, we cannot expect the obesity problem to resolve itself. We can’t embrace fake foods and corn subsidies and the lack of fresh food available to the poor and then turn around and shame each individual person regarding their food choices. We all created this problem.
So I love the Fat Acceptance movement. But. Also. I can’t accept my fat. Many of the FA activists are okay with this, they think it’s good if someone wants to lose some weight for their own health or comfort. There are also those who will rip you a new one the minute you mention the word “diet”. There are crazies in every movement I suppose. If you don’t want others to care about your fat body, why do you get to care about what I’m doing with mine? So I love the movement, I love the idea of loving your body no matter what. But I can’t do it. I’m not one of those healthy fat people. I eat crap, I drink a lot of alcohol, I don’t exercise and I’m at a very high risk of developing Type 2 diabetes. So…I accept your fat and if you love yourself I’m envious and proud of you, sincerely. Just how much I hate my own body has become crystal clear in these past few months.
Sometime around October of last year I started having some digestive problems. Namely, diarrhea. Every. Single. Day. I don’t have stomach cramps, just a severe urgency. After I lost two pairs of underwear to sneezes I consulted Dr. Google. In January I started feeling nauseous and bloated almost all the time but especially after eating. I’d bet my last bottle of wine that I have IBS.
Around this same time, my depression rather suddenly lifted. My anxiety is out of control but I’m just SO RELIEVED to be out from under the Crushing Blue. This meant I was also less prone to overeating. My daily intake from that point has been coffee, water, soda and gatorade with the occasional small meal thrown in. In January I finally stepped on a scale, expecting to be the same or heavier. Instead I was down by nearly 15 pounds. Which made sense because I had gone down a pant size (not the quickest fish in the pond, I know). Since then I’ve lost another 4 pounds.
So I’ve put off seeing my doctor because I hate my body enough that I would prefer to feel sick and get the weight off than to solve the problem. I’m seeing my doctor today for what seems to be nerve pain and I will be bringing this up, however, I fully expect to only pretend to follow his advice.
So I know this is somewhat fucked up but how fucked up is it? Because, while I recognize the bit of crazy involved, I feel like there’s logic involved as well. I mean, look what people put themselves through on The Biggest Loser or by having weight-loss surgery. Not healthy, right? But still acceptable as a means of weight loss.