My body is fat. I’ve gotten fatter and fatter over the course of that past three years. I am not saying “fat” as a way to depreciate myself, or cut myself down. I am using “fat” as a descriptive. Because that’s what I am. I haven’t ballooned up to this size since pregnancies. I feel like I am waddling around. My fat is what? What do I see it as? A physical manifestation of the layers and layers of anxiety and depression I have held on to for years. Me forcing food in my face to ignore the taste of rejection in my mouth. The time I didn’t get to myself transformed into a resentment, I carried around as pounds of fat.
People say we have unrealistic expectations of what women should look like or that real women have curves as some inward consolation. But the truth is, I feel like shit. I don’t feel good about myself and I haven’t for a long time and that loving myself has never been a priority on my list because I was waiting on someone else to do it for me and I still am.
And hopefully, maybe just admitting that will be some sort of catalyst.