I feel like I’m wearing fifty pounds of sausage hanging off the front of me. I hate it. Its not new or anything. About three years ago, I started hating my body again. I don’t know what triggered it for sure but two things happened around that time. First, I found myself on a new cocktail of psychiatric medications. Second, I moved back in with my parents and began spending time with my family of origin after several years of estrangement.
I accuse them of upholding society’s impossible ideals about weight. They insist it’s the health issues that are important. When you lose the weight, annual bloodwork seems to clear up miraculously. No more high cholesterol. When we see each other we say, “Have you lost weight? You look fantastic!”
I’ve been shopping at Lane Bryant, the plus size women’s clothing store, since high school. I’ve always been big boned. The models back then were thin. The models now come in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors. I sit and stare at them and wonder, “Is it okay for me to be fat? What am I fighting and why?”