When I Write About My Fatness
I imagine that nobody cares.
It’s easier to tell myself that nobody is going to care to read yet another rant by moi about living in a world I am too big for. It’s easier to tell myself everyone is disinterested, because I know the more eyes that read it, the more likely I’m being judged harshly for my laziness, my stupidity, my inability to conform. The more people who read my thoughts about fatness, the more people will leave their unsolicited advice.
Both my phone and tablet can auto populate my story. I only need to Swype, “I lost more than 100,” and technology will take over the rest: I lost more than 100 pounds twice in my life and gained it back both times.
That’s the abridged version of my story.
If I go into further detail, or talk about my current weight right now, my humiliation runs high. Who wants to listen to the words of a 36 year old single mom who weighs close to 400 pounds?
My value in our culture is very low based on that single fact. People can’t take me seriously. Don’t think I have anything relevant to say about life or love. Don’t think I have anything valuable to contribute. Until I’ve lost 275 pounds.
Until then, I’m supposed to hide at home, sit down and shut up. Stop promoting my ill health. And stop being a burden on…
