In defense of fat sadness.
I am bewildered and crumpled. A stranger has called me a pig, told me that the thought of me makes her sick. I am shaken, and it shows. I seek out a friend, tell him what she’s said.
I hope you hate me, the stranger said. As long as you are obese, you have no right to feel good about yourself. You should literally be ashamed of yourself.
“Let it go,” my friend replies with a cutting sigh. He hardly looks at me.
“It hurts,” I prompt.
“It shouldn’t. Who cares what a stranger thinks? Just let it go. What else can you do?” It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Now, on top of that hurt, this shame.
In that moment, the earth cracks open between us, separating us with miles of rocky terrain. As far as he knows, this is the first time this has happened. He doesn’t know that moments like these are regular occurrences. He doesn’t see the sidelong glances on the bus, the whispers in the shopping mall, the judgment at the grocery store. He doesn’t hear peers saying if I gain another pound, I’ll kill myself. He doesn’t feel the accumulation of these moments, each one a brushstroke, painting a thick and vivid target on my back.
He’s new here. He doesn’t know that he’s talking to a master of letting it go.
