On “tough love” and your fat friend’s health.
I was in fourth grade, sitting in a doctor’s office, the first time my face flushed with shame. I was, I had just learned, overweight.
“It’s probably from eating all that pizza and ice cream. It tastes good, doesn’t it? But it makes your body big and fat.”
I was confused. Dinners at home were usually fish or chicken, rice, and steamed vegetables; breakfasts were cottage cheese and cantaloupe. After all, I was the child of a 1980’s Weight Watchers mother.
“Just imagine that your body is made out of clay. If you can just stay the same weight, as you grow, you’ll stretch out. And once you grow up, you’ll be thin and beautiful. Won’t that be great?”
I felt my face sear with shame. My skin was neon, hot and bright, noisy and garish. I had learned so much in that one moment: You’re eating too much junk food. You’re not beautiful. You’re indulging too much. Your body is wrong. You must have done it.
Something was wrong with my body. I’d failed a test I didn’t even know I’d taken.
The coming years became an exercise in weathering the storm of conversations like these. Well-meaning, otherwise supportive people eagerly pointed out my perceived failings at every turn. Even when I wasn’t in the doctor’s office, everyone seemed to have recommendations…
