Well, not the one-cookie-away-from-my-own-gravitational-field kind but take a look at Rubens’ paintings. See it? The additional rolls of fat, curves, hints of the second chin, cellulite and all that jazz? That’s me. I’m the fat Venus with meaty arms and rolls on my back.
So the other day I’m on Pinterest scrolling through pics upon pics of skinny, perfect women in flowy gowns and it hits me. I’m fat. People give me their seats on the bus because I look pregnant — honestly, you have no idea how awkward it is, oh, no, sir, please, sit, I don’t have a baby in my belly, I’m just bloated. Usually I just sit my Rubens-ish ass down and thank the well-meaning person whojust ruined my morning, except they don’t ruin it anymore because I got used to it.
Or maybe I just made my peace with it. It’s been four years since I was given the diagnosis and when you hear that you’ll have to live with an incurable disease for the rest of your life (and the perspective is terrifying when you’re in your twenties), a disease that will make you depressed and tired and fat and will give you dozens of other sucky things to go through, you just make your fucking peace with some aspects of it. Hashimoto’s thyroiditis.
What a bitch. Terrible user experience, if you ask me.
I don’t want to be skinny, that’s not the goal. I’ll never look like the pretty skinny girls of Instagram and Pinterest, or whatever site young people use these days. But there are days when I just want to curl under my fluffy blue blanket and cry because I’ve looked in the mirror or someone on the bus muttered something about my weight and I’ve heard it. Sometimes I’d love to wear a burlap sack, I kid you not, and it wouldn’t change how I look. Sometimes I want to go dancing, swimming, running, and I stop myself because of my anxiety and insecurity, my unwillingness to deal with how cruel people can be. I’ve had enough of walking around my city with my eyes on my feet because I don’t want people to notice me. What in itself is rather ridiculous — I’m pretty hard to miss.
I want to stop.
So this is not a story about reaching acceptance. It’s more about trying to get the control back, about tiny little things that make this better and about anger. Because I’m an angry fat woman who eats well, exercises and still is fat. That’s Hashi for you.
And just a quick note — I’m not from an English-speaking country and English is actually my third language. If you’d like to give me a hand and point out my mistakes from time to time, I’ll be eternally grateful.