You are so fat!
I cannot remember the name of the comedienne, but a VERY funny woman from Texas I remember hearing many years ago commented on how Texan women could say the rudest things while sounding as though they were delightfully enthusiastic. She demonstrated by placing her hand on her hip and smiling as she exclaimed, in her widest drawl, as though addressing someone she found fascinating, "You are SO fay-at!"
I've grown up with the "you are so fat" refrain in my head, and not in the funny, unconsciously rude manner this performer parodied. No, in my life it was my mother's semi-constant whine: "Oh, HONEY," she'd say in exasperation and something between disgust and frustration, "you are so FAT." I can remember her saying this to me when I was, oh, 9 years old—maybe 8. "Look at you! You're so FAT." The emphasis would always be on that contemptible word, fat, as though it represented the sum total of all that could be wrong with life.
I heard it so often throughout my days I can't shake it, even though my mother has been gone for 15 years. A few years ago, I was finally able to lose 80 pounds, and while I know that I weigh far less than I've ever weighed in my adult life (in fact, I've never been this weight, not since I was about 12), I can feel the dark evil of a state of FAT the moment a few pounds creeps up. It can be the source of a terrible self-loathing that keeps me from looking in mirrors, that has me gauging the rolls on my midsection by touch and deciphering how much I weigh without getting on a scale (because I wouldn't be able to handle what I saw) but by pulling on different pairs of jeans that tell me where I fall in my fluctuating weight spectrum. It can have me sobbing when feeling exercise clothes a bit too tight or heading for a nap to escape the deep depression of worthlessness.
The sad-but-true fact is that even though I wear a size 4, and struggle without end to prevent myself from sliding into a size 6, I feel FAT. I know cognitively this is ridiculous, foolish, downright clinically worrisome, but I can feel like an enormous cow, like I used to at any point in my life where my mother's words would rise up and anoint me a failure because even though I could have lasting friendships and a love for learning, even though I might excel at public speaking and have a gloriously satisfying marriage, I was still . . . so . . . FAT. Today, I can stand in front of a mirror and see that I look pretty good . . . well, I look kind of good, but when I walk away, that internal image, forged in the misfit-y inadequacies and self-consciousness of childhood, projects itself brightly and I feel huge, as big as when I weighed greater than 200 pounds. I turn sideways down aisles and try on clothes that I am certain are way too small until I pull them over my head and look in the mirror with astonishment at their perfect fit. I see the reflection and say with surprise and relief, "Oh! You look okay after all!"
It's a real curse, one passed on to me by a mother obsessed with weight. I don't know why, precisely; she was rail thin when she was young and hated it, was mocked by schoolmates. In the years prior to her death, she grew quite large herself due to medications and a completely undisciplined diet. But she could never comment on my looks with pure, unfeigned appreciation. She'd always add, "If only you weren't so FAT." She couldn't believe my husband wanted to marry me. She couldn't understand why people liked me so much. "Really? The audience thought you were good? Did anyone comment on your weight?"
She didn't mean to do it. It was some sort of fear she had about how things would go for me if I had certain obstacles. What's interesting is that when I look back at photos of myself at 8, 10, 14 years old—I looked just fine. I don't see FAT there at all; just a girl. Who was she comparing me to?
I'd love to be free of it. I don't know how to rid myself of it. I've totally forgiven my mom for what I know was something she thought she was doing out of love, but I can't begin to tell you how it overwhelms me with grief during times when I need all the internal resources I can muster. Should she have talked to me about my weight? Of course! But to link my worth and my talents to the size on the label has hobbled me. When I'm battling with my reluctant body and the pounds are creeping up, I practically need medication to prevent a breakdown. Honestly, sometimes it wears me out. One thing I know for sure is that parents can pass on messages that will lodge in an interior crawlspace in the brain and never be flushed out. Consider what you're communicating in your words and in what you're modeling.
I've grown up with the "you are so fat" refrain in my head, and not in the funny, unconsciously rude manner this performer parodied. No, in my life it was my mother's semi-constant whine: "Oh, HONEY," she'd say in exasperation and something between disgust and frustration, "you are so FAT." I can remember her saying this to me when I was, oh, 9 years old—maybe 8. "Look at you! You're so FAT." The emphasis would always be on that contemptible word, fat, as though it represented the sum total of all that could be wrong with life.
I heard it so often throughout my days I can't shake it, even though my mother has been gone for 15 years. A few years ago, I was finally able to lose 80 pounds, and while I know that I weigh far less than I've ever weighed in my adult life (in fact, I've never been this weight, not since I was about 12), I can feel the dark evil of a state of FAT the moment a few pounds creeps up. It can be the source of a terrible self-loathing that keeps me from looking in mirrors, that has me gauging the rolls on my midsection by touch and deciphering how much I weigh without getting on a scale (because I wouldn't be able to handle what I saw) but by pulling on different pairs of jeans that tell me where I fall in my fluctuating weight spectrum. It can have me sobbing when feeling exercise clothes a bit too tight or heading for a nap to escape the deep depression of worthlessness.
The sad-but-true fact is that even though I wear a size 4, and struggle without end to prevent myself from sliding into a size 6, I feel FAT. I know cognitively this is ridiculous, foolish, downright clinically worrisome, but I can feel like an enormous cow, like I used to at any point in my life where my mother's words would rise up and anoint me a failure because even though I could have lasting friendships and a love for learning, even though I might excel at public speaking and have a gloriously satisfying marriage, I was still . . . so . . . FAT. Today, I can stand in front of a mirror and see that I look pretty good . . . well, I look kind of good, but when I walk away, that internal image, forged in the misfit-y inadequacies and self-consciousness of childhood, projects itself brightly and I feel huge, as big as when I weighed greater than 200 pounds. I turn sideways down aisles and try on clothes that I am certain are way too small until I pull them over my head and look in the mirror with astonishment at their perfect fit. I see the reflection and say with surprise and relief, "Oh! You look okay after all!"
It's a real curse, one passed on to me by a mother obsessed with weight. I don't know why, precisely; she was rail thin when she was young and hated it, was mocked by schoolmates. In the years prior to her death, she grew quite large herself due to medications and a completely undisciplined diet. But she could never comment on my looks with pure, unfeigned appreciation. She'd always add, "If only you weren't so FAT." She couldn't believe my husband wanted to marry me. She couldn't understand why people liked me so much. "Really? The audience thought you were good? Did anyone comment on your weight?"
She didn't mean to do it. It was some sort of fear she had about how things would go for me if I had certain obstacles. What's interesting is that when I look back at photos of myself at 8, 10, 14 years old—I looked just fine. I don't see FAT there at all; just a girl. Who was she comparing me to?
I'd love to be free of it. I don't know how to rid myself of it. I've totally forgiven my mom for what I know was something she thought she was doing out of love, but I can't begin to tell you how it overwhelms me with grief during times when I need all the internal resources I can muster. Should she have talked to me about my weight? Of course! But to link my worth and my talents to the size on the label has hobbled me. When I'm battling with my reluctant body and the pounds are creeping up, I practically need medication to prevent a breakdown. Honestly, sometimes it wears me out. One thing I know for sure is that parents can pass on messages that will lodge in an interior crawlspace in the brain and never be flushed out. Consider what you're communicating in your words and in what you're modeling.
Sue, this posting kind of hits home. The only difference is that I am my own worst enemy. I haven't been able to lose the weight yet and am starting to think I never will. I'd be interested to know how you did it.
Reply to this
Weight Watchers worked for me, finally--but not before decades of discouragement. I was on WW when I was a teenager, when one had to weigh every morsel and severely restrict food choices. I lost little-to-no weight and my mom always accused me of cheating. It was just not the best weight loss science--we didn't know enough at the time. But it's more than just the diet. I turned a corner somewhere. I was desperate and ready to commit. I will write you privately.
Reply to this