Disclaimer: These are my thoughts based on my experiences. I in no way feel that I speak for all people who are or have been overweight. Everyone’s story is deeply complex and personal. My issues are mine alone; I speak only for myself. Additionally, I know that not everyone judges others based on their appearance; again, I am speaking about my personal experiences and my perceptions, thoughts, and emotions.
2020 was a huge year for pretty much everyone on the planet, though in vastly different ways for different people. There were many things that sucked about the year for me, but one thing I’m proud of is losing almost 90 pounds. I’m now smaller than I have been at any time since I was about 11 years old. But after buying new clothes, spending hours trying to recognize my own face in the mirror, and trying to understand that my body takes up much less space than it used to, I have realized a devastating truth: I’m afraid to be thin. And yes, I realize that this likely sounds ridiculous to a lot of people, but when you’ve been overweight almost your entire life, it is a terrifying unknown territory. I held my goal weight for four months without issue, but now I’m struggling. I’m trying to figure out exactly why, because I don’t want to go back, to lose any of the progress I’ve made. I’m not entirely sure why, as it is a tangled mess of psyche, but I think a big part of it is about hiding.
I’ve been hiding in plain sight most of my life, buried under a pile of extra flesh. When you are overweight, the majority of people will dismiss you on sight, simply because of your size. Yes, they judge you, but the judgment stops with your body. They see you and keep on going so quickly they don’t really even see you. They don’t bother judging anything else about you (as long as you have decent personal hygiene. I mean, if you obviously stink or are visibly dirty, they’ll judge the hell out of you, but otherwise it stops). As someone who has felt inadequate in pretty much every way for as long as I can remember, it felt safe to be overweight and just be judged for that. No one would get closer and realize how damaged or flawed I was in other ways. And I could judge them for judging me and (for the most part) dismiss them and their shallow opinions.
I felt a bit like the stereotypical teenager who goes totally goth, with the black clothes, combat boots, multiple facial piercings, visible tattoos, and pounds of spikes and chains, the kid who chooses to look intimidating in order to keep people at a distance. Folds and rolls and bulges of extra flesh accomplished the same thing for me. It felt juvenile, in a way, but being overweight kept me isolated, kept me safe.
But now I don’t have that protection. I thought I would feel better about myself once I started getting out and more people saw “the new me,” since the majority of my weight loss happened during lockdowns and the winter months, but the exact opposite has been true: the more I get out of the house and am around other people (friends and strangers both), the worse it is and the more uncomfortable I am. It’s part of my identity, being overweight; how I hold myself, how I interact with people, and how I try to be just funny enough and nice enough that people will want to have me around, but without attracting too much attention to myself. So who am I now, if all that was because of my size? And are people judging my hair, my clothes, my make-up, skin, shoes, purse, voice, what I say or don’t say? All the things I didn’t worry so much about before because I was invisible.
I want so badly to be thin and pretty (Especially adolescent me; she really had it worst of all. I owe her this. She was fat, freckled, with frizzy hair, pimply, eyeglasses, and with braces on her teeth, complete with a lisp-creating bite plate, rubber bands, and a bright green medieval torture device called head gear. I owe her. The universe owes her.) but thin and pretty isn’t invisible. I have worked so hard all my life to be as invisible as possible, to blend into the background wherever I was. But thin and pretty make you visible. I want so badly to wear beautiful, unique clothes and cool jewelry, but that makes you visible, too. Part of me wants to be noticed, to be admired, because I’ve never had that and always envied it. But being visible is threatening to me.
So the better I look, the more uncomfortable and scared I am. And when that happens, all I want to do is eat. Everything. Doesn’t matter if I’m hungry or even if it tastes good. I want to eat it. Because I want to hide. I want to be invisible because invisible feels safe. Visible is scary and judgy.
But I also want this body. I want to be pretty and healthy and set a good example for my daughter in the desperate hope that she won’t have to go through any of this. I want to walk into any clothing store and be able to wear just about anything. I have shopped at speciality plus-size stores for my entire adult life; I have no idea where to shop or what will look good now, but knowing that I can shop anywhere is huge. I have worked damn hard, and I don’t want to lose this.
So I am making the invisible visible, unmasking my pain. Because maybe if I name my fear, it will lose some of its power over me. Because maybe if I shout loud enough, people will see me, and I will realize that it isn’t so bad to be seen. Because maybe other people will tell me that it’s ok out there in the normal world, that I don’t need to be afraid. Because maybe I deserve to be happy and healthy.
And seen.
