“Don’t go on a diet!” you say, and those words are music to my ears. But if I don’t diet, how will I love myself? You’ve heard me talk about it–the voice, the self-loathing that comes with being fat. (To others I say “chubby”.) It tells me I am ugly, not worthy of love or affection. I hate myself when I am fat, as I have been so much of my life.
I remember getting on the school bus and telling Judy D’ellorso that I had lost weight. “10 pounds!” I’d say, having no idea what I was talking about. I think I was in fourth grade. I remember drinking Tab when I was 16 years old. I don’t think I’ve had a regular soda since then. My sentient life has been one of diets. Up, down. Up, down. I can tell you the most I’ve weighed and the least I’ve weighed; though I won’t. The sizes I’ve worn span the spectrum, too. I won’t talk about those either. The most I lost at any one time was 40 pounds. (Thank you, Marty Rubenstein!) One summer I ate nothing but salad and hard-boiled eggs. Needless to say, I looked terrific. I was not yet 21 years old. Eating has been like that ever since. Up, down. Up, down.
I simply want to stop. I hate giving this much brain space to what I eat, when I eat, how I eat, and who is watching. I want, simply, to be healthy and loved. By me.