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Strong Fat

Thursday, August 08, 2013

I'm an eater.

I work hard and I eat hard.

I bike six miles to work every day. Sometimes, if I can pull over for thirty minutes, I'll pop into my basement gym and do weight lifting. When I go to see my therapist that is a 15 mile round-trip, sometimes punctuated by a little crying.

Today I ate an entire wedge of brie cheese. I just keep putting it into my mouth, waiting for something to shout, "Hey stop!" But nothing happened. Sometimes when I'm eating I feel like I'm just dropping stones down a well to hear how deep it is. It's like a test.

{Can I eat this whole cake?}

Cuss yes, I can.

There's something weirdly machismo about my dieting strategy. I'm fiercely proud of being a beer drinking, scotch sipping, black coffee, full-fat-butter, "Extra caramel?" --"Yes please!" kind of woman. I want to intimidate people with my lifestyle. That is probably why lifting barbells appeals to me.

But today I weighed myself. I know I shouldn't, I know that my weight is arbitrary and can fluctuate by seven or more pounds. I know that my body is always changing (I suddenly have a round and firm bottom thanks to deep squats) but I just wanted to see.

I'm thirty pounds overweight. And this isn't all muscle. I spent today wearing a skirt that wouldn't zip. My thighs are chafing with a new kind of zeal (luckily I heard about bandalettes and now I'm going to buy myself two pairs). I've got a lot of fat around my middle, the dangerous kind of fat.

I can't keep this up. I'm stress-eating and compulsively stuffing myself to the brink. My body will eventually turn on me, send me into a crippling twenty-four hours of nausea and vomiting from the stress I'm putting on my gut. If I were to suddenly stop biking I would inflate instantly. In order to maintain my weight I have to shove an extra 800 calories down my maw daily. In order to gain weight, which I have, I must be doubling those numbers.

Part of me is scared. So much of my identity is with fatness. I am proud of being "big". When I was 165lbs I made jokes and talked about my shame and coming to love my big chubby body, and people gave me side eyes. Because I wasn't one of them anymore. I wasn't fat or chunky. I wasn't skinny either, but I'd lost my identity with that group.

I want to eat healthy. I want to massage a kale salad until it gives in. I want to smell the sizzle on a clean cut of salmon. I want to poop all the time. I want to thoughtfully munch on a cucumber while waiting for the train. I want to reflect on my meals and realize it had crazy sounding stuff like spirulina, quinoa, cacao nibs and seitan in it. I want to be vibrant and colorful and have green stuff stuck in my teeth.

I'm not doing this to try and be pretty or cute or sexy. I already am. I'm a fierce and strong fatty. I'm a beastly woman with thighs to reckon with. I'm lush and lovely and supple. When I'm through with this, my stretchmarks will be badges of honor and reminders of changes I've undergone.

I just want to remember: I've been beautiful the whole time.
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  • LETHA_
    Damn you are a good writer. I'm gonna have to subscribe to your blog.
    1750 days ago
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