I Love My Fat

I've been in therapy on and off again for twenty five years.

I've been dieting on and off again for thirty five years.

At some point those two things were going to intersect. And so they have.

This latest round of examination and poking started off by me being wildly successful at weight loss.

I'd started at 347 pounds in October, 2012. By January of 2014 I weighed 184 pounds. 184 pounds was exactly one pound less than I weighed when I graduated from high school. In high school I felt fat, ugly, freakish, and unloveable.

One of my best friends was a guy that I was crushing on so hard. He confided one night that what he really, really wanted more than anything, was a girl with my personality but who looked like Connie. Ah, Connie. Green eyes, curly brown hair, big tits, tiny waist: your basic nightmare. He elaborated, explaining that while I was smart, and deep, and passionate, and we could talk about anything, she was shallow and boring and annoying. "So, why her and not me?" I asked. "But you're not pretty. She's so pretty." Cue Tori Amos in 3. . . 2. . . 1. . .

Precious Things

Incidentally, I found out later that they dated. It didn't work out.

I was also raped at a graduation party. When I weighed 185 pounds.

Over the years, I gained weight. Some years I would gain a little. Some, a lot. And I hated my fat. I hated myself. I knew I was not pretty. But hey, it wasn't okay to be pretty. Pretty girls were whores anyway.

And over the years I slept around. A lot. I fucked guys I barely knew. I fucked guys I didn't like. I fucked guys I was desperately crazy about. I had sex  that I wanted to have. I had revenge sex. I had bored sex. I had a lot of sex I didn't want to have, because I couldn't say no. I wasn't a prick tease. But I wasn't a whore either. Why wasn't I a whore? I mean, I was whoring it up big time. I was probably the whoriest whore that ever whored, except for the money thing. But when you're an evangelical Christian, it doesn't really matter that no money exchanged hands. Prostitutes take money for sex. And yeah, all prostitutes are whores, but this is the thing:

Not all whores are prostitutes.

Sometimes whores are just women who like sex. Women who cut their hair. Women who wear too much make up.Women with long fingernails. Women who want to look attractive for men. They're whores.

Not me. I was ugly. Everyone said so. I didn't care what men thought of me, OBVIOUSLY. I mean, sure, I'd paint my face. Whore! And yeah, I'd paint my nails. Whore! And the hair! I dyed my hair as red as I could make it. Fucking cheap trash whore! But I wasn't pretty! LOOK! I'm fat! So not pretty. Not a whore.

So, in my bumbling, inept, oh-my-g*d-really-i'm-free-i'm-on-my-own-i-have-no-idea-what-i'm-doing-here-do-you-think-they-can-tell way, I used my fat as my armor. I used my fat to enter this crazy world called sexuality. I put on my fat to deal with the utterly toxic task of becoming at home in my adult female body in just the same way that a scientist puts on the thick gloves and stands behind the lead-lined glass to handle radioactive materials. 

But that was then, and this was now. And I was looking in the mirror and seeing pretty. I was seeing strong, and confident. And I was okay with that, or trying to be okay with that.

I shared on my blog, on my facebook, I talked about losing weight. People asked me about losing weight. My girlfriends praised me. My husband praised me. And then, the shit hit the fan, because other men started noticing, started congratulating me. Started complimenting me.

Started calling me pretty, gorgeous, attractive.

What the actual fucking fuck?

What do I do with that? Why are they saying that? Don't they know that I'm a GOOD GIRL? I'm MARRIED! I'm MONOGAMOUS! WHY ARE THEY CALLING ME A WHORE??

Weight loss totally fucking stalled. I probably lost fifty pounds losing the same four pounds, between 185 and 189 over and over and over again, but I wasn't going anywhere. My workouts got erratic, my food prep got crazy. My sex drive crashed, hit the floor, and died.

I wasn't stupid. I knew this was related. I got myself a therapist.

However imperfectly, my fat has been my security blanket. It is not the enemy. It has helped me (inadequately, ineptly, clumsily) resist the enemy.

Can I replace my fat? I know I can lose weight. Not hard. I'm still floating within 3 pounds of 247. I've lost, and kept off, 100 pounds. That was easy. But can I find another set of armor? Can I fearlessly look in the mirror, both when I see ugly, and when I see pretty? I don't know. That's the focus of my work right now.