For almost 20 years now, I have been overweight.
I hate referring to myself as the “f” word because it feels derogatory.
People — both strangers and those I knew alike — called me the “f” word so quickly and flippantly that it has left some deep scars in me.
But let’s call a thing a thing:
I am fat.
I haven’t been fat my whole life.
When I was a little kid, I was skinny and small.
But when I hit middle school and high school, my body started to develop and change.
Instead of growing taller and skinner, I got shorter and rounder.
I had no one in my life back then to tell me that what was happening to my body was natural and that I would grow out of it.
Instead, I had people telling me that I was getting too fat.
I remember being twelve, at a wedding reception for a couple I didn’t even know, and a woman approached my mom, sister, and myself.
Although she directed her comments to my mom, she complimented my sister for being tall and pretty and said she’d easily find a husband.
Then she took one look at me and said I was too dark and fat and that I would probably struggle to find a man.
I was twelve.
That was just one example of hundreds, thousands of comments about my appearance.
And in the Indian community, this is nothing new.
Indians believe they have the right to make vulgar and harsh comments like this.
By my senior year of high school, I decided I would do something about it.
So I starved myself.
Every day I would eat a snack-size bag of Doritos, and that was it.
I started to lose weight fast, and people complimented me left and right.
Keep in mind that I wasn’t obese by any means. I was just chubby.
But in my mind, I believed I was so fat that if there were ever an emergency, they’d have to cut out my bedroom wall to get me out of my house.
This morning, I dug up pictures of myself from that time and just wept for that girl.
My heart breaks for her.
For all the lies she was being told.
For how much she hated herself.
Because the truth is I am obese now.
I have become that person I was so desperately trying to run from.
I even know exactly when I started this downward spiral.
In the fall of 2003, I moved back home after living away for two years.
I hated living with my parents.
To cope, I ate.
After graduating college, I went a year and a half without finding a job.
To avoid facing that, I ate.
I was depressed.
To encourage me, I ate.
I was lonely.
To feel loved, I ate.
People would say things. Betray me. Hurt me.
To protect me, I ate.
And now, twenty years later, here I am with the aftermath.
Morbidly obese with comorbidities (with no thanks to a terrible family history of underlying health conditions).
I convinced myself that since guys never paid attention to me when I was thin, I would hide away under all this fat.
I would always say, “If they don’t like me when I’m fat, they’re not going to like me when I’m thin.”
The truth is, I was saying that about myself:
I didn’t like myself when I was thin.
I don’t like myself when I’m fat.
So who cares?
Years ago, when we visited India, we walked into the house after many years of not seeing our grandparents, and I was so excited to see my grandmother.
When she saw me, the first thing out of her mouth was, “Why’d you get fat?”
But because she was my grandmother and I adored her, I laughed it off.
It was our last time to see her alive, and we made such beautiful memories with her during that trip.
But what I will also remember is that almost daily, she would ask me why I was fat.
I harbor no resentment or hurt toward her for it because there is no question in my mind that she loved me. It was a point of pride for me that people referred to me as her mini-me.
With that in mind, a part of me felt like I failed her because I was fat.
I feel like that a lot when people comment about my weight.
It’s like they aren’t just telling me I am fat; they tell me that I am failing.
That I am not ENOUGH.
And listen, I know what you might say to make me feel better:
“You are beautiful regardless of your size!”
“You are not the numbers on the scale!”
And I love you for that, I do.
I’m all about body positivity — and I appreciate all the beautiful plus-size women out there are who are fighting the damn fight for us plus-size girls.
I envy them — they have the self-esteem to be plus-size and unapologetic.
I wish I had that.
But, my being overweight is about much more than just eating bad foods or binge eating.
Or even about self-confidence.
The roots of this go deep.
So, why not just try to lose weight, then?
Trust me, I have.
Years ago, I joined Weight Watchers and lost 30 pounds.
But, it still wasn’t enough for anyone because I was still being told I was fat.
So I quit and gained what I lost AND more out of defiance.
Clearly, I wasn’t emotionally ready to lose weight.
But now I am staring down the barrel of 40, and I keep wondering:
“Twenty years. Isn’t it enough?”
My weight has been my shield and protector for twenty years now.
It shielded me from pain, hurt, and disappointment.
But … I am tired now.
I don’t want to lose weight to get compliments.
Those b*tches never complimented me for anything good, so why do I need it now?
I don’t want to lose weight to get guys to pay attention to me.
Guys are stupid whether I am thin or fat. So let’s just keep it moving.
I don’t want to lose weight to wear cute clothes.
I have cute clothes now, thank you.
I just want to lose weight to be free.
I want to lose weight, so I don’t have to hide anymore.
I want to lose weight so I can FEEL better physically.
I want better and MORE than what I’ve given myself for twenty years.
If I genuinely want to be the BEST version of myself — I have to be willing to do the work. Not just internally but externally as well.
So here’s hoping that the new F word I hear about myself will be
FREE.
