TW: Fat shaming, fatphobia, body dysmorphia, depression, suicidal ideation
Yesterday I went to the doctor for the first time in quite a while. He asked me why I had chosen him as my new GP out of the many options available. I told him I had read his reviews, and his patients love him. I told him I was looking for a doctor without anti-fat bias. He was suitably gratified.
As part of the check-in process, I was weighed. I don’t own a scale, I don’t weigh myself. I have noticed that I’ve gained weight in the last few months, but I didn’t know a number, and I didn’t really care. Now I know that since the last time I checked, I have gained 20 lbs.
Weight gain makes sense; I have been eating a lot of fast food, moving very little, and a few months ago, I started taking birth control after several glorious years without it.
Being dumped has definitely knocked my confidence, I already know that. I was extremely confident when I met T, but his rejection of me has been a difficult thing to contend with. I’m still not sleeping well, still crying regularly.
And now I’m dealing with old demons I thought I had long since buried – my inner voice is fat shaming me again. Right now, when I look in the mirror, I don’t love the person reflected back at me. I don’t want to see her. She’s ugly to me, whether clothed or naked. I hate my hair (why the fuck did I get bangs again), my skin is terrible, I’m constantly fighting with what is now a full beard of chin/neck/upper lip hair. I look tired and old and like I’ve given up. I have given up. And now I’m more fat, which apparently is bothering me even after the decades of work I’ve put into loving myself and my body. I feel like a monster, a hypocrite, and a fraud.
I’m trying to get back out there and date, but I hate everyone else almost as much as I hate myself. And I know how unattractive insecurity is, so how can I even expect anyone to be attracted to me when I’m like this?
I’m fucking depressed. I know I am. My period is also due, so my PMDD is singing its loudest crescendo. I’m having more thoughts of suicide than I care to admit. I feel like a fucking basket case, because I am. I am nowhere close to being over this breakup. I miss T every day, still. I still want to run to him and somehow turn back time and make things go back to the way they were. I am in so much fucking pain it is blinding.
I’m sick of feeling like this, sick of writing such miserable and self- indulgent crap. Sick of myself. Sick of being fat and having to constantly feel armored for it. I’m livid that I, who have preached the dangers of scale-dependent happiness for at least ten years, am so fucking shaken by seeing that stupid number go up.
I don’t have a positive conclusion or resolution with which to end this post. It’s just not in me right now. I feel hopeless and defeated.
Fat and Slutty 