It’s no surprise that I’m having a rather severe bout of fisticuffs with my weight, my body image, and the way I feel about myself in general. I’m not going to go in to the pathetic details of my attempts to lose weight (more importantly, my attempts to lose girth and to reshape my body) because it’s just going to make me *more* pissy, and nobody wants that.
So let’s all just agree to acknowledge that I am fat, and have been working fairly hard at not being fat for the past year.
I am also a feminist, and a large part of the feminist movement is in accepting yourself for what you are regardless of what society says you need to look like. I appreciate that, and I agree. You shouldn’t base your ideal on what anyone tells you your ideal should be; that’s just ridiculous, and it’s going to set you up for disappointment.
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with learning to accept who you are and what you look like and, in particular, to love yourself. That’s super important. I think it’s a very difficult thing to do; I think it’s antithetical to human nature to love yourself, and I don’t know why I think this. Probably because it’s so difficult.
Maybe it’s difficult because of the influence of religious leaders who talk about guilt, or because we live in a world where if you don’t have money you don’t matter, or whatever. I don’t know the answer. I just think it’s incredibly difficult to accept yourself, much less to love yourself.
Anyway, what I’m about to say is going to get me in trouble with some of my feminist friends. Sisters and brothers, don’t hate me. Or, you know, do. It’s your perogy, after all.
I hate the ‘fat acceptance’ movement. It makes me really angry. As I mentioned before, I’m fat. I hate the way I look, I hate the way I feel, I hate that I’m at a higher risk for gall bladder disease, liver disease, kidney disease, diabetes, high blood pressure, stroke, heart attack, and any number of other health conditions that will kill me. I hate that I can’t find clothes that fit me on the racks (even though my sewing skills are improving).
I hate looking at myself in the mirror. I avoid it at all costs. The person in the mirror is not me. Call this body dismorphic disorder, call this self-loathing, call it the seventh bride of Frankenstein if you want; it’s the truth. I don’t want to look like anyone else. I want to look like me. I want to FEEL like me. I don’t want to be shaped like a movie star, or a rock star, or a swimsuit model, or my sister-in-law, or my best friend.
I hate having my photo taken. I always kind of did, but now it’s just worse. I have seen, I think, two photos of me taken in the last ten years that I’ve liked. That look like *me*.
And here’s the thing. The fat acceptance people piss me off because it feels like their point of view undermines mine. That’s a weird thing to think. But on the one hand, there are people who say if you’re not skinny, you’re DOIN IT RONG and you’re not attractive. On the other hand, there are people saying if you’re not curvy, you’re DOIN IT RONG and you’re not attractive.
I don’t give a fiddler’s fart about attractive. I’m not trying to attract anything other than peace and joy within my family and circle of friends. I’m trying to be healthy. I’m trying to live longer. I’m trying to wear a pair of goddamned pants that don’t blow out at the inner thigh.
So I don’t think it’s okay for me to be fat. For you, whatever floats your boat. People *are* gorgeous, regardless of their shape and size. I hate it on me. I don’t wear gold lamé either, nor do I wear shoes with heels. Because I don’t like it.
Every time I see one of these “celebrate being fat” things going around, I grind my teeth and pound my cellulite. I don’t think fat is healthy, based on my own experience, but if that’s the way you look, it’s not like I’m going to assume you’re lazy and worthless.
This is the epitome of self-absorption, I suppose, because it’s all about me. When I have a strong emotional reaction to something, I have to ask: “what the doubleyou-tee-eff is this about?”, and with the “fat acceptance” movement, I think it has as much to do with the loss of “me” in all this flesh as it does with anything else.