Follow-up

So on the bus on the way home from downtown, I was thinking (or trying to--there was this trio of friends, two girls and a guy, and the girls had two of the WORST laughs I've ever heard in my life, and they were having one of those nights where EVERYTHING is funny)...Anyway, I was trying to figure out what, exactly, I think is wrong with me. I don't mean little details, like "I'm disorganized" or whatever; I mean the fundamental thing that makes me dislike myself so damn much.

You know what I came up with?
I dislike myself because I'm fat and ugly.

(Spins, stop snarling. I can hear you all the way in Chicago. I'll explain it.)

If I take a reasonably-realistic look at my inner self, I come out better than average. I'm intelligent, I'm creative, I'm funny, I care about other people, I'm not mean-spirited (much), I'm reasonably moral...Yeah, I have some flaws, but for the most part they're outweighed by the good qualities.

If I look in the mirror, though, everything goes directly to shit.

To begin with: There are large-sized women who still look good. They take the time and make an effort to look good, and many of them have a sense of style that enables them to do that. (Then there are the ones who wear super-tight t-shirts that don't all-the-way cover the belly...but I digress. Man, the things you see on the CTA--seriously. When you can see three inches of flesh between the bottom of the shirt and the waistband? You need to go a size up. Sorry....) Anyway. There are larger women who look good.

I am not one of these.

I have never, NEVER had a sense of style. When I was young, we had school uniforms, which choked out any sense of individuality (we weren't even allowed to wear striped socks.) Other than uniforms and jeans, though, my mom made many of my clothes, and bought the rest. And of course, she made, and bought, the clothes SHE wanted me to wear. They were sensible and serviceable; they were not attractive, by any means. As I got older, I would go shopping with my friends, but I always felt uncomfortable in wearing anything attention-getting. (We'll get to the "why" of that in just a moment.) On the rare occasions that I did want to buy something trendy, for the most part it was shot down by the clothing-buyer: Mom. I tried to balance what I liked with what was in style and with what my mom was willing to pay for; most of the time I came out looking like a damn train-wreck. And being an only child, with no older cousins or anyone else in my life to point me in a different direction, I had only my own likes and dislikes to follow--and again, I was always uncomfortable in clothes.

And why was that, you ask?

From the time I was three, I have fought against my weight.

Wait: no. There's more to that sentence.

From the time I was three, I have been urged by my mother to fight against my weight.

That's far more accurate. From my earliest days, I can remember being cautioned against taking second helpings, or eating anything I enjoyed. If I ignored her exhortations, I would be likely to hear the following: "Well, go ahead, but when you get older and you're fat, don't blame me!" (Would it be ridiculous to bring up the fact that SHE COOKED THE FOOD? She chose the menus; she chose how much to cook. But if I ate it, that was MY fault.)

But here's the thing, see--She talked about "when you get older" but it was very clear she thought I was too heavy from my very earliest days. And as I have said before--I have pictures of myself throughout my childhood. I had a little tummy, like many children do, but in no way could I have been considered "overweight", "obese", or even "chunky". I was at the high end of normal. I don't recall ever hearing a doctor say anything about losing weight, when I was a child.

And yet it was a constant theme. She bought me diet books when I was nine; took me to a dietician when I was 15. Hearing over and over and over that you have a weight problem--what do you think that's going to do to a child's mind?

I have a witness to all this, see. Debbi's family had the same issue, only worse; her little sister was the cutesy little skinny thing, and Debbi was the normal-sized child. And like me, all Debbi ever heard about was "fat fat fat". I have pictures of Debbi from this era as well; if I didn't care about my anonymity, in fact, I'd post one of them, a picture of the two of us standing together, taken when I was eleven and she was ten. We look like normal little girls.

Flash forward twenty-five years. Before her gastric bypass, Debbi weighed over 300 pounds. I currently weigh 260. That doesn't JUST HAPPEN. That's not just "the American diet". That, my friends, is the product of hearing the same drumbeat, pounded into your head, over and over and over. "You're fat," "you're fat," "you're fat," becomes, after the five-millionth repetition, a perfectly good justification for that second donut, or the fettucine Alfredo, or the pint of Heath Bar Crunch after a bad day. "What does it matter? I'm already fat." And eventually--eventually, yeah, you are. (Both Debbi and I have agreed that, especially beginning in about junior high, food became a rebellion for both of us. I remember sneaking off to the 7-Eleven and buying tons of candy, then going back to my room and snorking it all down while listening to the radio. Neither of us had a weight problem then, though; there are other pictures of us, at 16 and 17, and we still look perfectly normal.)

There's more to this--lots more--but I'm stopping here for now.