Sarah's story



For as long as I can remember, I've been fat. If you'd met me several years ago I would have fitted all the stereotypes perfectly; a fat, unhappy woman, permanently dieting, dressing in baggy clothes to hide the body I was so ashamed of, the desperation not to end up fat like my mother growing as my weight approached hers.



To say that it wasn't easy to grow up fat is understating it slightly. I was fat, I was intelligent, I didn't follow everybody else. The combination was irresistable to everyone at school, and at home my mother viciously controlled every calorie I consumed while telling me that 'names will never hurt me'. She was wrong, of course. The person who made up the whole 'sticks and stones' phrase should be shot. Of course names hurt. We all know that.



I ended up at university, self esteem destroyed by years of loneliness and unsuccessful dieting, convinced that my disgusting body made me unlovable, that I wasn't even worthy of love. I was that stereotype.



I was lucky. I don't know how I would have ended up if it hadn't been for my new friends. For a year I held my breath and listened, and didn't hear a single word about my weight. Not even comments about what I ate. I could grab a plate of chips for lunch if I felt like it, and there wouldn't even be the telltale glance at my plate from the friend beside me. They just didn't care. To my friends, my weight was about as noteworthy as the colour of my eyes, or the length of my hair.

That was my first lesson, and I learned it well.



My second lesson was from Kathy, who took it upon herself to reorganise my wardrobe. Out went the tents. In came daring (and near-transparent) articles that I couldn't imagine ever daring to wear, and wouldn't if I hadn't been bullied into it. Looking into the mirror wearing those things was a revelation.



For the first time in my life I experienced looking good. And feeling attractive I dared to buy more of those clothes, which left me looking better. People noticed me, now, and not for being a 'fat cow'.



The final blow came when I voiced my lifelong concerns to a friend. The friend looked at me and then, in tones of genuine surprise, proclaimed "But you suit being voluptuous!"



'Voluptuous'. Not a way I'd ever looked at it. But thinking, I realised she was right. I was voluptuous, and I was attractive, and any man who disagreed just didn't know what he was missing.



That wasn't it, of course. I didn't suddenly begin to love my body, and if a miracle was offered that would make me thin, I'd take it without a second thought. Being fat in this world is a real bitch. But at least I know now that that's not my fault.



And after a small amount of research into obesity, I know that there is no miracle forthcoming. And more than that, I know that the major cause of fat is the very same dieting they tell you to do to lose it, and I'm furious. With my mother, with my doctors, with all the people who've always told me to diet to lose weight. I even went to a counsellor for depression, once, and she instantly assumed that my weight was the cause and tried to force me to go to an eating disorders group.



Well, I lost the only eating disorder I ever had when I stopped dieting. If I'd never started, maybe I would never have put on this much weight. Bitter? Damn right I am. And I'm not going to take this world's prejudice and lies any more.






SoshBfly@aol.com