Dear Fatophobe

The other day you stared at me in the cute dress I was wearing. I thought it was cute until you pointed at me in it and laughed. I never hated wearing it more after that moment. The day my friend wore something similar you told her how hot she looked. The rolls of flesh on my body recoil and try to hide themselves, only they have nowhere to go. So they ask me to cover them up. And I do. Heat of summer and I’m fully covered. The white vines that sneak up and down my body, around my stomach and my thighs are hidden from view. Like brilliant lightning bolts covered by thick, heavy, clouds. Thick, heavy clothes.

You appeared out of the blue that day. Was it the smile on my face that irritated you or the fact that I wasn’t dressed particularly nicely? A large tee shirt, my glasses, and jeans; and you decided you were remarkably clever and so asked me why I looked like an ‘obese Harry Potter’. Maybe you thought it was inconsequential at the time. Most probably you’ve forgotten about it. But I haven’t. It still hurts me to think of it. I wish it didn’t though…

You stood surrounded by so many people. So popular, wanted and accepted. But it wasn’t enough. You had to make them laugh.

So, you saw my body as an easy target and said, “If you were a Pokémon, you’d be Snorlax.

 

I know my Pokémon, I know Snorlax.  And at that time, I knew that Squirtle was waiting to open the flood gates behind my eyes. It was funny for you. But it wasn’t for me. And it still isn’t.

I see you when you stare at me while I’m eating. Whispering to your friends how I shouldn’t, and how that’s probably all I do all day. It’s fascinating how you know so much about my life. Almost stalkerish I’d say. At the same time, when you see me run you stare and laugh. Fat girls doing normal things is the best form of entertainment when you’re bored, right?

So I cut down on food. And then get hungry and binge. After which I feel guilty and run to the toilet and force it out. It tastes horrible, coming back. And it burns my throat but it has to be done.

 

And you don’t just stop there, do you? You pick on the skinny girls as well. Say she needs to have more meat on her bones. Why? Are you a dog that will eat her? Crunch on her bones? Slobber over her flesh? Don’t I fit the bill for that? It’s like we’re nothing more than things to provide for you. 

What pleasure do you get? Is it really funny to see someone’s smile fade away from their face after you insult them? Does it give you some kind of special high to stand around and poke fun at my body? To compare me to others things as if I’m a simple object that feels nothing. That has no mind, no skills of comprehending what you say? You tell me that you’ve been there yourself and people have done it to you. You know the pain associated in that case. You should know how much it hurts. To have everything going beautifully and then, have it crash down upon you because you aren’t seen as worthy. Because my body isn’t pleasing to you if it doesn’t follow the norm. And because I break the rules I should not be accepted into your ranks. Because that is how I feel. Short and fat, with rolls on my stomach that were called truck tires when I showed them to people. Arms, poked and prodded, made fun of for being fat. Every morning, I look in the mirror and hope, to someday, look such a way, that I don’t get up and feel like an outcast.

What is it that you get out of seeing a person cry? To see their day, turn from a good one to a completely shitty one after you open your mouth? The power you hold is great. Really. You look me up and down and make me feel so miniscule and unimportant. Your ever-sharpening wit that brings up new ways of insulting and hurting. You ridicule, and you know what, it hurts okay. It really hurts. Because no matter how many times I tell myself that you aren’t worth worrying about it’s not easy to stay afloat when your ship is being shattered by cannons on all sides.

 

Yours,

A fat girl.