Yeah, that’s right. I’m talking to you. Are you offended by that?
Well then you’ve come to the wrong blog.
We like to say it like it is around here. And some of us are fat. Call it whatever gentler name you want (fluffy, overweight, bulky, weight-challenged), but the problem remains: We’re FAT.
And some of us are miserable about it. Some of us aren’t exactly “into” the way we look.
Yeah, I’m talking to you. If you’re fat and happy, I’m not talking to you.
If you’re fat and okay with it, get on with your bad self.
If you’re 3 pounds over your “goal weight,” well done, but you are so not my target audience.
I’m talking to the women who are fat and fucking miserable.
I’m talking to the ones who hate themselves for the way they eat, the ones who stare at themselves disgusted, the ones who lie down at night wondering “WHY? Why did I eat like that AGAIN? What’s wrong with me? God I hate myself. ”
The ones who would rather have 6 root canals than go clothes shopping. The ones who can’t sit on the floor. The ones with limited mobility (if you can’t run on the beach with your kids, if you can’t squat, you have limited mobility, baby). The ones who will fucking cut you if you take their picture. The ones who look at themselves in the mirror when nobody’s around and shake their heads in amazement, because they just can’t believe they’ve become that woman.
The fat woman.
The one who’s embarrassed to eat in public because she’s a fat person eating. The one who won’t eat junk food around others very often, because she’s always aware, aware that she’s a fat woman eating badly, and people are probably thinking “Look at her. Look at what she’s eating. No wonder she’s fat.”
The woman who’d rather not have sex because there’s just nothing hot about her. Or so she thinks.
The one who hates herself. The one who hates herself so much she keeps on eating. The one who can’t stop eating the foods that comfort her – in some sick cycle of self-abuse, engaging in the act that’s making her miserable. The woman who’s so fat she doesn’t care anymore.
I’m already disgusting. Might as well keep eating.
I was that woman.
At my biggest, a few years ago, I was 255 pounds. I am 5 feet 8 inches tall. I wore a size 18.
After I had Rocket in 2005, I was about 30 pounds overweight (a good weight for my body is about 150 pounds, which is a size 8). In 2006 I went on a psych medication (trying to treat my drinking problem) that caused me to gain 70 pounds in about 5 months. The next thing I knew I was 100 pounds overweight.
I was obese.
I had never been that woman. I had always pretty much eaten what I wanted. I was able to regulate my weight with small dietary changes and a little exercise, but all the sudden I was The Fucking Fat Chick.
Everything I mentioned above was my life: the self-hatred, the disgust, the lack of sex drive, the limited mobility, the sick relationship with eating. The mind-boggling inability to change one goddamn thing about my diet.
I used to defend my fatness by telling people (and myself) about that medication, and that was true, but I was off all medications by the end of 2009. SO WHY WAS I STILL FAT?
Well, because I was eating like a fat person. I figured what the hell, I’m already gross, why not eat like a gross person? I lost a few pounds when I went off the meds, but not much. When I found out I was pregnant with Georgia I weighed 250 pounds and I fucking flipped. I COULD NOT GAIN ANY MORE WEIGHT. So I exercised and ate really well during that pregnancy, gaining only about 22 pounds.
I lost that plus about 20 more after she was born, mostly due to a uterine infection a couple days after her birth that sent me to the hospital on IV antibiotics for 3 days, plus 30 more days of antibiotics that killed my appetite. SCORE!?
But then I just hung out, fat.
I was about 230 pounds in January of 2012, when I hit what could be called my “bottom,” that point when I’m ready to change. That point when I just can’t stand myself for one more goddamn moment, when my excuses make my toes curl and my skin crawl, when I see myself for exactly what I am without any polish, and call myself out on my own bullshit.
Janelle, you’re not fat because of that medication. You’re fat because you’re eating like a goddamn fat person and not exercising and you hate yourself so you just keep on doing it.
SO DO SOMETHING DIFFERENT.
You’re 33 years old and you’re wasting your life. There will come a time when your body will fail you. There will come a time when no matter how thin you are or how much you exercise, your joints will hurt and your bones will be weak and it will hurt to do things.
And yet here you are, wasting your body while it’s still good. When you could be vigorous and strong and free.
ONLY YOU CAN DO SOMETHING. So do something.
So at the first of the year I started swimming laps and I did the Fat Smash diet, AND I DIDN’T CHEAT. I was willing to do anything to lose that weight, to feel human again, to use my body like it was meant to be used, to feel pretty, even occasionally. To not feel like shit all the time.
And by July of 2012 I had lost 50 pounds (a total of 70 since I was at my fattest).
Now I weigh 180 pounds and wear a size 12.
I feel alive again. I can run with my kids on the damn beach. I can walk up stairs and not get winded. I can sit on the ground and get up again without struggle. I can squat (for a minute, but HEY).
But check it out: the good is the enemy of the best, and now I find myself with a WHOLE NEW SLEW OF EXCUSES keeping me from losing my last 30 pounds.
But Janelle, you’ve already lost 70 pounds. You’re good.
You look so much better than you did before.
The last 30 are so hard to lose.
Basically, because I’m not fucking miserable anymore, I think I can just hang out where I am, even though I’m not where I want to be.
And so here’s to you, ladies, the ones who are suffering, the ones who can’t stand themselves.
The miserable fat ones.
What stories are you telling yourself?
What’s keeping you from living, from becoming strong, from being where you want to be?
I’m 100% convinced that success of my life is determined in direct proportion to my ability to see through my own bullshit, to call myself out on my own lies, to see through the fallacies I sell myself as truth.
Fuck honesty with others. That’s easy.
The hard part is honesty with myself. When nobody’s looking. When nobody’s around and I’m going through the fast-food line, or eating my third cookie, and acting like it just isn’t my fault.
Or I’ll change it tomorrow.
I swear I will.
But I lie down at night and I’ve done it again and I hate myself, for being a liar, a fake and a fraud, a damn pig.
I’m telling you all this because I’ve got to be accountable to somebody, and you all are my favorite people in the world.
This isn’t a resolution. This is a promise to stop lying to myself.
They say the truth will set you free. Maybe. I guess we’ll see.
It’s January 23, 2013. Most resolutions have died. But it’s a new year and we’ve got 11 more months to stop the bullshit that’s killing us.
What are you going to do with it?
I, for one, am going to lose 30 fucking pounds.
And now I’ve said it out loud, on the internet, where even a bull-shitter like me can’t hide.