Being Fat is Uncomfortable
For the record, I’m not ‘fat’ anymore. I have a small little pot belly, but nothing that couldn’t be solved within a month of eating less McDonald’s and refusing “bunny snacks” from my husband (apparently I resemble a bunny when I eat, so he calls chips and chocolates “bunny snacks”). He insists on buying them for me, particularly during my period.
I have a very voluptuous booty, and always have. I’m not the least bit bothered by anything with my body so much so as to use negative self talk in my head. I have a much kinder relationship to my weight these days.
But it didn’t use to be this way.
I’ve never been as heavy as I was during 2016–2018. 2016 was the worst. That was at the height of my panic disorder, and my way of solving a panic attack was to eat. So I constantly ate, since I think it gave my body something to do other than send me into an emotional spiral at random intervals throughout the day.
Also, I would get super lightheaded during a panic attack, which convinced me my blood sugar was low, so I’d eat to bring it back to normal.
I was anything but normal back then, though.
As a result of my binge eating I became enormously heavy. I’m 5'3" and normally weigh around 130–142. Like just a wee over normal. However during this period of my life, I was…really up there.
My max weight I ever reached was 176 pounds. I’d constantly admire myself in the mirror, wondering how noticeable it was.
Yes, it was noticeable.
Not only was it noticeable on the outside, but being in my own skin felt like my whole body was trying to fit into too-tight shoes.
I have no idea how morbidly obese people lead fulfilling lives. I respect you if you can. But my god, at 45 ish pounds overweight, my health sucked ass. I had gallstones all the time, I’d eat until I got heartburn, and I’d get out of breath after ten minutes of jogging at a light speed…
And my god, the impact it all had on my mental health! My depression was sky high, I snored like crazy and I wore my insecurities on my face…