(from october 3.)|
It’s 4:25am and there’s an infomercial on and it’s shredding me. They say that it’s not being fat that’s truly harmful—it’s dieting. But what can I do? How can I reconcile letting things be? How can I watch this footage and not feel this hit me, knock the wind out of me, lay me low?
How can I resist. How can I be strong or weak or lazy or careful or afraid or proud enough to deny the underlying desire, the burn. How can I know what happens in my head every day. And still suffocate the onslaught.
Over the weekend, I thought: I can’t talk to these fratty boys, I can’t ask them to knock off playing Frisbie into my windows because I can’t face their eyes on me. My invisibility or overvisibility. How vulnerable I’d be, how big a target. Not just my body but the expansive insecurity that I live in, that surrounds me, that envelops me.
It’s one thing to have an invisible identity that you’re free to conceal or reveal at your discretion. It’s another to motion to your body and have it tell a story. Maybe not even a true story, or maybe not the truest story. What narrative might people make up about me? What would it include? What would it leave out? What parts are obvious or somehow hidden, still, layered underneath, closer to my internal organs.
If dieting is the problem, where am I supposed to go from here? How can I stop trying.
And if dieting is the solution, why doesn’t it solve? What do outsiders assume about fat people? That we haven’t tried? That we haven’t dieted? That we don’t care, haven’t starved ourselves, tortured ourselves, berated ourselves over and over, that it’s down to just trying harder? How can I try harder when I know it’ll fail but even if it doesn’t it means working so hard for something that’s prescribed and built in and exploited, how can I separate my self worth from the numbers?
Except to avoid the scale altogether.
But it doesn’t matter. Mirrors tell stories. Clothes tell stories. People tell stories.
Theory doesn’t change the direction my internal compass points.