I want to lose weight. In fact, I have always wanted to lose weight. Even when I lost a lot of weight there was more to lose. I have never, in my life, wanted or needed to gain weight.

So here I am, at 43, with the most weight I’ve ever had, nearly 100 pounds over my thinnest, when I still thought I could stand to lose 5-10 pounds. 100 pounds. That sounds like a lot. It is a lot.

I have this cognitive dissonance around losing weight. If I’m honest with myself, the main reason I want to lose weight is because I want people to think of me differently. I want to look different. And yet, I firmly believe that what I look like does not define who I am, nor does it define anyone. Growing up outside the bounds of what is traditionally acceptable for attractiveness is somewhat freeing because who I am was never defined by my attractiveness to others. I stand firmly on that ground and tell my kids things like “your friend called me fat, so what, I’m still awesome!” What I look like is only part of who I am and I reject the idea that I need to look a certain way to be accepted. I staunchly reject that idea.

But…

The sting of rejection and dismissal based on my size have left scars. The time in 7th grade when Aaron Young saw me flip my hair and said “Look at Cathy trying to be sexy. She’ll never be sexy and we all know why.” For Eric Hensley, who called me “fatty” during a gym soccer game in 8th grade, and who I later ended up dating in college, not solely for revenge, but partially. I never mentioned that; I doubt he remembers saying it but I’ve never forgotten. For the AOPi acquaintance in college who, when I offered to help her carry a heavy box, handed the whole thing to me and said “Oh thank you, I’m just too small to handle something like that.” For every adult who said to me as a child “you have such a pretty face.” They really should have finished that sentence with the implied “it’s such a shame.” For the community theatre director who asked 16 year old me to lose weight for a play. For the doctor that delivered my son after 50 hours of labor, who, while my son was blue and not breathing on the sick baby cart, said “She’s torn in every direction; I’m going to have to stitch her up in the OR. It’s just so much hard on these bigger girls.” (That story is for another time but feel justified in knowing she got fired after that.) For my mom, who loved me unconditionally, but enrolled me in weight watchers at age 10. For my dear sweet father, who at the bequest of my step mom, told me I needed to lose weight for my wedding. My dad had always been so loving and supportive of me, and told me how proud he was; that cut deep. Was he embarrassed of me? Didn’t want me to be seen by his friends at the wedding? I’ve thought of so many replies over the years but the one I said in the moment was “I’m trying.” My parents loved me. They didn’t want me to be overweight; they knew how the world saw that, and, frankly, how if affected my confidence. My parents weren’t superficial, they were not overly concerned with how our house, cars, or clothes looked to the outside world. What was important to them in relationship to what others thought of us was based on our actions: were we polite, respectful, and most of all, kind?

Now that I’m a parent, and I see my kids transitioning from the lankiness of childhood to slight chubbiness of puberty, I struggle with how to handle it. I don’t want them to have the same trouble I did. What do I say when they look in the mirror and say “I’m fat?” I try really hard not to say things like that in front of them. Their parents are both overweight. I know they are afraid to follow in our footsteps. It breaks my heart and I want them to feel good about themselves. I beat myself up for allowing them to eat ice cream, for having poptarts in the house, and for eating fast food once a week. I’m passing on my bad habits to them and for that, I hate myself. The fat shaming that goes on in my head isn’t even borderline verbal abuse- it’s straight-on emotional battery.

I believe and teach my kids that what you look like has no bearing on your worth as a person. And yet, it is one of the main ways we sort and assess people when we meet them. It’s this kind of duplicity that I struggle with. I hate the way our society judges people, and yet, I’m part of it.

Which brings me back to losing weight. It’s almost as if NOT losing it is an act of rebellion. Like every late night bowl of ice cream or cereal is a big FU to society. You want me to be this? Well watch me NOT. I won’t succumb to your pressure. FU for telling me I’m not good enough just as I am.

One time I told my sister in law that I would never get a Honda Pilot because that was the “IT” car for suburban moms and I hate how people do things just to keep up with the Jones. She said “Well, if you aren’t even considering something because its the trendy thing, then aren’t you just doing the same thing ?” She has a point. I’m still involving myself in that pressure- it’s just the other side of the same coin.

So, about losing weight. It’s hard. Let’s be honest. You have to embrace being hungry a lot of the time. You have to resist, resist, resist, and limit yourself at social gatherings. No cake for me thanks, no, I’ll just have water. Please don’t bring the bread to the table, I’ll eat it! Fool yourself pretending grapes and carrots are just as sweet as chocolate. It’s not easy, it’s hard work, and you’re hangry a lot of the time. And for what? To lose weight to fit an ideal you resent and think is stupid? If I am honest about why I want to lose it, it’s because I want to “look better.” I want to be attractive based on society’s view of attractive. Maybe I should stop fighting it; I live it, it’s life, and while I don’t necessarily agree sometimes it’s easier to go with the flow than fight the stream. And there are other, lower ranking reasons too. I want to be able to tie my shoes easier, and shave my legs. I want more energy. I want clothes to fit me better. I don’t want the strong, incredible machine that is my body to be held down or burdened with so much extra weight. I want to lose weight for my feet, for my knees, for my back. For my sleeping – I don’t want to snore. I don’t want to have acid reflux anymore. More though, I want to create healthy eating habits for myself and my family. I want my kids to have the knowledge and gift of how to properly nurture themselves emotionally, mentally, and physically.

Being overweight shouldn’t define me to others. It’s only part of who I am. However, it is a huge part of who I am (no pun intended). It has permeated almost every area of my life; it’s present every day in so many ways. I spend an incredible amount of time worrying and wondering if people are disgusted by me, if they notice my fatness the same way I do. Did they notice how far the seat belt came out? I’m only five four but I look so much taller sitting down because I’m sitting on so much fat on my butt. Did they scoot their chair up at the restaurant because they thought I was too fat to squeeze by? I’m so glad they pulled their chair up because I was too fat to squeeze by. Is this person on the plane/theatre/school event pissed I’m sitting next to them? Is this client disappointed I’ve been assigned to them because they think I’m probably lazy? If people come into my house and see a mess, does it meet their expectation of a fat, lazy and dirty? Do I order the dessert with my friends or skip it? Will they think I shouldn’t have it? Did I eat too much dip at the party? Did anyone think it was too much? Did anyone notice how out of breath I was when we went up those stairs? Did she slow down on the hike because she saw I was struggling? I wish she would slow down on this hike; I can’t keep up. I love my wit. I hate the way I look. I have nice hair and full boobs. My belly and cellulite are a disgrace. I love myself. I hate myself.

Isn’t it strange how unaccepting we are of ourselves based on what we think others think? I know I’m not alone. About two thirds of Americans are overweight or obese. That’s the majority. The majority of people in America are not considered “acceptable.” Acceptable by who? If we are the majority? Are we not accepting of ourselves? Is that is? And who sets the standard anyway? Diet culture? Big Pharma? The FDA? All three working together? Am I accepting of you but not myself?

I wish we could separate external expectations and pressures from internal desires and motivations. I’ve done enough soul searching to know that at times, my internal beliefs are at war with external ideals. The two are so interwoven though, I get lost trying to untangle the web. Maybe I’ll never separate them. Maybe I’ll never figure out how to sort through the hows and whys of expectation and desire. I just need to leave that knot where it is, and focus on what I want today. This very day, how do I feel, what is my goal, and what will I do to achieve it?

Sigh.

I’m hungry. Does anyone have a carrot?

Or a snickers?