Plaid Ponderings: Thoughts of a Lezz

unknowablewoman:

This doesn’t mean that all fat people do as well. This doesn’t mean that I’m lazy, out of control, or lacking willpower. This isn’t an excuse to politicize my body and use it as an example of the moral failings of fat people everywhere. This doesn’t mean that I need to have my food intake policed or that I need to be shamed into eating less. As if I don’t feel humiliated enough that being open about this illness merely confirms what society already thinks about fat people—that we all binge in secret, that we can’t be trusted when we tell you what we really eat, and that we’re compelled to overeat any chance we get.

I’m angry.

I’m angry that this admission can and will be used against me. I’m angry that I can’t talk about it without people assuming it’s why I’m fat (hint: I was fat before I developed this). I’m angry that other people with the same disease may never get treatment because they’re not fat enough; I’m angry that fat people with anorexia, bulimia or any variation thereof won’t be acknowledged as truly sick until they’re emaciated enough in the eyes of everyone else. I’m angry that so-called professionals who are supposed to help me think it means I’m hopelessly addicted to food and need to abstain altogether from eating things I enjoy. I’m angry that weight loss is seen as a cure-all for my misery.

I’m angry, so fucking angry, that even if I manage to fight my way out of this hell, I will never be able to eat without heaps of judgment from strangers. I’m angry that food isn’t just food anymore and never will be, not for me, and not for other fat people. We can’t love it, we can’t celebrate it, and we can’t indulge in it, because food is the enemy. We are not to be trusted around it, and we are certainly not supposed to like it. Even in the privacy of our own homes, we are not able to eat without it meaning something about our worth as human beings. The size of our waist and the size of our dinner are character flaws. Any step I take toward self-love is disparaged unless it’s on a treadmill. Body acceptance? It’s a wonderful concept, but I’d be deluding myself if I believed that other people see my fat as morally neutral. Truth be told, I don’t even want to be a fat activist of any kind—but tonight I realized that I couldn’t survive otherwise, because if I didn’t insist that I have worth as a fat person, no one else would. That’s reality. 

I’m angry that young fat people growing up today, whether they develop EDs or not, will have to shoulder these same burdens. I’m angry that most of them will be girls, because our bodies aren’t our own—they are blank canvases onto which everyone else’s insecurities and fears are painted. They will never live free of scrutiny and sexualization, and they will be gleefully encouraged to abuse and mutilate their bodies by even the people who love them the most. I’m angry that for the disproportionately high number of us women with EDs who have suffered neglect, abuse or sexual assault, our bodies are also prisons. The amount of shame we carry around in silence would bring the most powerful men in the world to their knees.

I’m angry that the non-women who feel these things won’t have the resources they need, because only upper class white ladies who want to be supermodels develop EDs. I’m angry that during the year I spent on Medicaid, as my ED spiraled out of control and approached its nadir, there was no available treatment. Our cultural mores about mental illness include the idea that it’s only something experienced by the privileged. I’m angry that people of all kinds with mental illnesses have their struggles invalidated; the fortunate are told they have no real reasons to be sick or upset, while the less fortunate can’t get proper treatment or medication even if they are cognizant of their MIs.

I’m also terribly sad.

I’m sad that there aren’t many things for me to do with this anger, because in a sea of negative messages about food and weight, my voice is drowned. When/if I recover, I hope that voice will grow stronger, but it won’t be enough. There has to be systemic change in the way we view fatness, and I’m just one person. It doesn’t help that the world is a scary place right now, so a body image ~revolution~ is understandably low on most priority lists. 

I’m going to be absolutely selfish here and ask that you, followers, place it a little higher, because I and every other person who’s struggling with this disease need it. I desperately need your help. I need your voices, I need your support, and I need you to challenge body negativity wherever you encounter it. It’s hard work, being actively reviled for the way you look (this doesn’t just apply to fatness!) and then actually standing up to it. None of us can do it alone.