Fat is just a three letter word that people often say, but for me it’s true and my physical appearance always get’s in the way. Fat is not something I just became. It happened day by day, inch by inch, calorie by calorie. I was made fun of in elementary school. Taunted about how my body was made up of Twinkies. To say the least I haven’t had a Twinkie since the third grade. My sister, who is a size 6, and will always be, told me that I would grow out of my fatness. That I would become tall like my parents and the weight would go away. Poof and it’s gone. I love her for that sentiment but it never happened. I hate myself because I’m fat and I eat because I hate myself. I have learned to comfort myself with food. To be honest I’ve never felt like I deserve to happy i.e. skinny. That the minute I got skinny I would die or something that with the skinniness will come romantic love and I’m not ready to let someone in. If a man told me he loved me I would probably run to the nearest Pagliacci and eat five slices of pepperoni pizza before deducing that he was out of his mind. What do you get when you mix depression and fattness? Me. Am I depressed because I’m fat? Or am I fat because I’m depressed? I have no idea. I will say that when I’ve experienced moments of happiness that can last anywhere from days to months I always manage to lose weight. And I can’t recall how it happens. I swear I still eat shit but somehow it comes off. I recall Kate Moss saying that nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. The bitch aint’ lyin. The other day a friend I hadn’t seen in about six months commented that I had lost weight I shrugged my shoulders because I still had on the same size jeans, but they are really baggy- I have to always pull them up. I would wear a belt but fat girls don’t wear belts. Then a few days later I felt skinnier. Did I weigh myself? Nope. I just know I’m skinner and I don’t feel happy about it. I feel blah.
Mr WordPress on Hello world!