In the beginning I was born and I was perfect.  Just like you were.  There was a hospital and parents and food and family.  It was probably like how you were born.  I don’t know how well that first part of my life went, but I think it was both sweet and hard.  I imagine that they all were standing over me, pleased that I had arrived, hopeful and a little scared of what would happen next.  That probably happened to you too.  Everyone truly loved me.  They still do.  I hope that is true for you too.

When I think about  it, I can almost picture the early days of my family hovering over me and passing me around from cradle to stroller, to chest, to sofa cushion.  As I was passed from person to person, little prayers, hopes, expectations, and terrors leaked out of their hearts right into mine.  These little unaware gifts came to me without words or explanation. All of the prayers and hopes expectations and terrors just rooted them selves inside of me without anyone knowing or seeing.  They sat there growing with me year by year directing my thoughts and feelings without me or anyone else realizing their presence or the power of their influence.

Eventually, I used them to measure myself.  I measured myself constantly. I measured myself figuratively and literally.  So did everyone else. I was measured by my parents, by my doctors, by my teachers, and my pears. Slowly all of this measuring made me forget how perfect I actually was when I was born.  Instead of a perfect human, I became a collection of measurements. Even worse, these measurements got compared to other collections of measurements and derived meaning based on relativity.   Slowly, imperfect was all I could see. It was scary.  As the plague of imagined imperfections got bigger, so did my body.  As my body got bigger all of the prayers, and hopes, and expectations and terrors got more powerful and I felt less in charge.

One day I realized that  I was 300 lbs.  I realized that this had been true for a while. That in spite of all of my hopefulness and intelligence and will and blessings, it just happened.  I became the one thing that a girl is never ever ever ever supposed to be.  I was Fat.  Like really fat.  Doctors use the phrase morbidly obese and had been using that term for the last hundred pounds.  I really believed that it couldn’t really get worse than 200 lbs.  Why should it?  I know about healthy food and exercise.  I was not stupid or crazy or lazy.  Isn’t that what people think of morbidly obese people?  I haven’t eaten fast food in nearly 10 years.  I don’t drink soda, or kool-aid or coffee.  Ok sometimes I drink coffee.  But don’t you?  I like dessert, but I don’t eat it all the time.  I am seriously pissed about this outcome.

Ok, so you might be thinking I am describing a rock bottom experience.  I am not.  I mean, 300 fucking pounds feels like a rock bottom experience, but let’s be honest, there may not be a bottom.  I have been obsessed with trying not to be fat since I was 5 years old and it has not worked.  That said, I am out of pep talks, diets, and work out plans to invest my hope in.  I am going to try something new.  I am going to try being 300 pounds.  I am going to try and feel and own and not apologize for a single ounce of it.  I am going to throw out every stitch of oppressive undersized clothing.  I am going to cry on airplanes when I can’t fit in the seat instead of smiling and having a quiet panic attack on the inside.  I want to forgive myself for what I know is not my fault.  I will go to the gym and I will fight as hard as I can , the way I always do.  I will not shame myself or let you shame me either.