I’ve not written for over year and I have good reasons.
I’m still fat. I’m still fighting. I feel like I’ve been fighting for so long.
‘Can I Tell You a Story?‘ was deliberately light hearted, but the truth is I’ve been struggling to come to terms with a lot of things – mainly how I perceive my life to be one major fuck up after the next?
What happened to the slim fit girl I dream of daily?
I’m not entirely sure she even existed. The thing is I’ve made my slimmer self this golden dream. That girl feels unattainable and unreal. Probably because she’s not real. She never was.
I’ve forgotten how I struggled with body image even when I was slim. I remember being 17 years old and wishing my stomach were flatter. I never weighed myself then but I know I was wearing size S in bottoms and XS in tops. I’d take a jeans skirt on holiday that was a UK size 8 and still I was self-conscious.
Now I am 181 lbs (as of this morning). Diagnosed with severe clinical depression and wondering just how the fuck my life got to this point?
I have tried and failed to run a business (long ass story).
I have tried and failed to write consistently (I can’t trust my own voice and I fear what people will think of me ).
I have tried and failed to lose weight so many times that success feels alien to me. I’ve grown accustomed to being big. To my clothes being 16s and 18s and now even my shoes don’t fit because my feet are just a tad too wide for my size 5s.
This is the kind of shit pregnant women complain about. But I’m not pregnant. I have no children. I have no excuses. I simply ate all my emotions: good and bad. And then when the stress and depression were too much, my immune system decided to flip me the bird and go on an extended sabbatical.
I never believed that I could gain weight while not eating. I did. I also didn’t lose anything whilst my starving myself. I just lost all happiness and motivation instead. Which (can you guess) only served to make me fatter.
Not an hour goes by when I don’t consider my body, or my fatness or my diet or my exercise. It’s my unhealthy obsession that I’ve managed to hide behind an enquiring mind and a PT qualification I’m to ashamed to use.
I’m struggling. I’m struggling every fucking day. Of every week of every month. And it’s been going on for years.
I hid all my hurt and anxiety and sadness behind smiles and jokes and sports and being good and mediocre at life. I’ve never been great at anything. I’ve never really finished anything either.
You know that popular hashtag #thestruggleisreal? Yeah that one.
It is. It is real. For me a depressed young woman who wants to be happy and healthy and loving and satisfied with her life. The (hashtag) STRUGGLE IS REALLY FUCKING REAL
Say it enough times and it begins to sound like some cutesy baby talk you might babble at your toddler as a form of entertainment.
But like I said I don’t have any kids and if this was the kind of baby talk I was saying to my little’uns I hope I’d know to go and get some help.
When I started to write this post I felt helpless. Afraid a panic attack would seize me in the middle of a very public train station (there is no easy way to explain that scenario).
Now. I feel better. Not healed (if only) but better.
I don’t even know if this will reach anyone. But if it does. You’re not alone.