***warning for language***
My fat is none of your fucking business.
This seems to be something you have trouble understanding. Is there something in the rolls of my stomach that compels you to talk about me as if my fat is on par with some unforgivable offense? You know, maybe my offense was theft. Theft of the self assurance of your media that promises you that your waistline is tantamount to earned morality - because the nicer I am the more confused you get, the harder it is for you to believe that someone like me could let you down by daring to be fat.
I have news for you. My fat and your feelings are never, have never, should never be friends. My fat and your feelings live on opposite sides of the planet and get bad cell reception and bad internet connection.. My fat does not steal your air, your food, or your sense of self. I’m not asking you to touch it or feed it or take it away from me, I’m not asking you to look or not look. My fat means nothing more to you than your hair means to me -- or your teeth or the shape of your chin or whether you’re right handed or left. My fat is not arrogant. Daring to be conventionally unattractive steals nothing from you.
So when my stomach, my thighs, or my arms offend you enough to compel you to remind me of my place in the world, all I can think is:
How the fuck is that any of your business? Is failing to turn you on such a crime? And don’t give me that “promoting an unhealthy lifestyle” bullshit. I am not a promotion. I am not a walking billboard for carbs and sugar. I am not a contagious disease. You will never touch me or breathe the air that I do and spontaneously turn into blubber. My reasons for being fat - my lifestyle, my diet, my childhood, my budget, my self esteem, or my mental health - are none of your business, so how the fuck is the result of them any of your concern?
If I seem angry, it’s because I am angry. I am enraged. I am a scary, pissed off fatty who is sick of society’s permissible hatred giving ten year old girls eating disorders so they’ll be fuckable when they’re seventeen, because “nobody wants to take a fat girl to prom”. I’m pissed off that women are told they’re too fat to believably be loved on stage. I’m pissed off because I can’t eat more than half a sandwich in public without being stared at. And I am pissed off that having standards is seen as arrogant when I dare to be fat and still want love, that not accepting every sexual advance makes me an uppity bitch who should be grateful that I aroused someone.
I don’t want to be special. I want to be human. I want to be judged on my personality, my intelligence and my warmth. I want to sit next to someone in a theater or on a plane without smashing myself into uncomfortable positions just to avoid being glared at should I dare to brush against your arm. My weight - and hell, my health - isn’t up for review. My stretch marks are not a whiteboard for your insecurities. My thighs are not a place to lay your pity, my arms are not the soundboard for your ridicule, and my breasts are not the gatekeepers of your sexuality. I experience life and love, pain and pleasure, elation and despair, arousal, satisfaction, disappointment, self-pity, rage, fear, doubt, depression, hope --- and yes, hunger, despite and in spite and because of my fat. Because I am not a billboard, I am not a cautionary tale, I am not a punchline or an example - not for you, not for anyone - because I am first and foremost a person living the human experience for as long as my heart beats.
And my fat is none of your fucking business.
Written by Jen O'Meara