I am a compulsive overeater. I probably say that sentence every day at some point, just to remind myself , that like being tall , or English , or having pointy ears, this attribute of my being is an unchanging thing. It will always be there , whether I let it cause me problems , or whether it just remains a dormant part of me , is where the changeability comes in. Just like an alcoholic always will be an alcoholic.
What I realised today , as my body is slowly going back to the size that it should be , is that I physically hate being fat. I think there are fat people who aren’t physically bothered by that aspect of being fat , they are perhaps unhappy when they look in the mirror , or when they go up a dress size or when they worry about a chair holding their weight . But I realised today and previously , that I probably would have carried on eating , like some overeaters , far past the weight I always tend to get to , if it wasn’t for my sensory hatred of BEING fat. The way my heavy legs won’t cross my body properly , the way my love handles are like arm rests round my middle , the thickness of my calves , my breasts spilling over my body . It suffocates me. So I get to the point of 15 – 16 stone , and I literally become unable to tolerate it any longer and I have to do something . I am so grateful that I turned back to Overeaters Anonymous , it’s the only thing that has ever worked and so I returned some months ago.
Now , having released over 3 stone , I have this wonderful feeling often , of almost like I am stepping into the body that belongs to me, walking feels fluid, my legs cross over in a way which feels graceful and comfortable , I feel taller. My legs have a shape like legs – it’s like coming home to myself and I want to write about it , because once I have lost the weight for a time , I forget the novelty of being normal. OF having the body that belongs to me. A body not weighed down. And I can’t ever forget that feeling of crossing my legs , of lifting my body weight in that yoga move , small light breasts , which don’t heave. Not taking up so much of the bed. Being fat is fucking awful, rubbish , cumbersome , wretched. I loathe the feeling. But I forget the feeling.
Complacency was my downfall last time. Thinking that I was home to my body, that surely I would never leave again.
This time around is also different , as I started to strength train, feeling strong at 46 , gathering muscle in places unknown , feeling an energy I haven’t felt for years. Doing something different , not just losing the weight and just being a thin version of my fat self , but having an entirely different body to what I have ever had before. Long lean limbs. I am so grateful that my sensory profile just can’t bear the fat. It has perhaps saved my life.