Root of Desire

Can you look back over your life and pinpoint the moment when you realized you ENJOYED being fat? I'm not sure that I can personally identify the moment I started enjoying it per se, but as I've reflected on my past, I can say with some certainty that I know when I started becoming obsessed with being fat.

I was a fairly average-sized toddler/little kid, but by the time I was in first grade, I was chubby. Chunky. Not obese, but a far cry from being like the other gracefully slender girls in my ballet class. Had no one ever said a word to me about my weight, I might have passed out of my chunky stage, its existence recalled only through a series of birthday party photographs chronicling my life prior to a childhood growth spurt.

However, my extra poundage was brought to my attention on the school bus. The most coveted seat on the bus was in the very back, which made the experience of going over bumps comparable to an amusement park ride. In an attempt to get as near to the back as possible, I, a piddly first-grader, chose the seat just in front of the Queen of the Fifth Grade, who had already claimed the prized back seat. Apparently the Queen had been saving this seat for her Royal Court, for when I sat down, she demanded that I move.

I must have had a tough-spirited nature that had yet to be broken, because I didn't budge from that seat. Her Highness began calling me names and told me to move my fat ass from the seat, but I did not move. With every new verbal assault attacking my weight, my indignance grew, despite the reddened heat of embarassment I could feel spreading across my cheeks. Still, I did not move. More words. More teasing. More humiliating remarks about my weight. Finally, a punch in the back of my head, and the Queen fell silent. Strutting with confidence while holding my head as high as any first-grader could, I boarded that bus, and biting my lip while holding back tears, I disembarked into 12 years of teasing, name-calling, and fat jokes.

Upon arriving at home, the shame and humiliation I had experienced that day came pouring out, and I cried to my mother about the girl on the bus who had teased me about being fat. Expecting to be cuddled and comforted, needing to be cuddled and comforted, I exposed my emotional wounds to my mother, that they might be mended with her consoling words and miracle cure-all kisses. Instead, and oh-so matter-of factly stated, she said, "Well, maybe you should try to lose some weight."

Enduring insult added to injury, I felt betrayed and alone. Any consolation would have to be done on my own, and the next best thing to the loving arms of a mother whispering that her child is beautiful is a handful of cookies and a bowlful of ice cream. Mint chocolate chip.

Here we witness the birth of a vicious cycle. Fat jokes and teasing led to self-comfort with food, which led to weight gain, which led to greater amounts of teasing and more frequent fat jokes, which led to the cycle continuing, and my obsession with weight took root.