Hello again.

It’s me.

And today it is more personal.

But I am not going all the way still. I find it difficult. Too painful, and I don’t feel enough of a secure feeling to try to step ahead.

Still I want to open a bit the debate, or just see it as an introductory note for a future discussion of my struggles. (I wanted to write past struggles but to be honest I don’t think I overcame them totally just yet).

If you followed some of my instagram stories last week I said that I finished reading a very nice book From Megan Jayne Crabbe called Body Positive Power. For those not familiar she is known as @bodyposipanda. She is a body positive activist and a survivor of anorexia. First I have to say, that for someone not very informed of the movement, this book is a must to understand where it comes from, what it defends and where to find more works about it. I don’t want to make a summary of the book in more detail. More than her personal history, it is also facts and other personal stories in it. But what I want to talk here is how did this book changed me. It changed my perception of a lot around me. First, I start now noticing more how the dietculture and self-hate at some extent is already heavily rooted. So much, than you starting to preach self love is always “accepted within some limits” which normally are your weight or your fat content. And now I start to rebel against it. And I am always loosing in number, but I won’t shut up.

Whoever knows me, knows I don’t anyway.

And the reason is that is more than just a VERY FAIR AND RIGHT FIGHT. It’s a personal fight. A fight against the invisible demon that grew inside of me since I can remember.

I wasn’t born a fat baby. I was very in the norm. That anyway, does not matter. I was born with no complications, me coming to the world was easy. Somehow between me as a baby and me starting to collect memories I must have become a ball. To be frank, I do not see it. I see my pics and I am fine. But my family noticed that I liked food, I had a taste for it. So as a not thin child, they thought that preparing me to this fat-hating world was showing me that eating is a bad thing. I had to be around 5 since I know that when I eat I am doing something wrong. 25 years after I have to actively remind me that it is fine. Then you are fed with this message but at the same time I am from a culture that praises food a lot. So basically I am in the mix of schizophrenic messages where I should now what is good but by a taste.

And you can only fully live if you won at the genetic lottery, i.e. you don’t store fat. On top of that, having the “lucky ones” as friends and having them complain about their appetite. I mean in this fat-shaming world, I felt like hey were mocking me and I would be so mad that they COMPLAIN about that. Now I see that having such a small percentage of gene-winners, they must feel alone. I mean, most of the people of this world have to be careful with what hey eat, they relentlessly describe their fight and struggles to get to a point that they will never reach because the goal set is always the unattainable one, so we don’t stop fighting. Now imagine you are surrounded by people that would shush you, where you cannot complain about anything because you are the “lucky ones”. This must be sick… You jut feel you don’t belong. Or you brag about it and you are the bitch.

So that is the world I perceived.

But I always thought I was the worse.

My reasons?

I was in the worst of places. I was not big enough to claim my distress, but I was too big to be really appreciated. My loud personality got muffled. If people will like me, they will only do so if I shut the fuck up and agree with them because obviously I have to keep whatever I can get right? I can’t choose. Not me. I am not worthy. I still got the “Oh but you are so beautiful (if only you would loose weight)”. And I have to say, I was very good at just accepting it as a bad luck thing. I would sincerely slap my face if I would meet my former self.

My family, which loves me, but never imagined what they did, they didn’t see how they scarred me, they didn’t because I didn’t tell, because I also accepted it as OK. They would actively tell me that I was fat and therefore I had to loose weight because I would be then beautiful and men would like me. They would then say that I was so beautiful anyway that they would come anyway, and then say it was for health. To be clear, growing up my health issues were my crooked teeth, little crooked spine and feet turned to the inside. ALL BECAUSE OF MY FAT RIGHT? (NO!). Although I have to say that one sucker of an orthopedist said my feet were because of my weight  and a very tiny girl in my class had it too so FUCK YOU! I am a scientist, so medical doctors are not my favourite people. They claim to know way more than they do just because of their polished egos (yeah I really do not like them!).

So my health was never a problem. But my mental health started to go bad around 13. This, nobody saw. I was fat so I had to be depressed about my weight, I mean who wouldn’t? this mental torture led to binges and me growing bigger in an already so changing body, and me changing into a woman was perceived as a full failure from me. No boys would see me (oh such a waste of time with THAT THOUGHT!!! I could have been so much!), I was the friend, the one they used to get to the pretty girls, and I did what I could to live my teenage life. I teamed with a fabulous girl with other issues, but that would have no problem having boys around. In a way I boosted her confidence, provided support and she provided me a window, a first row spectator to her life. In a way that was reality TV but live. I remember one day studying conjugation of verbs while she was making out with her fling. It seems sad, but I am proud that I took the time to study and not just watch like a psycho!

The time passed and I put myself in those kind of toxic (in a way) relationships with other girls, but I managed to find a boyfriend. Hey! Putting out always worked, you just have to accept whatever you get! I won’t say this was a mistake, but I am glad this relationship is over. I must say that at least this guy did not fat-shamed me. And I got less depressed because at least I got a guy, so this problem was out so I could concentrate in my studies and I did. So for that, I guess thank you.

In that period I fell full faced in a reality I was ignoring. I gained a lot of weight, I didn’t see it until someone posted a group photo on FB and I saw myself as an outsider. And I judged me. Because I was fat, I can judge fat, skinny people can’t. I judged me so hard. I hated myself. I almost vomited. How did I make this. This monster. So I lost weight. And I will skip this because that is the difficult part. So let’s just say I lost it. And what happened is not what I and everyone like me expected. I did not feel happy. Because I was not EXACTLY what I envisioned (because I am not that top model, I am me and we therefore shall not be the same).

I got even more depressed. Coming to the realisation that I will never be what I wanted although I already lost so much and did my masters degree at the same time. I just shifted my reason for self-hatred. Because this is it. All of this sums up to the fact that all I learned was this toxic self-love/self-hate relationship with myself. I could not live and only love me. Because that is not right. Something will always be wrong with me. And that is the bottom line. I am and will never be enough.

This photo is there to put out and try to express my changing feelings with the big evil of my whole life, my soft stomach. Just before my wight loss, has I was the fattest ever, I got these 4 stretch marks. And I am proud to say that these I always cherished. Because I saw them as my victory marks to have lost the weight. Now I love them because I see them as surviving scars only I have these ones. My personal barcode. 🙃 My belly was the one object of hatred I hold on too. I was never a cellulite freak, I really don’t mind it. I always appreciated my full thighs. My stomach was the bad guy. The flabby demon that made me ugly, therefore unworthy. It is the one that, even with the full obsession of weight loss, I never beat. I hated it so much. Even when it was smaller (when my depression made me hit rockbottom) I hated it with all my strength.

I am not yet healed.

I am not yet recovered.

But I am trying.

And I am trying to see my magic in every piece of me.

In my softness.

This is not ugly.

Ugly is subjective, not a FACT.

This is what I want is to be.

And it’s mine.

Only mine.


Love, T.