It should have been one of the happiest days of my life.
It was the day I graduated from university, something I worked hard at for three years to achieve.
But among the congratulations, there was a niggling, growing anxiety.
Over the past few months I’ve put on six kilos. I am now the heaviest I’ve ever been in my life. It’s not a great feeling.
I struggle to feel comfortable in my clothes, my belly sticks out – making me paranoid people think I’m pregnant – and I’m avoiding social outings less and less because of four nagging words:
What will people think?
This aching worry has consumed every aspect of my life for years now, and the more the weight that piles on, the more it builds.
If you’re my friend, or someone who’s kind, you’re probably dying to say to me: ‘Who cares what people think? Just be yourself.’ But what’s strange is I do like myself and who I am as a person.
I just don’t like the body I have so carelessly neglected.
And it’s pretty hard to not care what people think when I get fat-shamed by strangers.
It’s only happened to me a few times; most people are considerate enough to keep their opinions to themselves.
But just over a month ago, I was walking along Darling Harbour at dusk with a friend when I heard: “Hey fatty!”
I turned my head slightly and saw a suited man looking my way. “Yeah you, you fat bitch,” he said. “You are a disgrace to society, you fucking pig.”
I was shocked. I kept on walking as if I hadn’t heard a word, but the words stuck like chewing gum caught in my throat. I was scared. Scared he might attack me. I was humiliated – though more for my friend than for me. Was she embarrassed to be seen with me?
The words haunted me for weeks.
I never used to have such crippling social anxiety. Now I avoid going to the beach and even going outside in daytime hours. I feel obliged to decline invitations to go out drinking or dancing and when I sit at a restaurant I make sure I’ll easily be able to manoeuvre out of my seat. I would hate to be an inconvenience to anyone.
This weekend, my Mum is visiting and wants to visit people she hasn’t seen in years – strangers to me. When she told me I almost cried. I don’t want to meet people, especially friends of Mums’, looking the way I do. I feel like they’ll judge me and judge Mum in turn. I feel like I’ve disappointed her, even though I know she loves me and my brother more than anything.
Anxiety is fucking with my brain. I have never felt like this. I have never felt ashamed to be me, but now I do.
My worst fears about graduation were confirmed when, instead of feeling elated that all those years of study were over, all I could think about was looking like a marshmallow in the photos. These fears were justifiable. I received the official portraits and immediately began to cry. I looked monstrous. This is how I will look back on that day. These photos are what my future children will look at. I am disgusted that I have let myself get into this state.
It hasn’t always been this bad. I have been overweight ever since I can remember, due to no fault of my parents. It’s my self-control that lets me down. I avoid exercise like the plague and I can never say no to a piece of chocolate, or eight.
I’m an emotional eater. It’s a deadly cycle. If I’m happy? A celebratory dinner. Sad? A bag of Maltesers. Food makes me happy. Food makes all of my problems go away. Until it doesn’t. Until food is the problem. Food, a need for human existence, will kill me one day if I don’t change my habits.
And it’s not as if all I eat is junk. I like vegies, I eat them every day. I actively attempt to make each meal I have be a healthy one. It’s the brownie I sometimes buy as a treat on a Friday. Or the peanut butter toast I sometimes substitute for muesli when I get to work in the morning. Or the satay chicken I get delivered when I can’t be bothered cooking.
These impulsive choices I make bring happiness for five minutes. Then instantaneous regret. It feels like I have no control, which I know probably sounds ludicrous, but there’s just something in my brain that switches. I always succumb to the devil on my shoulder.
My other issue? I have a commitment problem. I have tried dieting, but I go three days and fall off the wagon. I have tried Weight Watchers, which I know would work if I could stick to it, the best I have gone is a month – I lost eight kilos then for one reason or another lost focus. As I always do.
But I have joined again. And this time I have a goal in mind. I leave for a mini Europe holiday in 3 months and want to have lost the weight I have put on in the last few. Just enough to feel a bit more comfortable.
And then the real challenge will begin when I get back. Changing habits for the long-term. It will be an uphill battle, but I’m ready.
Like this? Why not try …
‘How yoga helped me love my bigger body.’
DEBRIEF DAILY