Fat Like Me

Cotton Candy



Fat, I say.  In public.  Online.  Can you even believe the fucking audacity of giving myself an accurate description??

What follows is always so predictable.  A flood of misguided compliments, and you aggressively imposing yourself onto me.

Stop it,” you say.  ”You’re beautiful.”

Hush now,” you say.  ”You’re amazing and wonderful.”

No more of this,” you say, trying to sew my lips closed.  ”We love you.”

And I can’t help but think:  Yeah…no shit…I’m adorable as fuck!  I never said I wasn’t.  I never said anything about beauty or likeability or whatever else it is that you think you’re saving me from.

All I said was that I was fat (the definition, if I’m not mistaken, means that I’m full of fat, that I’m with the fatness, that this body or its parts contain fat, likely a larger volume than average).

When I say that my hair is brown, nobody freaks the fuck out like I just discovered I was a horrible human being.  So when I note my bulging belly, my fat frame, why do you feel the need to shush and stop me?

Does my voice scare you as much as my thighs?  Which btw ARE fat.  Fatty fatty fat fat.  But, and here’s the point I think that you’re missing, fat doesn’t mean ugly.  That’s all in your head (and in the media, etc.).

And look, I’m sorry that you see things that way; I’m sorry that you’re probably terrified of it; I’m sorry that you fear a body that could disgust you.  But that’s not me, and it’d be real swell if you could stop imposing your shit on me every time I give an accurate description of myself.

Because when you respond to “I’m fat” like I just said I was worthless, you are essentially saying that because I’m fat, you think I’m worthless.

The truth is I just want to live in a world of honesty.  And the honest truth is that I am fat.  I’m beautiful.  I’m talented.  I’m hardworking and well loved.  I’m kind and funny and highly educated (this sentence structure style to the contrary).  Sometimes, I’m also an asshole.  I can be a real dick.  I pout and I cry and I’m a hypochondriac (though I recently diagnosed myself correctly on WebMD so assuming I don’t die immediately I’ll start seeing patients next week).  I’m a human being: good, bad, and everything in between.  And I just want to be able to talk about myself, exactly as I am, without you trying toquiet down my experience, my reality, because of the issues that you have with the words I use.

I’m tired of having to tone myself down for you.

I’m tired of having to refer to myself as a “curvy” girl.  (I do that.  Throw in words like curvy because that’s what they call it.  That’s how they like to describe it but it’s not my word.  I would say fat.  Big and fat.  But they don’t like that).

I’m tired of changing for you.

My fatness isn’t yours to control.  My words aren’t yours to soften.  My frame isn’t yours to contain.

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Victoria Young

Writer. Dater. Masturbator. Don't worry my parents don't think I'm funny either. Grad Student. My breasts aren't ashamed of me either. You and me kid, we're going to change this world.