I watched a TikTok by the amazingly hilarious and talented Elyse Myers today. It got me to thinking…
From as early as I can remember, I have been “othered.” I’m not sure how young that was? Maybe 3? That was the time when I started gaining more weight than other kids without good reason. It was also the time when everyone from family members, to neighbors, to teachers, and other kids, started feeling the need to comment on my body size. Maybe I was 4, around when I started pre-school? Either way, I was “The Big Kid.” The girl in the middle of the back row of every yearbook picture. Not just a head taller than everyone else, but also R O U N D. Fat. Or my favorite term for it, “heavyset.” Ugh. Shudder. I hate heavyset. It makes me feel like a squat rack. Anyway…
I was born in 1979, which means I was a child of the 80s, and a preteen and teenager of the 90s. And let me tell you, that time-period was ENTIRELY different than things are now – not that now is so-much-better – but in many ways it is. In the 80s and 90s there was no “fat acceptance.” There were no “body positivity advocates.” There was Weight Watchers and Jane Fonda and Slim Fast and the women’s section of JC Penney. No Torrid. No options for plus sized kids. In fact, they didn’t even make gym shorts in my size. My mom had to sew me a pair. And my extraordinarily well-meaning mother had me on every possible diet to try and save me from becoming a social pariah. Essentially, this meant two things: 1. I was almost always hungry (I was also growing like a weed and about 5’6 by the time I hit 6th grade) and 2. I looked like a 12-year-old Administrative Assistant because no one made clothes for kids who didn’t fit into a certain size dimension. And you know what I absolutely did not need? Shoulder pads. You know what every single piece of clothing purchased for me had? Shoulder pads. But I digress.
At a very early age, the pattern of self-loathing began for smol Erin. Whether it was a family member yanking my shirt down when it would ride up on my backside to hide my shape, or my father (please don’t @ him, he’s dead, I love him, and I forgave him long ago) telling me that I better quit eating because no boys would ever be interested in me if I was a fat girl. Or my grandmother (same rules apply as they do for dad) who stocked candy for my thin brother and cousins but would publicly shame me for taking the same number of jellybeans because I “don’t need those.” I was taught I was wrong. Not worthy. Not the desired type. Somehow less than because I weighed more than. I learned to tell the self-deprecating joke about myself before anyone else got a chance to do it for me. I taught myself to camouflage my appearance with humor, with people-pleasing, with intelligence, and amenability to things other than what I wanted because it made me easier to stomach. But there was absolutely nothing wrong with me. In fact, there was a lot to celebrate. So, let’s talk about that.
My mother taught me to read before I even started school. Did you know that? By the time I was 8, I was reading books like The Red Badge of Courage and A Wrinkle in Time. I started playing soccer at 6 and made travel teams, consistently, every year. I weighed 240 pounds in high school at 5’8 and varsity lettered EIGHT TIMES. I was in the National Honor Society. School plays. Band and Jazz Band. I had a job. I went to every high school dance – with a date, even. I had wonderful friends and was almost never in trouble. It didn’t occur to me to do anything other than try to be an achiever. To make up for the fatness with something – anything – else. But it never stopped the judgement. It never stopped people from assuming I was lazy. Or even better, stupid. Because surely everyone knows Fat = Stupid. I mean, all you have to do is eat less, right? Exercise, right?
I was doing those things.
I was doing all of them.
From the age of 8 all the way through NOW – at 42 – I have been on a diet.
Weight Watchers.
Jenny Craig.
Nutrrisystem.
Medifast.
Slim Fast.
Phentermine.
Alli. (Don’t even get me started on this one….)
Keto.
And you know what it did?
At 21 I was anorexic.
At 25 I was bulimic.
AND STILL FAT. And yes… that CAN happen. Look it up. It’s a thing.
There was nothing wrong with me.
There IS nothing wrong with me.
Do I have metabolic failure? Do I often make poor choices when I eat? Sure.
Has my health failed as I’ve gotten older and is potentially comorbid to my obesity? Sure
Am I a less worthwhile human being because of that? No.
But people love to say otherwise.
The Assistant High School Track Coach and Guidance Counselor who stood 15 feet from me and talked loudly on a hot day at a track meet about what a shame it was that my parents allowed me to become grotesque and that the last thing I needed was the sugar filled Gatorade provided for us.
The teacher who not only commented on my body, but also made fun of me for sharing mozzarella sticks with a friend at lunch and stated, for everyone to hear, that the cafeteria sold salads and that if I ever wanted a career onstage, I’d better start eating those instead. That teacher was overheard by another faculty member and reported to administration who demanded they apologize to me. They did but then TORTURED ME for the rest of my high school experience. Which I HID because it was easier to take the abuse than be embarrassed by it.
The college professor who told me there was no way I’d be cast in black box productions because I took up too much space.
BECAUSE MY BODY TOOK UP TOO MUCH SPACE.
This, huge, terrible, awful, no good, very big body.
I was 20 here.
Words can intrinsically damage the foundation of who we are as developing human beings. And the world we live in has weaponized words against the human body for as long as I can recall. Especially the bodies of women. (Guys – I know you get shamed, too. But I’m speaking about my own lived experience, here.) We’re developing as people from the moment we’re born until the day we die. It doesn’t get easier to ignore cruelty with age. It is so vitally important to have care with the words we choose when we speak about other humans, whether they’re friends or strangers. When I see the little girls, rather than commenting on their prettiness, I find different positives to focus on, instead. My goodness! What a great leader you’ll be! Oh my, what beautiful kindness you have when you share with your little brother! I bet you’re going to be anything you want to be someday! You use your words so well!
Words matter, folks. As a fully grown adult human, I spend every day of my life undoing damage done before I was even given the opportunity to learn how to love myself because of the words used to describe my body. Not my soul or my spirit. Not my kindness or my love of others. Only my earthly being. The shell that contains me. It’s criminal to allow patterns like this to continue. And so, I ask you. From the bottom of my heart. Use your brilliant hearts and minds to be thoughtful of your choices when speaking to and about others.
And never, under any circumstances, choose shoulder pads.
Unless you’re Joan Collins, then you do you, you bad ass bitch…