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There Must Be A Diamond In All This Rough

I have a belly.

I mean, I’ve been getting steadily fatter for years now, so of course I KNEW I had a belly.  I was just always able to hide it fairly well (at least from myself) by using big shirts.  I was lucky in that my boobs always stuck out farther than my gut, so as to give one the pseudo-illusion that I wasn’t all that fat.  She can’t be that fat…her belly doesn’t stick out.  Shirts would flow from my boobs and then hang down to my waist, without the slightest little bulge along the way.  After subtly mentioning that I was a full-figured gal to a man I had been emailing briefly through an online dating site, he asked me, “Well, does your stomach stick out farther than your boobs?  Because no matter what then…you aren’t fat in my book.”  Real charmer, right?  But then I had a whole new way to measure myself.  A new standard made out of thin air (pun intended) by which I could judge myself.  I have an arsenal of ways to measure myself, to make sure I fit, to monitor my progress on the way to morbid obesity.

I think back to a time when I was feeling healthy and great and in control of myself.  It wasn’t that long ago.  It was only thirty pounds ago.  I was still obese by any professional measure, but I felt pretty, confident, athletic even.  I felt unstoppable.  Then my foot got hurt.  And I practically cartwheeled my way back to my bad habits.  Can’t run every day?  Well, then.  Don’t move AT ALL and order pizza every night.  You poor thing.

The back and forth and back and forth….getting knocked down and picking myself back up.  Knocking MYSELF down and then KICKING myself while I’m laying there crying.  I’m my biggest enemy.  And yet I’m the only that can help myself.

All of the internal struggles came to a header today in the dressing room of a plus sized clothing store.  I’ve been able to hide in baggy jeans and baggy sweatshirts until just this week.  It’s getting warm outside.  The thirty pounds I’ve put on since November mean that none of my shorts or t-shirts or even my GYM CLOTHES fit.


Even more so to step into a dressing room with clothes that, yes, are a couple sizes bigger than I’ve ever bought before.  And then to find that even though I chose big shirts to have them drape from my breasts to my waist without a bulge of interruption…it didn’t work.

The clothes were cute.  They looked as cute as they could on a body like mine.  But I left the store empty-handed and choking back sobs.  The problem isn’t the clothes.  The problem is my belly that now sticks out farther than my boobs.

The problem isn’t my belly.  The problem is my head and my soul and the cyclical connection between mind, body, and spirit.  They all need to be fed and happy.  And I’ve been ignoring big chunks of myself as I buried my head in books and focused on the GRADES, THE GRADES, HAVE TO BE THE BEST.

I need some serious soul time.  Today wasn’t the day.  I wasn’t alone today.  I need some time alone.  Some time to be with my mind, and body, and spirit.  Some time to remind myself that I love me.

I’m seeking advice, here.  I’m hurting.  I’ve hurt myself a lot.  And I need some help.


One Response

  1. You are more than just your belly.

    This is not permanent, you will go back to being the healthier you as soon as all the school pressure lets off.

    I love you and will see you in 4 days and for a week we will be care-free and not dwell on anything real.

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