Saturday: I put on a dress that hung off me this time last year. I am struggling to find anything that fits for the four events I have over the weekend. My friend tries to zip it up as I stare at the boning digging into my stomach fat. I bend over to get a pair of heels and the dress splits open. My friend looks at me in horror. I try on a pair of pants…they get stuck on my calves, there is no hope of them zipping up now. All the clothes that I wore a year ago, I cannot get into or do up. I look like a sausage roll in the little black dress that I eventually squeeze myself into for one of my events. There is photographic evidence of the evening to prove it. I spend the night uncomfortable, tugging at the too tight material, staring in disbelief at every reflection I catch. I am fat.
Wednesday: I see the facilitator from the recovery group I quit earleir this year. I am in a grocery store buying binge food. Despite the bingeing and purging, I do not get thinner and I cannot hide it anymore. I am holding a wheel of brie when she stops and looks at me. “You look well,” she says. Well = Fat.
Friday: My friend takes a photo of me in the park with her child. I am crouched down and bending over towards the child. There is an undeniable roll around my middle. She posts it on social media so that all the world can see how disgusting I am. I untag myself as fast as I can. It doesn’t make it hurt any less. The picture should have captured a precious memory of the little girl and I. She is smiling adoringly at me. I am fat.
This truth that I keep trying to deny must be faced.