Hi, I’m the fat friend

Content Warning: Body image and diet culture

The school year was coming to a close, and you could smell the fresh promise of summer in the air. I’d just finished my tenth-grade history class and thought that the best way to end my day would be to spend it at one of Toronto’s most underground spots: Yorkdale Mall. I walked in, school uniform and all, with a then-friend and a mission: find some clothes for a party.

“God, they never have anything cute in the plus-size sections,” I groaned.

“Aww, Robyn, don’t say that!” She kindly grasped my arm, “You’re so beautiful. ”

I froze, biting my tongue, “I never said I wasn’t. ”

A pressure suddenly nestled into my stomach as her words stung me. She continued walking on without realizing I’d stopped.

I was 15-years-old when three thoughts were made abundantly clear to me that spring afternoon—thoughts that had always haunted me in bits and pieces throughout my life. With my head buzzing and the heat of my then-friend’s words piercing me, I knew for sure that: (1) being fat was an insult in and of itself; (2) my body and my bodily experiences weren’t worthy of being spoken about; and (3) my very existence as an overweight woman made others uncomfortable.

Soon after these revelations, I fell into a reverie; one that wrapped me up in its warmth whenever these ghosts of mine would come to visit—one that cherished the thought of me losing weight. Then, I’d be living the life I really wanted .

Now, don’t get me wrong: what my then-friend was suggesting wasn’t strange or new to me at all. It was just the and-there-it-is climax to a long-building tension that I’d buried and held in my throat for years; I had hoped to somehow keep my feelings of unworthiness—which stemmed from my weight— a secret from the rest of the world for as long as I lived. Growing up as a Filipino woman and living in the Philippines for six years of my life meant that my self-esteem was constantly coming under fire. As a child, I’d hear the sharp, unprovoked remarks of my relatives, peers, and even teachers.

“Wow, you really love eating.”

“You’d be much prettier if you just lost a little weight. Try not to think of diets as hard, you can do it.”

I was always a little less than. A little off. Almost there, but not quite. The bottom line was that I was never enough, and I was never sure when I’d ever be enough. I was a child, and all I could do was sit there in a body that didn’t feel like it was mine anymore. I always wondered if they knew I lived in this body that they felt entitled to critiquing.

It’s the body I see in the mirror when I wake up and it’s the same body I go to bed with. Day in and day out, I’m the first person who notices the smallest changes and fluctuations in my body, and I’m the one who agonizes over them in every waking moment. My peers, relatives, and teachers didn’t have to degrade me; I was already doing enough damage on my own. Keep in mind, this was during a time in my life when my build was relatively average and healthy for my height. I couldn’t even recognize what I actually looked like in the mirror because of the comments that constantly morphed and morphed and morphed me into someone I never looked like in the first place. But I always thought that this was okay. This was fine: they were only saying it for my sake. They’re only looking out for me, right? God forbid I said anything to try and defend myself against their spiteful words; then, not only would I have had this body that wasn’t enough for them, but I also would’ve been “too sensitive” to see that they were only making these comments “for my sake.”

But then there were those comments. The kind that were so gut-wrenching to hear that it was made painfully clear that the people in my life weren’t ever interested in my wellbeing to begin with. The kind of comments that you don’t ever forget. I was 11 years old and just barely recovering from Dengue fever. The fever had taken a debilitating toll on my body. My face had turned pallid, my stomach lurched at the sight of food, and I loathed being awake, for it meant feeling the fever find new ways to torment me. Shortly after I’d been discharged from the hospital, I was welcomed with, “Why did you start eating a lot again? You should’ve kept the weight off.”

So, for most of my life—even before that spring afternoon—I’d already internalized the idea of my body as something not worthy enough to talk about outside of the context of health. What’s worse is that I’d internalized the idea of my body as taboo. My very existence as an overweight woman made others uncomfortable, so it would be in my best interest to never dare speak of it so openly. My bodily experiences were inconvenient to others. They were a shameful burden I had to bear alone. That said, I would’ve never guessed that it would be the three words, “You’re so beautiful ”—nonchalantly yet sweetly cooed to me—that would confirm all of this for me.

Not only was my body a constant platform of discourse among my closest social circles, but I was also forced to see it used as comic relief and be villainized in stories, TV shows, movies—any kind of media you can think of. Filipino comedy shows would constantly make jokes at the expense of fat cast members or even audience members. I could only ever dream of seeing a fat woman play the titular hero of some story; but no, I got Dugong , a fat, evil sea-witch rivalling the thin, kind mermaid Marina . I’d also like to give a special shoutout to Shallow Hal for letting me know I’d only be loved or even worthy of love if my partner was hypnotized into seeing me as skinny first, before even considering me to be a romantic pursuit.

These cultural experiences as a Filipino woman and these instances of media representation directly shaped my sense of worth, which seeped into other parts of my life like the poison that it was—most notably my love life. I struggled with my sense of worth and tried to find it in romantic validation. Even then, it was, and still continues to be, difficult to accept any kind of romantic interest; not only do I have to worry about people being interested in me for the sole fact that I’m Asian, but I also have to know if they’re alright with dating fat women. I make it a point to use full-body pictures on dating apps and even then, I still worry if others are actually alright with me being fat. Despite being as transparent as possible about how I look—short of wearing a sign on my head that said, “Hey, I’m fat by the way. Hope that’s alright,”—it still felt like a dirty secret that my romantic interests weren’t truly acknowledging unless they made a comment about it. It always made me second guess myself, and my insecurities would manifest themselves in the anxiety I felt in response to the smallest and most insignificant glances, reactions, or messages. Did they actually scroll through all my pictures? Am I catfishing? And when they did make a comment about my weight, it felt like they made it a point to only refer to me as “curvy” or “thick,” as if the only way they could tolerate my body was by sexualizing it, only acknowledging the parts that society deems attractive.

It took me a couple of years to unpack what had been said that spring afternoon and that is why I write to you, with my deepest insecurities laid bare and vulnerable. So, let me reiterate. Hi, I’m the fat friend. I write to let you know that when I make a fat joke, I’m reclaiming my bodily autonomy and a significant part of my identity that’s so often ridiculed, villainized, and used as comic relief. Most importantly, I hope you know that I’m aware that I’m fat and that this isn’t inherently bad, or necessarily me putting myself down and viewing myself as anything less than worthy. I’m fat, this is a fact. Don’t stumble over your words trying to “comfort me,” finding another way to say “fat” or telling me to be kind with myself by not joking about my body.

When I call myself fat, I’m not forcing you into a corner to start challenging the way you’ve been programmed to view fat people, especially because it becomes much more apparent when you find ways to avoid it. You can “curvy” and “thick” me to death—but know that it’s much more uncomfortable for me to watch non-fat people struggle to have any sort of conversation about my body if the only way for it to be palatable for them is by downplaying my size. I’m going to need non-fat people to realize that fat isn’t a bad word and that we don’t have to make fatness taboo or uncomfortable to talk about. The only reason why the word “fat” is viewed so negatively is because of the many moral judgements that burden the word. When we realize and acknowledge this, there’s no reason for us to give an adjective that much power. I’m fat. I’m also beautiful, intelligent, creative, and passionate. Just know that I’m much more than my body. Being a fat woman is something that I’ve learned to live with and to fully accept. Can you?

I’m 20 years old now, and I’m still learning how to live with the notions about my body that I’ve internalized. Still chained around my neck are the links between my weight and my humanity; they’re much looser these days but heavy, nonetheless. I’m trying to separate the truth from the instilled fiction. I’m trying my best to cultivate forgiveness in a body that’s done absolutely nothing to me other than try its best to keep me alive. The sobering rot and decay that revealed the harm of my warm reverie simply wouldn’t let me hold on to it anymore, and I’ve only just begun to snap out of it. And for the first time in five years, I truly no longer want to feel my reverie’s suffocating embrace ever again. I no longer look forward to the life I really wanted to live, because this is it. This is the life I really want to live. And this is the body I want to live in.