No need to worry about my weight. I got that covered.

I am fat. Simple and to the point. I have only been "not fat" for three short years in my mid-twenties. It is an issue with me, to say the least. At this point, I am the biggest I have ever been. I am not an obsessive eater, quite the contrary. Some days I only eat once. I am not very active, I admit, but my son has a eczema, breaks out at the drop of a hat, I obsess, and that makes us limited on certain activities. I could go walking in the evening, and have the best intentions, but I would rather spend time with my husband or catch up on sleep. (We never sleep through the night because of my son's condition, and most days I run on three or four hours of sleep, rarely consecutive.) I have been to doctors, tried all the fad weight loss shakes and pills, starved myself, screamed at myself in the mirror, cried, avoided buying certain foods for my house, declined desert, researched every weight loss advice column the internet has to offer. All of the excuses aside, I am fat.

I hate it. It makes me feel completely unattractive. I am constantly embarrassed and assume people are always looking at me, laughing at me, judging me. I dread going out to any public event. I make excuses to skip weddings, birthdays, sporting events, social gathers, all because I am ashamed of how I look and dread what people think of me. When I do go out, I spend hours trying to find an outfit and end up sobbing uncontrollably on my bed because of how my clothes fit me. When people tag me in pictures on Facebook, I immediately hide the pictures and untag them. I refuse to get family photos because I have to be in them. My son is two and a half... we have had family photos once and he was four months old. I rarely take pictures with my son or husband because I don't like how I look. Going out to eat is especially difficult. I always play this scene over and over in my head of someone coming up to me and asking me if I left any food for the rest of the diners. When I make eye contact I know they are wondering if I ordered a small salad or half the menu. Clothes shopping? You can only imagine. I can't go to the gym because all the bench-pressing, 'roid heads laugh because I'm too fat to start on a treadmill. So where do I start? What do I do? I don't shovel food down my throat all day. I know that's what people assume. I just sit and eat. Not even remotely close. But isn't that what you picture when you see those meems making fun of obese people?

My biggest fear? The end all for me? I worry that when my son is school age he will be ridiculed because I am a huge freak. I worry he will feel the need to defend me, or worse yet, be ashamed of me. I worry my husband will stop loving me. I worry that he is already ashamed of me. I am completely healthy now, but I worry I won't get to watch my son grow up because I am damaging my body by being this heavy. Then he will have the shame of telling me people why I passed. "She was just too fat. Her body couldn't handle it. She loved food more than me."

This is a deeply personal problem I have with myself. Why am I sharing this? I want understanding. I want people to understand that, yes, I am aware of my weight, and yes, I am mortified. I want people to understand that you can get this heavy without eating five full pizzas a day while guzzling a two liter of Coke. I want people to know I do not gorge myself. I want people to grasp the idea that I don't need their concern, sympathy, malicious comments, stares, pity or "at least you're pretty" comments. I want people to realize
that I do try to be normal. I want people to realize that some of us "fat asses" are not walking cases of diabetes, blood pressure issues, and cholesterol problems. Mostly, I want people to have an understanding that this is MY problem. You cannot say anything to me that I have not already obsessed over for hours. You cannot call me a name I have not called myself. You have your demons and this is mine. I wish I had the time and money to broil fish every night with my steamed vegetables and then walk three miles on my treadmill. Sadly, sometimes I have to stretch a dollar and make pasta. Sometimes I am so worn out from trying to comfort my almost-always-suffering son that I don't even contemplate exercising like I should. I do try, though, contrary to what my image displays.

I know this is my problem, my fault, and I am the only one who can fix my issue. I know that letting myself get to this point is horrendous. I know this effects my son and family. But most important, I know how I look.