I was born overweight. I was 9lb 10oz and my mum would tell me that I was the talk of the ward. Visitors to other babies would stop by my cot, in awe at my fatness. I remember being 6 years old and dressed as a Hawaiian hula dancer. Grass skirt, bikini top, lai…the works. I remember thinking ‘I shouldn’t be wearing this. I am too fat to be wearing this.’ Not the thought a 6 year old should be having. And it wasn’t like I was born in the times like today where skinniness is shoved down your throat.
I don’t like being fat. I sit on chairs, worried that it’ll collapse underneath me. I hate having my picture taken because then I’ll have to face up to the reality that is my weight. I have to plot my path around a restaurant when the tables are close together because I can’t get through. I have to shop in specially titled shops for fat girls. And I’m dying. My family has a history of heart disease and diabetes and here I am slowly eating myself to death. I wouldn’t smoke. I wouldn’t take drugs. So why am I killing myself with food?
I am an emotional eater. If I am happy – I’ll eat. If I am depressed – I’ll eat. If I am celebrating – we eat.
My husband is an enabler. He will encourage me in my overeating as do I him. I have 3 children and I am in danger of not being around to see them growing up. And it’ll be my fault. They will grow up without a mum and they won’t be able to cope. Especially T, he is such a mummy’s boy. How can I do this to them?