Confession time: Why I deserve to be unhappy

Why is this?  I’m fat.

I don’t need a motorised scooter to get around or anything, hell I don’t need to go to plus sized clothing stores to make my clothes fit.  But I do take up space.  My lifestyle, dare I say, is all right.  I go to uni, I play sports, I go out dancing on a Friday night.  But according to many, larger women don’t deserve to have anything that makes them happy.

Oh, I wouldn’t go as far to say that I’m being denied employment or service at restaurants because I’m overweight.  It’s the little things that get to you.  Recently, my roommate posted this on his page.

Married Couples are Happier When Wives Thinner, study finds 

Now this in itself isn’t offensive or surprising to me.  What was offensive to me was how this study shat all over scientific methodology, but whatever.  I have been told, in no uncertain terms by several men that they don’t have time for rounder ladies.  I do forget how widespread this view is, but topics like this get people talking – and I realise just how prejudiced people around me are.

 

The first comment was from a pregnant friend, who wrote this:

“well, I’m screwed then!”

To which my room mate replied,

“Only for a few more months, Meg!”

Oh yes, don’t worry Meg.  See right now you are a horrid, squelchy, ugly being, using your pregnancy as an excuse.  You can make your husband pie every night, you can clean the house until it looks like the cover of Better Homes and Gardens, and you can wait on him hand and foot.  But could he be happy when he’s married to a fatty?  Never!  Don’t worry though– as soon as you pop that baby out, you can starve youself, ditch the baby body and go back to being the kind of wife you husband can take outside.

I made a comment too

“uh oh, I’m screwed long term!’’

To which my roommate replied –

“only cos you let yourself be :)”

ARRRGH!  THE CONDESCENDING SMILEY FACE OF DOOM!

Wow.  In one sentence, without even stating anything directly, my roommate has inferred everything that bothers me about my weight.  This would be my direct translation

“Oh Voyager, you so silly.  Not only are you repulsive to look at, but you’ve forgotten it’s your lazy, weak willed character it that got you there!”

And thus followed a delightfully immature facebook argument where I called him ignorant, and he called me lazy in less vague terms that got to the point where I nearly stormed into his bedroom, tipping his protein powder onto his bed and asking him why he dared make fun of my food issues when he lives on fake protein and amino acids.  Ah, but he’s not fat, therefore he’s an expert on healthy eating and successful relationships, no?  Being the ugly, weak, big mac inhaling fatass I am, I can’t help but preach the necessity of sensitivity and personality compatibility in relationships.  Silly Voyager indeed.

So to recap – why did I brain fart and get fat in the first place?  It’s a long story, but after my breakdown, they fed me a lot of Zyprexa. And sodium valproate. And many others.  I put on 5 kilos in my first week.  I gained 30 kilos in just three months.

My fuller figure is a battle scar because I was very, very ill.  I was out of control.  These drugs were a last resort to get me from a mess of a human being needing constant supervision to an independent law abiding citizen.  So, whenever one of you materialistic bitches that make up 99.8% of society thinks it’s funny to comment on my physique do you know what I hear?

“Well Voyager, you probably would be dead now if you didn’t take that drug.  But you did and look at you now – a big fat loser.  That’s so much worse!  You should have refused it – yeah, you would be dead, but you would have died thin and beautiful, and isn’t that what really matters?”

So it seems.  I’m not on the drugs anymore, and my energy levels have returned to normal.  I’ve been shifting the weight, slowly but surely.  It’s been hard though, funnily enough losing weight ain’t easy!  If only I could stop eating…it’s just that when all you hear are people telling you how repulsive the way you look is, eating a large triple cheeseburger meal might be the only good thing that happens to you all damn day.

Depression strikes - Are you Prepared?

Sooo…I didn’t up this morning.

I woke up at ten, when my alarm went off.  I wasn’t really interested in going back to sleep but I didn’t get out of bed.  I didn’t do anything, really.  I just kind of lay there, not thinking, just sort of taking stuff in like my morning backache, the rattling sounds of my roommate cleaning and the neighbours mowing their lawn.  Eventually I was forced to leave the bed when my need to use the bathroom overcame my need to be stationary.  I happened to glance at the clock to find it was already 2pm.

What the… how do I blow four hours by doing nothing at all?  Was I sleeping?  Probably, intermittently.  But usually when someone becomes aware of morning, it does things to them.  It makes them think about food, exercise, clothes.  Start getting ready for work, or if they don’t have work, they remember all the friends and housework they need to catch up on.  This sort of stuff  isn’t moving for me sometimes. 

These episodes of nothingness happen to me a lot, at least once a week.  Even if I have made plans that day I will not be moved until a urinary tract infection threatens, and often receive calls from confused and angry friends and family demanding to know why they have been stood up.  It upsets me that they are upset, and I have no solid reason to placate them with.  But really burns me up that even the concern for people around me isn’t enough to shake me out of these lengthy and, let’s face it, self indulgent episodes of inactivity.

I can’t talk to anyone about it, no one understands.  It sounds so idiotic:

“so you were in bed all morning?”

“yeah.  Just lying there, doing nothing.  Couldn’t get up.”

“why?  Were you sick?”

“no.”

“have a big night out?”

“no”

“did your alarm go off?”

“yes”

“so why couldn’t you get up?

“I just couldn’t.”

“Why not??”

“I. just. Couldn’t.”

Even I’m confused.

I know what causes it, of course.  This happens as the black dog begins to gain on me, getting in close enough to bite.  I start to hear things and think things I normally try to keep my distance from.  He tells me its worthless getting up, because I’m worthless.  I have nothing to contribute.  I’m leaching off the government, no – one likes being around me, people are just putting up with me.  Getting of bed would mean inflicting the burden of my personality on the world, and what on earth did the poor world do to deserve that?

Lately, a combination of severely injuring my ankle and my employment contract ending means logically that I should be prepared for these sorts of feelings to increase.  So I have a plan.  I already have a list of things to do for when I do get up.  It’s quite generic – housework, cook dinner, go over notes, that sort of thing – but I find that having to decide how to fill up my day tends to prolong my episodes.

This plan is a long term one, because depression never goes away.  It can let up for awhile, but having the best job, relationships and drugs will not protect you forever.  So I would be stupid to throw out my list when things turn around for me.  The dog will return, he always does.  He returned today, but I was prepared.  If I wasn’t, I would probably still be in bed.

Voyager