I've been thinking about losing weight my entire life. Walking downstairs to the cafeteria in 3rd grade, I thought, "Everything will be so much better when I'm thin." Getting thin is my Miss America, it was my little girl dream. By now, I've been fat for so long, I don't know how to differentiate between myself and the fat. The fat is me. I am fat. Getting thin is dying my hair blonde, wearing blue contacts, growing a foot taller.


J: Mom, Dad...I'm...fat.

M: Are you sure?

D: Yeah, honey, maybe you're just big-boned.

M: It's just baby fat. This is something we all go through. You'll grow out of it.

J: No, I'm sure. I'm fat. I've known I was fat since I was five.

D: Five? You weren't fat when you were five.

M: That was definitely baby fat.


Fat made me kind, fat made me loyal, fat made me funny. Losing weight is like dumping the first friend you made in pre-school because they're not cool anymore. You try to convince yourself this is the best thing for you both, you've grown apart. You stop returning phone calls, you put down the ice cream cone.

When I imagine myself thin, there is a beautiful body in a black dress. It's walking across a restaurant, and people turn and look. And I have no head. I can't attach my head to that body.