I’m disgusted with myself this evening. I’m ashamed of myself and can’t believe that I am going to write this post but in for a penny in for a pound and you’ve been there through the good times, the tough times and so as long as you promise not to desert me through the shitty times here goes.
Picture the scene, I’m sat on the bus home next to a complete fuck-knuckle who is sat with his legs so far apart that he’s shoving me off my seat and I’m considering elbow dropping him in the balls when a woman the size I used to be gets on the bus. My reaction? I’m sad to say I looked down my nose at her and thought ‘fat cow’.
Hardly sylph like was I? I know first hand the indignity of being morbidly obese, let’s not forget I went one stage further and was super morbidly obese and so when did I become the sort of woman who looks down her nose at another human being? Especially a human being that I could relate to on so many levels. I’m sad that I would behave so appallingly, knowing as I do that the stares and the comments in public were (for me anyway) the very hardest part of being the size I was.
No two ways about it, I passed judgement on the lady on the bus – I looked at her spilling over the sides of the seat and thought I was better than her. Is that the woman I’ve become? Judging people’s worth on the size of their waist? It feels hideous.
Of course then I flipped to feeling horrific about the little voice inside me that had sneered at her. I wanted to rush over and hug her and let her know that I understood what it was like and to offer her my surgeon’s number should she want to do something about it. I’d probably have got a smack in the mouth for my trouble if she was anywhere near as defensive about her size as I used to be.
I was also reminded of a part of ‘Jemima J’ by the wonderful Jane Green, a book I read with tears streaming down my face as Jemima’s story resonated so closely with me. Having shrunk away to become a hardbodied gym freak Jemima tries to bond with another character Jenny who is fat but who refuses to believe that Jemima was once the same size. It’s sick isn’t it that I want to be Jemima in that situation one day isn’t it. Part of me hoped that if I had gone over to the bus woman that she would have refused to believe that I was once a size 36.
I feel ashamed, I feel like weeping and I feel like stuffing my face. The first two? Fair enough. The last one? No fucking way, I’m not going there again.
(in other news, contracts from my literary agent have arrived – I don’t understand a word but am excited)