I’ve had to make peace with my past ever since I brought it well out into the open by getting the entire sorry mess tattooed inside my left wrist in three small digits. I’ve always talked about it on the blog, indeed the entire blog is based on the size of my arse, but this is different.
This is about holding my head up high (and taking a deep breath and clenching my fists) and being honest when someone spies the tattoo and utters the question, “What’s 443?” I have a standard response that I trot out but I’m yet to have two people react in the same way and understandably there are always more questions. When asked I say “It’s the weight I was when the Doctor told me I wouldn’t make it to thirty unless something changed. I had it tattooed on my thirtieth birthday.” I then usually try and change the subject because although I’m not ashamed of where I’ve been and how far I’ve come I don’t like the attention being centred on me for too long. Some people take it totally in their stride before saying something congratulatory and moving on, some want to know all the gory details of the op, some want to know how it ever got that bad (that’s a very difficult one to be faced with), and quite a few demand to see a picture of me at my heaviest, the friend on Saturday night fell into the latter category and told me I am unrecognisable as that girl.
On the outside I know I’m still fat and it’s only recently that I’ve started to feel that my body has changed, I’m mentally shedding the weight now as well as physically. That doesn’t make it any easier to deal with the tiny percentage of people who look at me now and make it patently clear that they’re thinking “fuck me you’re massive” because it makes me want to scream and shout and rage, “if only you fucking knew” I’d shout, “I couldn’t get out of bed, I couldn’t walk upstairs without getting seriously out of breath, I ALMOST ATE MYSELF TO DEATH” I’d screech, “so yes I might not be a Polly Pocket teeny girl with a bottom like two boiled eggs in a hankie but I’m pretty fucking special sunshine and don’t you forget it”.
Except I don’t, I let them get to me. Their judgementally wanky “if you’re not thin you’re not in” schtick stressing me out. It chips away at my confidence and makes me feel shit. The tattoo is as much a reminder of how far I have come and how much I have been through as it is a testament to quite how shit it was back then and it’s permanent, I’m permanently stuck with it. It turns out though that I didn’t need anything inked on me as a reminder, the mental scars of the way I was treated and the way I thought and felt about myself (and still do most of the time) will be with me long after the ink fades.