It was a cold December afternoon when my grandmother, followed by her hobbling collie Tina, pushed the front door open. She put her bags down and looked at me standing there in the middle of the dining room. “Still fat are you?” she asked in her bitter, 80-year-old French accent. “Hmm.”
That night she and my parents went out to dinner to the only French restaurant in town. I anxiously watched the headlights of their car pull out of the driveway, simultaneously seeing the eyes of my older brother grow wide. “Get ready, fat-so,” he said, “You’re in for it.” He picked up a sofa cushion and proceeded to suffocate me for hours.
The next night the whole family sat around the kitchen table under a dim light. Mom made lasagna, heaping cheesy portions of it onto our plates. Dad, sitting next to the refrigerator, spoke to my mother’s mom in coy French. It was the most talk the table had seen in weeks.
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Other than the fact my brother and I were conceived, I didn’t know of a single intimate moment between my parents. One hears stories about kids walking in on their folks during sex. But the idea that my mom would sleep with my father, who was over 350 pounds and hid that he drank whiskey after needing liver surgery and was so reclusive he only left his home office to go number two, singing, “This magic moment!,” was laughable.
I was somewhere around 200 pounds when I was in sixth grade, that same year my grandmother visited with Tina, standing five feet tall. I loved sitting in front of the television, escaping in its glow, eating Pringles. At school dances, I didn’t interact with girls and I never had the courage to bring a girl (friend or otherwise) home until I was a sophomore. I didn’t want them to feel the heft of our home like I did. But by the end of high school, I was 6-foot-2 and 210 pounds and a starter on the basketball team. I’d gotten lucky with a growth spurt. Though I still didn’t bring anyone home.
But while the change in appearance affected how other people saw me, it had little effect on how I thought about myself. All the time past ridicules echoed in my mind: the small bits that turn into big fears like classmates waiting in the lunch line chanting “fat boy” because, looking around the room, it’s clear that you are, indeed, the fattest boy. Or, during a summer league game, you and the other players are divided between “shirts” and “skins” and you’re put on the skins team and fake a lower leg injury to not play.
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All of this shapes how you meet eyes with someone new. It shapes how you look at yourself when you pass in front of the bathroom mirror, looking at your body face on, then at the side, sliding your hand over your lurching stomach wondering how you would look if you had this or that different body type.
Share this articleShareThe first time I ever had sex, I kept my shirt on. But what’s more embarrassing is that my friend, the next day after hearing the gossip, laughed, “I bet you kept your shirt on, didn’t you?” Ugh.
Each morning now when I wake up I wonder what the night before did to my stomach. What did I decide to eat and when did I decide to eat it? How will I look in this shirt, or that one? Will I hear the fateful words from a partner, “I think you should take care of yourself.” Or if I want to order the side of fries at lunch will I remember the condescending laugh of my brother — a man who is still thin and handsome. Or will I just be ignored?
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This is the baggage I take into any potential relationship. The details of which I’ve kept — until now — to myself. They’re secured to every restaurant order, each grocery store trip, any place at which I consume a meal, wondering if my partner will say, “Slow down!” because I’m eating so fast, just to get it over with.
Self-confidence is born within, but understanding and acceptance often come from connection with others, by being loved. If someone shows acceptance, there can be healing. If you experience ridicule for a decade, however, you’re left with scars, like stretch marks on the heart, that don’t ever heal completely.
The first night I spent with my new partner, she lifted my shirt up to my chest, thrust her mouth onto my stomach and blew a loud raspberry. I felt unbelievably self-conscious (the lights were on and everything!). But her gesture was done with such love that I could accept it, knowing she wasn’t trying to ridicule me. Instead she was trying to say how much she appreciated my body, its warmth and proximity. These are the feelings I try to keep in mind, hoping to believe my body isn’t awful or ugly.
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