This morning I stepped onto the scales and when I read what they registered my weight as, I burst into tears.
I went out for a cycle and as I did laps of Hyde Park I berated myself for having allowed myself to get to this point. I have felt miserable every time the scales registered a new ‘personal best’ in terms of weight gain. How had I let it creep up even further? I pushed on, enjoying the brief moments of sunshine as the sweat started to trickle down my back and I mentally listed all the things I could do to combat this spike in my size.
Stop drinking. Can I realistically achieve this? We have friends visiting at the weekend… maybe I could do it for just a few weeks; just cut out beer… and wine… just drink gin and slimline tonic.
Cut out carbs. We’ve got loads of potatoes that need eating and I don’t want to waste food. Definitely bread. Fuck bread. I need carbs for energy though… should I exercise less AND eat less?
Replace meals with calorie controlled meal replacement bars. Easy to count. Sadness.
Back to 5/2 fasting, that’s worked before. Will I stick to it? Will I stick to any of it? Probably not. Sadness.
More exercise. How much more can I fit in? Must walk more. Every day. Can I commit to 20 miles a day on the bike? Is there time? Do more yoga. Should I stop strength training? But you like strength training… yes, but is it making me bulkier?
What’s in the fridge? Should I throw out all the snacks? Can I learn to love salad?
I punished myself emotionally with the thoughts above for 18 miles on the bike. It was easy. Both the mileage and the thought processes came easily because I am well trained to keep my legs and brain spinning.
But I didn’t choose to think this way. I was not born thinking thin = best or light = healthy. Somewhere along the line I learned this stuff.
When I got home I was hungry, sweaty and feeling better. I scrolled through Twitter whilst drinking my homemade mango, kiwi and kale smoothie (I know!) and learned that Public Health England has partnered with Weight Watchers (rebranded as WW to help us believe they’re not just about weight), Slimming World and Noom to help us lockdown fatties shift the pandemic podge. I got angry.
I got angry because these companies make money from promoting food and fat shame. They tell you it’s good to be healthy but really they mean thin. They celebrate every lb lost and teach you that treats are negative and should be associated with guilt. Slimming World literally calls its points system ‘syns’.
I got angry because fuck the government for the mixed messages of eat out to help out but shame on you for enjoying more takeaways during the worst social restrictions in our lifetime and for your disgusting obesity complicating your covid and putting more of a strain on the NHS.
I got angry because we should be able to finally enjoy a BBQ with the family or beer with friends or a fancy dinner with our partners now that we can, without counting the calories.
I got angry because my own brain was, at that very moment, berating me for the exact same thing I was angry about. I was angry on everyone else’s behalf and yet still disappointed with myself for being a chunky monkey. What absolute bullshit of a double standard is this that lives in my head?
My partner came into the room to find me furiously bashing out Instagram and Facebook posts, releasing my anger onto the internet. I tried to explain to him my total u-turn from sadly mentioning I’d gained another couple of pounds one minute to let’s-start-a-revolution aggression the next and I realised that I’ve slowly, throughout the course of my whole life, fallen into a pattern of thinking that I fundamentally disagree with.
I am a (fairly) healthy person. I can run 5 miles. I can cycle 50 miles. I can survive a HIIT workout or a spin class and I can even do more than one push up in a row. I eat vegetables and I drink shit tonnes of water.
I am kind. I’m fun and I’m caring. I work hard and I try to do the right thing. I’m a good person.
Why does my brain deflect away from all the many positive things about me and end up at the conclusion that I don’t deserve to feel good about myself unless I weigh less? What an absolutely stupid thing to care about. What an entirely negative perspective to look through. What a monumental waste of time and energy.
I realise that my hatred of diet culture comes from a place of privilege. I realise that I have had access to education, services and support that means I have an understanding of how to eat healthily, how to exercise safely and in a manner I find enjoyable and how that affects my bodily and mental health and that I have the financial resources to do some of those activities and to choose how and what I eat. I realise that a lot of people still need guidance in these areas and that to some people, these ‘lifestyle’ programs offer tools to learn those essentials. But surely there’s a healthier way to teach people that ENERGY IN should be equal to ENERGY OUT?
As part of my privilege I have experienced many of these programs, having dipped in and out of various fads along the way but I wasn’t born thinking like this. As a child I favoured fruit and vegetables over all other foods and I ran about outside with a seemingly never-ending supply of energy. As a small person I had no concept of fat or calories or nutritional value.
In much the same way that no one is born racist but taught to hate people with skin a different colour to their own, women (not all women and not just women) are taught to constantly ‘improve’ themselves by the endless stream of products available to them and by their own experiences of a world that offers them a running commentary on their physical appearance.
As a child, I was constantly told I had hollow legs because of the amount of food I could put away. I was gangly and weird and hilarious (probably).
As a young teenager I remember the first time someone pointed out my stretchmarks and feeling awkward about my height but I don’t remember being too concerned by the idea of weight, and certainly not health.
As a young woman I remember many experiences where my size and weight were commented on, often by people who should have known better and almost entirely without invitation. Somewhere in the melee of BMI charts (designed by a mathematician to give a quick and easy indication of the general obesity of society, not a graph to measure one’s health by), the rise of gym culture, unhealthy eating habits and unsolicited feedback I decided I had tipped over an imaginary line of acceptability into being fat and fat = bad. Here’s a short photographic run down of times when I genuinely thought that I was fat:
2007 after stepping on the scales during a pill check up at the doctor’s the nurse said ‘oh, I didn’t expect you to be that heavy’.
2010 feeling like the ‘big bridesmaid’ after a dress fitting trip where the other bridesmaids fitted neatly into the display size 10-12 and I was made to try on several enormous dresses in styles that did not match the one the bride had chosen for us whilst the shop assistants (plural) publicly pulled me about and umm’d and errr’d over which plus size gown they would need to order for me.
2013 wearing a dress that I had already owned for 5 years but had never worn because I felt too fat for it. I still have the dress and this is still the only time I’ve worn it.
2014 being referred to as ‘the fat one’ by a stranger on the internet for the first time.
2015 Being told by a ‘friend’ (not the one pictured) that my considerable weight loss meant I was ‘less of a unit’ than before whilst stood with a group of people at a friend’s wedding.
So yeah, I’ve tried the diets and the exercise regimes. I joined Slimming World and repented my sins. I tried the Dukan diet and cut out almost everything except protein until I stopped eating altogether because it was so boring. I’ve tried the shakes and the bars and never made it past the first day. I’ve weighed and judged myself and my friends and I’ve never felt anything but miserable about it.
This afternoon, as I recounted all this to my boyfriend, I cried because I wish I’d been kinder to myself.
I cried because I wish I’d been kinder to others. I know I have judged people by their size, by their weight loss ‘achievements’ or ‘failures’. It feels gross to do so even if it’s only in my head. It feels pretty gross to admit it by writing it down but I now recognise it as a pattern of thought that I have learned, but I do not want to follow. I wish to change the way I think and make a better choice. Much like when I get someone’s pronouns wrong, I must correct myself and move on.
And I cried because I do not want my intelligent, caring, beautiful niece, or my friend’s wonderful, happy children or anyone else to learn to think in the same way that I have and I don’t know how to protect them from that. This move by Public Health England serves only to support the misconception that the diet industry knows best. The diet industry that is worth over £2 billion in the UK alone and has a 95% failure rate.
There is a saying ‘I wish I was as thin as I was the first time I thought that I was fat’ but I wish I’d never learned to call myself fat. I wish I’d never learned the supposed shame. I wish I’d never learned to place such value on physical appearance. And I hope against hope that the generations coming behind us learn to think differently. So for myself and for them, I choose pizza with my friends…
I choose cocktails with my boyfriend.
I choose a beer after cycling.
I choose an ice cream on a hot day.
I choose to listen to my friends who think I’m fun.
I choose to listen to my partner who thinks I’m sexy.
I choose to listen to my family who love me without judgement.
I choose to enjoy and to be active.
Diet culture and its ideals were not my choice.
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