Taking the First Step

"You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to." The doctor looked at me, clipboard in hand. I knew that I had no choice, even though she asked. Mom stared at me from the other side of the room, quietly forcing me to take her road.

I only nodded.

"All right. Just remember that there’s nothing that can replace diet and exercise."

She filled out the new prescription and handed my mom the slip. I was sobbing and didn’t know why.

The doctor stood up and patted my shoulder. "Don’t worry. You’ll be better soon."

I carry *** pounds of fat with me.

I can’t even admit the number to myself. It’s something that’s so horribly embarrassing that I’d rather die than write the number down. I can’t do it. It’s impossible for me. Only the scale is allowed to know. Not even I can know. I don’t want to know.

People say denial is weak. They don’t understand that I can’t bring myself to look down at the scale, if I could even read it over my belly.

***

"Hey, chica," said my cousin, "being fat just means there’s more to love.

"That means there’s more to hate, too," I replied.

*** pounds. *** pounds and *** more pounds. I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t write the number. I can’t do it.

. . . 2 . . . I can’t do it. I can’t. It’s not fair. No one can make me. I can’t make me.

"I can’t go to South Africa for a month, Mom."

Mom looked up from her travel guide. "Why not?" I thought you wanted to go to school and learn Afrikaans."

"Because I represent the hated American. Fat, white, rich. I can’t. I’m fat."

Size ** pants. I can’t admit that either. I can’t do it. I didn’t even know they made a size that big. **. Wow, that’s a big number.

I hide my pants and do my own laundry so my housekeeper doesn’t see that my waist is ** inches. That’s bigger than my dad’s. ** inches. That could be a hula-hoop to some people.

"I think you need a bigger size."

"No! No, I don’t need a bigger size," I said frantically, attempting to button the size ** pants together. "Mom, ** is too big. Twelve-year-old girls aren’t size **."

"You are. So stop whining and realize that you’re not size 8, but size **. You’ll never be size 8 unless you try. So for now, you’re size **."

***

I heard once that people used to idolize fat women.

Why was I born in the wrong century? I could be a goddess by now. Size ** and I weigh *** pounds. Jesus. That’s humongous.

You don’t want this. You don’t want it. You don’t want it. I repeated the self-control mantra to myself over and over again, but still I was reaching for the cabinet. Still I was pulling out the box of Ritz Crackers.

I was repeating, Size **. *** pounds. You don’t want it. You don’t need it. You can’t have it. Still I had the box in my hands. Still I opened it and grabbed out a package.

Put it down. *** pounds. *** POUNDS! You’re going to get to **** one day at this rate! YOU DON’T WANT IT! PUT IT DOWN!

Mmmm. Ritz crackers. My favorite.

What’s always gotten to me is that I can’t eat what other people eat. I want to eat what I want. I don’t want to constantly be on a diet. I want to know why a skinny girl can get away with eating a plateful of anything, but if I eat even half of that someone will say that’s why I got here in the first place.

I sat down nervously on the bench at camp, waiting for breakfast. I accidentally touched the guy behind me and he jumped.

"The fat girl just sat on me!"

His entire table laughed.

I sat down with shame burning through my cheeks. I couldn’t touch my food. I was sitting there with one sausage on my plate and some pineapple.

I looked over at my friend, who was tall and skinny and beautiful. She had four pieces of sausage on her plate and gobbled them down.

Hey, you’re just the fat girl, went the voice in my head. Look at your plate. That’s why you’re so fat. Look at what you’re eating, you fatass. FATASS! HAHA! Everyone else is thinking that, you know. That you’re fat. Because you are.

I still ate it.

Ever since I was a kid, I have been obsessed with the fact that I was *** pounds and size **. When people would ask me questions about what I wanted to do, my answer always involved my weight. I recently found a journal I got from Sunday School that I filled out years ago.

What are your goals for this year?

To get down to size **!

Where do you hope to be in ten years?

With my boyfriend, ‘cause by then I’ll be *** and people will like me!

What ever happened to loving someone for their personality? Whatever happened to seeing pas the appearance and into the soul?

If society keeps telling me that everyone hates fat girls and only skinny women are liked, then where do the fat girls get love?

I want to prove to the entire world that fat girls can do things. I want to prove them that we can love and hurt and cry and be beautiful and not have to diet all the time. I want to show everyone that we have names and personalities, and that we’re not defined by the fact we weigh *** pounds or have ** size pants and ** inch waistlines.

They’re laughing at you, Janine, says the spiteful anti-fat voice in my head, the same voice that tells me to stop eating. When they pass you and they laugh, they’re laughing at how fat you are. Fat, haha. Look at the fat chick. I wonder if she can get through the door. She’s enormous.

Hear them laughing? They’re laughing because you’re fat.

I am too ashamed to even admit how much I weigh, which only proves that I feel guilty and embarrassed that I weigh *** pounds. I know that if fat girls become respected in this world, it’s not going to be because of me. But I can still take the first step and I can still try.

"You’ll be better soon," she says.

I’ll be better soon, but for now, I’m 280 pounds, with size 24 pants, and a 42 waistline.