It wasn’t okay to call me fat.
You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?
After all, you never technically used the word “fat” to describe me in the present tense, a fact you continued to hide behind throughout our relationship. Like the technicality that you were referring to my past self and not my present self would somehow make it okay.
Remember the first time you made a comment about it? You knew me for years before you dated me, so you’d seen me go from a size 10 to an 4. (Funny how you only told me how you felt when I shrunk.) In the first few weeks of us being together I asked if you could get me a brownie from my favourite shop that you walked past every morning.
“Haha, don’t get fat again,” you texted back.
We fought. I cried. Instead of telling you where to stick it, I angrily told you how hard I’d worked to get this way and explained all the stopgaps I’d put in place to make sure it never happened again. I reassured you I had it under control instead of telling you to f*ck off from commenting on my body.
That “joke” moment changed something for me. I’d been proud of my hard work and loving my new body. Now I became worried that you were paying such close attention to what I looked like. It struck a nerve that you had to know was there. You reminded me that I could so easily gain weight again and started a permanent fear in me.
Are there any circumstances under which it’s acceptable to comment on someone’s weight? The Mamamia Out Loud team discuss. Post continues after audio…
The next day there was an apology brownie on my desk. But instead of enjoying it, I was so worried you’d think I’d get fat again that I made that tiny brownie last two weeks. I ate a sliver every couple of days, to show you how great my willpower was.
If I could go back in time, I’d make past-me scoff the brownie right in front of you and tell you to go f*ck yourself for fat-shaming me.
Over the next few years there’d be many comments. When I asked you to pick up a small tin of hot cocoa powder at the supermarket after having no chocolate for two weeks, you tilted your head and asked, “Do you really need that?” When we were brushing our teeth side by side, me in a crop top and pyjama pants, you looked at my tummy and said “When did that jiggle happen?” I was still a size 4. I only drank one can of soft drink per week but out of nowhere you’d comment you thought I was sneaking cans when you weren’t around. You told me my clothes looked tight. You told me my stomach stuck out.