I’m fat, ugly and useless – Brutally Honest Series Pt. 1
I hate that I need to state this, but I have NO political agenda. This is just me writing on my blog about my life experiences because sometimes you have to write or you’ll explode. Also, this gets kind of rambly. Is that a word? Rambly? No, I guess it’s not. Also, no soliciting, thanks.
They say you have a choice in how you feel. In how you respond to something. That’s it’s your choice to feel bad or angry or whatever. And while I agree, I think when you’re 12, your brain automatically responds, there is no choice involved. Unfortunately, that can shape your whole sense of self as you grow up without you even knowing it until one day when you’re 43 and you realize you still hate looking in the mirror.
When I was 12 someone told the boy I had a crush on that I liked him. He said I was homely. Others called me ugly. On top of that I was sexually harassed by hormone crazed junior high boys, made fun of by other girls, was threatened to be beaten up and other unpleasant things. Junior high is a soul-crushing place for quiet, naive, anxiety-suffering girls. There were days I would just stubbornly refuse to get out of bed in the morning. I didn’t want to go back to the pit of despair. My poor mother.
It killed a part of me. Automatically. I didn’t choose it. Throughout my teen years I attached my self-worth to how I looked and whether or not boys liked me. My goal was always to have a boyfriend because then I would be worth something. Sure, my friends & family would always say that I was so pretty, but I didn’t believe it. I hated my face, my hair, my body, myself. Unless all the boys on the planet thought I was “hot” I was an ogre. It remained a fact that I was ugly. You couldn’t convince me otherwise. There’s a saying about a girl being a “butter face” – everything’s good but her face. That was me. Although I thought my body was bad, too. But honestly, I was really skinny. I had a belly pouch that made me VERY self-conscious and I felt fat. Belly pouches are apparently hereditary as my mom has said all the women on her side of the family have them. Even my grandma who was barely 100 pounds. <insert shrug emoji>
I’m sure many people would tell me it’s time to move on and get over it. But how do you physically remove that damaged part of you? You don’t. You have to make peace with it, I guess. Some things just stay with you forever. No amount of therapy can remove them. I’ve tried.
My husband will tell you that I’m “hot.” But I’m not. I was okay-ish (in my opinion) for a year or two before my chronic illnesses really took over. Something in 2016 changed inside my body and I gained a ton of weight (for no apparent reason, but that’s a whole other story), I’ve never been this heavy in my life (outside of being pregnant) and my hair is almost entirely grey if I don’t color it. I have a ten piece luggage set under my eyes which are permanently dark circled. Between August of 2016 and February of 2017 I had gained 50 pounds (I still have no idea why and all my doctors have basically brushed it off, but like I said, that’s another story.) And there I stayed until just recently. In June 2018 I had a hysterectomy (everything taken but my ovaries) and the pathologist diagnosed me with Adenomyosis and Uterine Fibroids – even though multiple ultrasounds and exams showed nothing. (I think I’m finally 99% healed from the surgery and I have lost 10 pounds in the last couple of months – and I’m wondering if the weight gain was due to the Adenomyosis.) But I still feel gross and fat.
It’s hard for me to grasp the concept of self-love. I feel worthwhile if I contribute in some way, not just by existing. And when you are chronically ill? Sometimes all you can do is exist. And to me, that’s not being useful or worthwhile. BUT I will tell anyone else the exact opposite. It’s far easier for me to have compassion for someone other than myself. And you know, I’m not depressed about it either, just kind of angry. And I’d rather be angry than empty. Don’t worry about me, though. Seriously. It is what it is. Oh and my bio photo? It’s like 6 years old.
And now, I honestly can’t remember where I was even going with this. Cognitive impairment is my arch nemesis. Or one of them anyhow. 😛
I don’t think I’ll ever view myself differently. But yes, I know I’m worthwhile as a human because God created me. So, I must have some purpose. Right now that purpose is to write a long rambly blog post on how I hate my face.