I think it’s time we change the “F word.” I think we should make fat the new F word. Just think about it. When was the last time you heard someone say “f*ck” to another person? I can bet it was much more recent than the last time you heard someone calling another person fat.
I am the F word. I know it, you know it, the whole world knows it, yet I am the only person who can call me that. Well, me and my mother.
And yet every time I see an old picture, all I can think is, “Gosh, I was not as fat as I thought I was back then.” So one day, I decided that even though I am not very happy with the way I look right now, two or five or ten years from now, I will probably be wistful about my current body. I shimmy into my bodycon dress and strut outside. I fake it till I make it and preach body positivity while actively wishing for a skinnier body.
The hypocrisy is sickening. I know. I’m self-aware.
It’s not like I haven’t tried to end this hypocrisy. I’ve done the diets, the workouts, the intermittent fasting. I’ve even lost weight. But it was never enough to be considered slim. I was still “chubby.” The hypocrisy, teaming up with my self-hate, was starting to choke me when I realised something uncomfortably comforting. I am exclusively fatphobic towards myself. I was strangely relieved to realise that, while I might be horrible to myself, I am not to…
