Fat for the holidays

It’s been a while since I sat down with something real to say, what with finals and all.  Not that I’m actually done with finals yet (my last exam is on the 22nd–clearly the University hates me) but I’ve mostly moved back in with my family for the hols, and my sister is home.

Being a feminist at home is much harder than it used to be.  Or maybe I’m just noticing it more, especially with regards to my nascent education in fat acceptance.

With two non-me women in the house, there is Fat Talk galore.  You know what I mean–’I'm so fat, I need to lose weight, my thighs are so huge, I’m being so bad by eating this…’  That endless decadent parade of shame.  It is so, so tempting to just go along with this and respond as I am expected to.  ’You’re not fat, I’m fat!’ or ‘No, you look amazing, I’m sure you’ve lost weight.’

I know that this is poison.  This kind of talk is toxic.  And it is definitely an indirect attack on me, the largest woman in the house.  Because to my family, I am the picture of obesity.  Nobody else in my family has D-cups or a 29-inch waist.  I am the body that nobody else wants to be.

“I mean, yeah, there’s definitely pressure to be too thin,” says my size 2 self-proclaimed feminist sister, leaning on the island in the kitchen.  ”But there’s such a thing as too fat, too.  I mean, I think any girl over 150 pounds is fat.”

I am 143 pounds and I am 5’2″ and I am a size 10 in pants and M in shirts and I cannot breathe for a moment with the weight of the panicky, dizzying shame that overwhelms me.

I think I snapped something back; it wasn’t clever or insightful or level-headed, because I am none of those things when I am struggling to stay seated and not flee to the safety of my room and my guitar.  It has always been my first instinct to run and hide, stay the silent fat shadow in the corner.

When I reached for a banana the other night, my mother started on a shocked tirade.  ”Do you know how many calories are in one of those?” she asked.  ”You just had a piece of toast!”  I didn’t say anything; I put the banana back.

I know I am not alone in this.  I know countless women are in similar situations–some worse, some better.  But being here with my family, having learned something about feminism and fat acceptance, is like fighting a losing battle every single day.

I want to spend time with my sister while she’s here.  I want to spend time with my parents before I leave for grad school.  I love them; I really do.  I just don’t know how to handle the constant attacks on my body, my atheism, my feminism, my sexuality, my veganism, and my field of study.

“You need to smile more,” my mother says.  I don’t know how to tell her I wish I could.