"Well my life will begin once I…" "I would have a bigger advantage if I…" "I would be so much happier if I would just…"

These are all common sentences that grace your mental space while living in an oversized body. Being fat mentally disables you. I have become the pity party of the year, the millennia even, "oh woe is me," I cannot do that for I am so fat.

Going to the mall becomes a burden; I mean of course. Jessica will be there in sweats and an old t shirt. But she will look 1000x better than me, I can’t burden that shame.

Going to class becomes a burden. "How will I contribute if when I raise my hand I know all eyes are on me, and the rolls visible under my shirt?"

Hanging out with friends becomes a burden. "Which of these friends will be the object of my longing’s gaze. Who will outshine me in group pictures?" They all would.

I’m not here to say that fat is healthy. I’m not here to say “It’s okay that your BMI is extended past morbidly obese.” What I am here to say is that fat doesn’t define you. You are not fat, you have fat.

I’d like to think I had an easy ticket as far as bullying all throughout grade school. My personality won me friends in the “winner’s circle” so to speak. There were times, of course, when I was brought face to face with the rigid realization that I was unlovable—unattractive.

Once, I was cold in my 7th-grade homeroom. I had a crush on a boy who had a tendency of giving his sweatshirts out to the girls, not to woo them, but because he was a genuinely nice guy. We were close, as well as I and the group of girls that had all swooned over him. I confided in one of these girls that I was freezing and she simply replied: “Go ask him for a sweater.” Because it was that easy for her. She had caramel skin and was quite developed for a 12-year-old. Her excruciatingly long black hair fell down her back. Of course, it was that easy for her. After letting her know my doubts, she decided to take it upon herself to ask for me. A circumstance in which I felt both gifted and cursed. This boy, as indiscriminate as he was, didn’t hesitate to go to his locker and hand me a sweatshirt. It smelled glorious. It smelled like victory. Before I could fully zip up the front of the sweater, I saw another boy glaring at him from the other side of the classroom. Without thinking I turned to look as he made gagging gestures, unaware of the presence of my prying eyes. So as to not completely embarrass myself, I zipped up the hoodie and waited a full 15 minutes until the end of homeroom to return it. Victory was tarnished with shame.

I find it invigorating to note that the boy who had made gagging gestures was not only overweight at the time, but gained weight during high school, as well as a plethora of common zits. I like to think his act of insensitivity was a reflection of his view of his own self-worth. My skin is clear.

Years before, I had gawked at a girl on the Montel show. She was 124 pounds and she stood before an audience to talk about her experience. I turned to my mom and said, “If I ever get to 124 pounds, put me on a diet.” I knew I was fat, but I wasn’t “that fat” yet. As a 10-year-old girl, I came face to face with the realization that body image is a public image.

A few short years later I was well past 124 lbs. Closer to 160 lbs. I collapsed against the weight of my mind, sobbing. I confided in my mother that I was afraid no one would love me because I would always be the fat girl. She stood up, took the seat next to me, and held me. Her comforting words were, “At least when you find someone, you will know they love you for you and not your body”

At the time I was comforted, sedated. Looking back, I seethe with anger. What I needed was self-confirmation. Not that someone would accept me in spite of my body, that someone would love my body with all of the intentions that someone would love someone with a smaller body. I have that now.

What I learned in the years to come has yet to come to fruition. In high school, I lost around 20 lbs and still felt the same. I would look in the mirror and instead of judging the bigger picture, I would judge the little inconsistencies that came with a body so imperfect.

Eight years later, I have gained 60 lbs. I have lost the will to do many things such as do my hair and makeup daily. I have never felt so free. With each pound, I gained knowledge. I am not proud of being fat, and I never will be. Each remark I’ve weathered over the years lingers in the space between stretch marks. I will not accept my body the way it is, and I no longer strive for unattainable perfection. But I will accept that my mind is separate from my body. I am a brilliant writer, an advocate, an artist, a life-long student, a friend.

And, I happen to be fat.