Yesterday
I was fat-shamed. The tubes were crammed
and I was late. After missing two tubes
because I couldn’t get on, when the third came along with an admittedly tiny
space spare, I pushed my way on. I don’t
like doing this but needs must. Two loud
men were saying there was no room and the woman I tried to tuck myself behind
had a massive rucksack. I don’t know if
the men were keen to chat this woman up – they certainly had a loud
conversation the rest of the way (3 stops).
I had replied to them that I was sorry but I was late and had already
let two tubes go. Then they said loudly “Well,
room for a little one, eh?” and guffawed with laughter. Luckily my face was pushed against the corner
and I had my back to them as I’m pretty
sure I went red, although they wouldn’t necessarily have seen the tears
stinging my eyes as I concentrated on not being there.
I
had been feeling a bit emotionally delicate in any case. The scales seem to be heading in the wrong
direction and although I’m doing well on the dieting front most of the time,
the times I’m not seem to be keeping me up in a stone bracket that makes my
miserable and self-conscious. In the
first two weeks of my pre-Cyprus diet I have lost a total of 1lb. But if you count my weight today, I’ve put
that back on as well as amassing another 1lb.
I am tired out by the relentlessness of it. I want to hide away and not see anyone – or,
more accurately not be seen by anyone. Being
out in the world feels like a constant level of hypersensitivity that feels
physically painful. It’s not just the anticipation
of the holiday, it’s getting through pretty much every day. We’re visiting friends this weekend – lovely people,
but I just want to slink home and lick my wounds in peace without having to put
on a brave face.
Feeling
like this also stops me sleeping. I can
feel myself reverberating like a tuning fork or a struck wineglass with
misery. That sounds ridiculously
melodramatic, but I can only describe it as a low-level constant, physically painful,
humming vibration constantly thrumming though me. I’m sure it must be a vicious circle – not sleeping
makes me feel lower, which in turn makes it hard to sleep.
And
I want to console myself with food – specifically sugary food. I’m only too aware how idiotically stupid
that instinct is and how it too plays into another vicious circle – feel wretched,
give in and eat something only to feel worse.
It’s exhausting.
Despite
all this whinging and whining, I have no intention of giving up. It’s too frightening to even consider what
would happen if I did. It makes me feel
panicky just contemplating it and the fear expands, seeming to squeeze my lungs
into a smaller space. It’s not an
option.
