she called me fat

A close relative of mine expressed concern to another close relative of mine about how apparently my weight gain is out of control. This obviously circled back to me as I’m writing it here today.

I am dealing with depression and an eating disorder as well as related body image issues. I’m also dealing with outcome of a few traumatic events in the span of one year.

But, I guess the bad news is that I’m fat. Wow, gosh, I’m sorry.

I’m sorry you have to look at me. I’m sorry that I’m not physically attractive enough for you. I’m sorry that you are not impressed with my appearance as of late. I’m sorry that you are not interested in looking at me.

I assume that I should go on a restrictive diet now to make up for such a disgrace that I have made of myself. Gosh. Really let myself go, haven’t I?

I am absolutely repulsed by the pettiness that I’m experiencing. It is outrageous and I am incensed. No one deserves to be degraded for their appearance on a good day. Doing so when that person is dealing with what I’m dealing with simply adds an entire layer of horror.

It is pathetic. You can call me fat all you want. Forget that I spent today helping you. Forget the fact that I cover for your outbursts. Forget that I pretend that I have not caught you in a million lies. Forget all that because I’m fat, so nothing else matters. I’m a loser, so nothing you have done to hurt me matters. That’s how it goes, right? That’s how you want to play this one, right? I know the drill.

You have degraded me as long as you have known me and that is a long time. I have catered to you because of it. Now, I see that you are pathetic and cannot help yourself. No problemo.

Keep calling me fat and see how that makes your life so much better. Good luck with that plan. Sounds solid. Sounds workable. Not pointless at all.

I have been taught that my sensitivity was such a negative quality, but now I’m starting to think that it must be really confusing to be such a self-centered, repetitive liar.

I helped you. You can thank me for that.

You don’t know how to though. You only know how to stab me in the back every time I step out for myself.

One day, I’m going to get myself so far out of your reach that you’ll be left standing awkwardly holding the butter knife, wondering who to abuse next.