More Thoughts On My Weight Loss
As a former fat person, I thought weight loss would make me feel “free.” As if I’m going to slip out of my old skin and leave that version of myself in the past and step into a new, more confident adaptation. Well, it doesn’t work that way.
My relationship with my body is an ever-changing one. It’s always been the subject of intense scrutiny, whether it be from friends and family due to Filipino culture being obsessed with what we eat or from my clients when I was in sex work. I felt like I was under a microscope for most of my life. My weight has gone up and down and continues to fluctuate. Years of body surveillance have made me hypervigilant of the minute details to a point where it almost becomes obsessive.
I find myself standing in front of a mirror constantly. I take my shirt off and I can see muscles that I’ve never seen before. I even got reacquainted with my cum gutters; you know, those lines just under the abs that point to your cock. I have a more visible jawline, my chest is toned, and my biceps are huge. People stare at me with a voracious thirst. They don’t know that I notice their momentary glances because I always wear my reflective one-way aviators, but I can see where their eyes look. They flirt, they comment, they swipe right. But somehow, I still feel like I’m in my old body.
You would have to be wilfully dumb or blind not to notice my weight loss. It’s very obvious, so I get why people who know all versions of my body feel they’re at liberty to comment. But no matter what shape I’m in, I don’t see a difference. My old body at 275lbs is the same to me as at 185lbs. It’s fucking disorienting. My brain didn’t get the memo that my body changed.
Body dysmorphia is a cruel son of a bitch. It doesn’t care about your progress. It doesn’t care that you’ve put in hours at the gym, that you can do pull-ups now, or that clothes fit off the rack. It tells you you’re still fat. You’ll always be fat. And every compliment you get becomes this bittersweet cocktail—half validation, half venom. Because suddenly everyone notices you. Suddenly, you’re “desirable.” And you can’t help but think: Where the fuck was this when I needed it?
It stings, that realisation. That your worth, at least in the eyes of strangers, was tied up in the circumference of your waist or the curve of your stomach. That when you were heavier, you weren’t seen as fully human in the same way. And now that you’ve got abs or definition or whatever the fuck it is people fetishise, you’re “worthy.” That’s the poison of it.
And don’t get me wrong. The attention feels good. Of course it does! It’s like a high, like a stiff drink after a long shift. Warm, buzzy, disarming. But there’s a hangover. Because deep down, I know I deserved this attention before, too. I was funny then, I was sharp, I could keep a room. I was deserving of worth. My body didn’t change the core of who I am. What changed was how the world chose to look at me.
My fat body still lives within me. I lived in that body. I still see that body in my reflection despite the abs. That body wasn’t some sort of failed draft that I crumpled and tossed in the trash. That body carried me through breakups and hardships. That body survived a sexual assault. That body was able to laugh, work, eat good food, and that body got me to where I am today. My body then and my body now are equally worthy of respect, not contempt.
Loving yourself has been sanded down so much that I think it’s lost its meaning. When you look in the mirror, you are your own worst critic. Sometimes you’ll see things that other people don’t even notice. When people call you hot, you’ll find a flaw. Oh, don’t you worry. Your brain will find a way to humble you when you get a compliment. Eventually, no matter how hard you fight, time will have its way. Gravity wins. Skin sags. Muscles fade.
Body neutrality is a chore. Whether it be on a personal level or a societal one. We’ve got a long way to go as a culture to reach a point of not giving a fuck about what our bodies look like. The real, brutal, backbreaking, lifelong work comes from untangling who we are from how we look. Build something that doesn’t crack every time the scale dips and rises. The labour I have learned to love, albeit begrudgingly, comes from learning how to sit with the ghosts that haunt my reflection every time I stand in front of a mirror like the Evil Queen in Snow White, asking who’s the fairest of all the land. I sit with those echoes and tell them they don’t get to call the shots any more. If I did, I’m fucked. My body isn’t a prison, or a fucking resume, or a punch card that collects approval stamps, and by the tenth one, I’m finally worthy of something. It’s a vessel I live in. A big, ugly, meaty, messy, bipedal vehicle that houses something you can’t put a price on.
I’m not trying to stand on my soapbox and preach the good word on body positivity. Because I’m the last person that you need to hear that from. I’m not even all that positive about my body. What I am trying to get across is that we need to have a more neutral view of the human body. I don’t think we should hate it, and I also don’t think we should spread some fortune-cookie bullshit nonsense of “loving yourself.” I think we should just let bodies be.
