‘Fat heals’ by Kim Porter
Content warning: Disordered eating, PTSD, emotional abuse, domestic abuse
In 2018 I was straight-size-but-struggling and I had the good fortune to stumble upon the Love Food Podcast, by nutritionist Julie Duffy Dillon. My first time listening to the show was during a 6am workout at the gym. On the surface, it was a day like any other, but what I didn’t realise was that I was about to start the biggest mental shift of my life.
If you’re not familiar with the podcast, listeners send in a letter detailing how they feel about their relationship with food – the host, Julie uses the show to address their concerns. In the first episode I listened to, Julie noted the struggles of the letter writer, who had been on diets for years, and who was finding it harder and harder to keep off weight. Julie suggested that the letter writer might want to change tact and just stop dieting.
‘I’M SORRY, WHAT?! Stop dieting?’ I screamed in my head. I was buzzing with confusion, contempt, and outrage. I’d never really considered this was an option for me. I needed to listen to more.
I obsessively listened to the next episodes over the days that followed. If I had a spare minute at work, travelling on the bus, or if I couldn’t get to sleep in the evening, I was listening to Julie. Gradually, the message started to sink in, my grip on the reality I was tied to started to loosen. I was becoming open to the idea of ending my fearful relationship with food, and was beginning to understand that diet culture had sold me a lie.
A couple of months later, for the first time since I was 10, I’d stopped all forms of food restriction and exercise. I’d also literally thrown out my scale - who cares if the Ryanair cabin bag is too heavy anyway?
Rediscovering food, and rediscovering which form of exercise actually bought me energy and joy was a long journey, one I think I’m still on today. I could go into this in a lot more detail, but I want to focus on the next part of the story, so that’ll have to wait for another time.
Just as I was getting into the swing of things, and managing my relationship with food a lot better, the flashbacks started. Every time I took care of myself, simple things like getting up to stretch, or having a bit of extra food because I was still hungry, pictures from the past would crash into my mind. They usually involved my mum, and were usually something I’d tried to forget. They were scary, visceral, and real. I had a surge of emotions each time, along with the crushing realisation that these things did actually happen to me, not to someone else.
I remembered being 8 or so years old, and my mum sitting me down to speak to me about why her and dad were arguing. She told me about how she got an STI from him and that he’d made her very sad. I remembered, 10 years old, being on a family holiday and seeing my parents have a physical fight. My mum came to show me the bruises my dad gave her in the morning. They were a deep, angry blue, and were all down her leg. I remembered being almost a teenager and my mum forcing me to promise that I’d never leave her alone when she was old and that she could live with me in my house with my future family.
Adult me’s heart raced, hands clamped into fists, eyes brimming with tears for that little version of me, who was used for years as a carrier for emotional weight that was far too heavy for her age.
The more I took care of myself, the more flashbacks came. I felt like they’d never stop.
Eventually, after a tough 8 months, they did. I was lucky to be able to access some online counselling to talk about it all. My therapist offered up the explanation that I must have finally felt safe enough to start unpacking the past, thanks to the care and attention I was giving my body. I now tend to think of it like what happens when you’re having a really shitty day, and a friend comes over to ask how you are and you try to speak but burst out crying instead because you can’t hold it in anymore. I started listening to my body and mind, and they just let it all out. Imagine if I’d never started listening? Maybe I’d never have started healing...
The funny thing is, to eat what you want, rather than what a diet tells you is actually quite hard if you’re not used to it. I was going to have to know what I wanted. I was going to have to listen to myself. Up until then, I’d lived with the needs and expectations of others, particularly my mum’s as a priority over mine.
The simple act of actually listening to my body put me in touch with my own needs, for the first time since I was very little.
As I worked through my traumas with my therapist, it became clear the same beliefs that drove me to control the way I ate and exercised were also causing me to limit other areas of my life. I told myself I wasn’t good enough, so I’d put up with unkind friends or exploitative employers, and believe it’s all I deserved.
The ability to know what to eat and drink served as a blueprint for learning what I wanted and needed in other parts of my life. As every month went by, and every limiting belief was uncovered, my body expanded, along with my mind and the very horizons of my life. Before I knew it, I had a clearer view of what was going on in my life: The unkind friend? Cut out. The exploitative employer? Left behind. I was literally, and figuratively, here to take up space. This is what I can never thank my new fat body for enough. She gave me my life back. She broke the illusion that I’d only be able to have my life and properly live it if I were skinny. She moved my focus from the gaze of others to my own.
Most of the time, I feel better in my own skin than I ever have, but on the hard days, where I struggle to love my new, fatter body, I think about the journey I’ve been on. And I’m filled with gratitude and love. My world is far better now, and she has done more for my health than being skinny ever could. Given the choice, I would never, ever trade. I have an entirely new world view, and I can actually see myself, my desires, my goals, and I’m ready to follow them. I’m done living for anyone else, or by anyone else’s standards.
Essay and artwork: Kim Porter