I am plenty of other things too, I am a particularly good loser for example. I can juggle with three balls. I am good at recognising bits of music, especially from the 80's. This blog however is about Me and my relationship to FAT.
I know there are many people out there who would probably look at me in disgust. Who would suggest I am wasting my opportunities. Who think I am a failure. In time I intend to really get to grips with what they have to say. I actively encourage your comments. I would be surprised if there is anything I haven't already heard, but please go ahead. Make me your vent if you will. Right now though I want to make my admissions.
There are many reasons for my weight. Literally hundreds that I have come up with in my time on this earth. So lets just go through a few of them.
First my brother is six years older than I am. He was athletic also, loved playing football, joined the CCF at a young age. He walked the ten-tours across Dartmoor three times. When we were growing up there was no chance I would ever beat him at anything sporty, or even in fighting. As a competitive soul I recognised I could only get my revenge by winding him up to the extent where he would get into trouble. It didn't require me to be healthy. If anything, it helped to have people look at my chubby little face in sympathy.This is not why I am fat, but it's a good excuse.
I was never very good at sports. From a very young age I knew I was not the kind of guy that would be a good runner. My run looked funny. I had bad balance. I was clumsy.When we played games I was picked last, which in turn made me feel bad. I eventually chose to reduce my activity to a minimum, only sticking to the things I really enjoyed doing. Until even that stopped when I left school.
My mother didn't speak good english, and I didn't have many friends. I spent a lot of time on my own in my room. I became a commentator of my own imaginary games, just like every young boy did. I was not a rebel and never pushed going out to other boys houses. My mother was a little distrustful of people anyway, and I hated the idea of having to explain a tight curfew to critical xenophobic parents. In the end I avoided any friendship outside of school hours and so never got as much playing time as other boys.
My father was away for most of my young life. He used to don his captain's hat and sail off into the oceans for nine months of the year, if not more. He was never there to fight my corner, to teach me how to fish or have a kick-about in the back garden. I never grew up knowing what a man should be able to do, or be inspired by his ability. I never learnt how to saw wood, or lay cement, or even to wash the car right. With no father around to fight with and adventure with, my weight, and my excuses built up.
My mother faced bouts of depression. We had a habit of going to our separate bedrooms. She was a good mother caring for me as best she could, but as soon as I began to show independence and with my brother much older, she knew her role in the front room watching TV with us was over. With no dad there, she slowly withdrew to her bedroom, allowing me the opportunity to sneak down the stairs whenever I wanted to. The poem "Chocolate Cake" springs to mind.
She spent many evenings more alone than I can ever imagine, crying quietly into her pillow. I remember listening and wishing I could do something about it. Some of my favourite moments were when my dad would turn up in the front room with what mother would call "pickings". These small morsels such as cheese and pineapple on sticks, mini-cheese pieces wrapped in parma ham, pickles and crisps would make my mother beam with excitement and my brother and I would sit on the floor and lick our lips like two hungry puppies. When I got older, and when mum was sad, I would try to make things for her so she would be happy again. My relationship with food as a source of happiness was already growing.
She was also a good cook, but coming from a poor background, she instilled into us the commendable ideas of never wasting good food and always clearing the plate. At the same time she wanted us to be happy, and we so enjoyed her food. For a very long time I blamed this one thing alone for my weight problem, and today I still have a real effort when throwing good food away.
I have heard that certain things release endorphins into the brain. These pleasure stimulators flood the brain and encourage you to continue doing something. You often hear of people who regularly exercise getting unhappy or even grumpy because they haven't done their daily run or their weekly gym session. The same is true with food. As we are all different, it is obvious that some people get a big high doing push-ups, whereas I get a big high eating a chicken flavoured crisp sandwich with mayo and pickle.I always liked cooking. My brother did to. He eventually became a really good chef, for a while. I enjoyed the way that flavours mixed together, but I also liked my cooking to be moist and crunchy. It meant lots of cream and milk, lots of meat. I was never good enough to chef. I was never good enough to do anything in fact. I always almost managed to do things. I was good at maths, but not
the best. I was good at chess but not good enough. I have always been a jack of all trades, including basketball and badminton, but never ever a master. Never ever even to a point where people would say, lets ask Eggy.
It was always depressing and that combined with my conscious lack of friends meant I became a recluse to all intents and purposes. The further away from other kids I got, the less my weight mattered. I found myself protected from the outside world, cuccooned. As my self-esteem drifted, I searched for more cerebral attachments, with older friends that could be trusted. I began to reject people my age, most importantly girls. I am not gay, but I never faced the kind of scrutiny other boys went through. Weight was never an issue.
When I finally did encounter girls, I was a young man and could easily see that the aesthetically pleasing girls were also the most obnoxious. The quiet shy lilies were far more graceful and dazzling, appreciative and interesting. They also tended to be girls with similar stories to me. My attraction to larger girls had begun.
As you can see, throughout my life there were many different reasons why I was a fat child and why I became a fat man. All of them had a part to play I am sure, but if there is one thing I am going to do with this blog, it is to accept I am the real reason for my weight. The difficulties I face every single day may be described by things that have happened in my past, but they do not excuse it.
I am morbidly obese. And it is all my fault.
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