Right. Okay, okay, so here's the thing, and anybody who knows me will know that it's by no stretch of the imagination for me to be labelled overweight. Now, that's fine, that's fine, because it's true, I'm not at the weight I should be to be healthy but I'm aware of this, and I try, through all my faults, to do something about it. I have good days and I have bad days and when the bad days come I eat because I'm depressed and that's something that makes me think I feel better but we all know that's not true.
So I'm overweight. I don't the label 'fat' because there's a connotation there that hurts and I don't want to hurt myself. Never have, never will. You call me fat and there's venom there. Poison behind the words. I don't need that in my life, and you shouldn't want to inflict it upon me. I could own the term. "Yeah, I'm fat, what of it?" but I don't have the character for it. It's not in me to accept that kind of hurt, and in accepting it, I feel like I'd be encouraging, accepting, cultivating the poison that damages me internally. Mentally.
I also know that I'm depressed. And that I don't do anything about that. And again I take the good days and the bad, but the drugs fogged me up, made things happen to me I didn't like, and I don't have as many bad days as I used to, which is okay, which is fine, accepting, learning, moving on.
I went to an outlet store today. 70% discount on everything, the sign read, and I thought "I can afford to make some mistakes here", and went in to look for a shirt or two that I can wear to work. I'm overweight, I have a gut, so while most of the clothes I wear are XL (standard, accepted, moving on), if I buy collared shirts (for work), I go 2XL because I do a lot of reaching up and I don't want said gut to show. You understand, I'm sure. I could do without any weight-based observations because they kill me.
I'm perusing the rack, see a blue shirt in XL and I think "this could work" and keep looking. I'm not paying attention to anything but this rack, but someone is paying attention to me. One of the people who work there. Big guy, tape measure around his neck, and he says to me: "just to help, that rail only goes up to XL and you know look like you'll need at least a 2XL, sorry."
I have a predicament now. Because I'm angry. I know what I'm looking for, and he's clarified that I won't find what I'm looking for. Okay, that's... helpful? But I don't need comments about my weight. Quantifiable comments. I don't need observations or 'help'. I didn't ask for it and therefore didn't want it or expect it. Unsolicited assistance is aggravating when I'm not doing my 'I-need-help-head-bob-for-attention', and the 'help' here... broke me. I just... it broke me. I don't like talking about my weight and I don't want him talking about my weight because my self-image is fragile and hard to maintain.
I put the shirt down-- which I was going to buy even if it was too small because it was cheap enough to make a mistake on-- and walk out without saying a word, and he shouts after me "sorry" but he's not sorry, is he? Fat boy came into the shop and deluded himself into thinking he could fit into something he couldn't and I had to put him straight so that's fine, is probably what he's thinking.
And I'm angry and I want to scream and I wanted to say something but what's the point of being cutting-- and I could have cut like a motherfucker right then, said something with spite and bile and venom that I don't like to think I'm capable of generating-- so I just left.
I'm upset. And that's a fuel I try to use, I try to rant and shout and I try to funnel it into something, but if I maintain the anger then it eats away at my inside and makes me even sadder at the end of the day.
I came home.
I came here.
And now I'm sat in my front room feeling like a fat dickhead.
At least I had strong hair game today.
