How fat is serving me

I had an epiphany last night. . .

For several years now I have been steadily gaining weight and holding on tight, despite my best efforts to drop it.

Evolution has ensured that our bodies store fat to protect us when temperatures drop and food is scarce. Today, most of us are blessed with warm clothing, heating, and to never have to worry about food scarcity (even during global pandemic lock downs we are able to purchase food from supermarkets). But I realised warmth and nourishment aren't the only ways in which fat stores protect me.

For as long as I can remember, I have struggled with rejection. From when I was a young child, throughout adolescence, teens, and well into adulthood I have sought the approval of others and suffered devastation when I felt unliked, unloved, and unwanted. Despite years of therapy, processing, understanding, kindness, and self-acceptance, rejection continues to be my Achilles' heel. Certainly not to the extent that it was for the vast majority of my life, but it still lurks in the shadows, waiting to engulf me when I'm feeling vulnerable.

So what does this have to do with fat stores? Well, one of my (less than ideal) coping strategies is to avoid putting myself into situations where I could be rejected. Let me back track. . .

I have spent close on a decade on my own. Dating on-and-off, for varying lengths of time; from countless first (and only) dates, to a sprinkling of short-term relationships, and one substantial less-than-conventional love affair. It has been a time of highest of highs to lowest of lows. Lust, romance, happiness, disappointment, and sorrow. And yes, rejection. A great deal of rejection. Though in fairness, I wasn't always the one on the receiving end. And let me tell you, rejecting another soul isn't pleasant either. But I digress. . .

So for much of my dating life, I have felt attractive, wanted, and desired. Not only did I like who I was on the inside, I also liked what I saw in the mirror and on photographs. I felt confident, and when I suffered rejection, I picked myself up, reminded myself that I AM deserving of unconditional love, and put myself out there again. However, that all changed three years ago when I danced with death. Obviously, I survived. However, my body doesn't function normally, and as time has gone on, it has become apparent that it probably never will. It is broken beyond repair and I will spend the rest of my life awaiting that death sentence.

Who the heck wants to sign up for that??

I love the person I am and being an introvert, I certainly enjoy having time on my own. But I also enjoy company and desire the companionship of someone who wants to witness my life. And lets face it, with my family history, the odds could go either way - although I may one day develop cancer, it is equally possible that I will live for many, many more decades. The prospect of spending decades without a significant other is sad to say the least. Queue intense, suffocating fear of rejection. Right there. I cannot bear the thought of being rejected because I'm physically broken. Because I have chronic illnesses. Because I may get sick again. Because I may die prematurely.

Thanks to social norms, I am primed to believe that physical attractiveness is directly related to a person's waist-size. Not their arms or legs, but their waist-size. I have slender arms and gorgeous legs, but my waist is disproportionately large. Conveniently putting me into (what I deem to be) the category of unattractive. Perfect. I now have an excuse to employ avoidance behaviour. If I believe myself to be unattractive, I won't dip my toes in the dating pool, and therefore, I won't be giving anyone the opportunity to reject me. Voila!

Except, this whole argument is ridiculous. Beauty is more than skin deep. When my waist was 20cm smaller, I was still being rejected.

So holding onto fat isn't serving me.

It isn't protecting me.

If anything, its harming me.

Yes, I have medical conditions that have royally fucked my metabolism.

Yes, I have both an incisional and a hiatus hernia.

But what if I'm holding onto the fat for emotional, rather than physical reasons?

Its time for me to let go. . .