I know I’m fat. “Chubby,” say the fake and timid. I’m not thin, athletic or fluffy-but-really-cuddly-with-a-stunning-face and magnetic eyes. I’m not magazine-cover-HOT, even when I’m almost thin. I have a problem, an obvious, socially and legally acceptable addiction, one that my brain associates with survival because I HAVE to eat. I’ve been eating too much for so long that my dopamine, serotonin and endorphin levels DEPEND upon me over-indulging. My brain DEMANDS that I eat more, even when I’m trying to abstain. My appearance makes people uncomfortable, including me. I’m pushing maximum density, I have cankles, and my chin appears to be an accident between my chest and mouth. I have a vertical crotch-smile in pants because even my privates are fat. My thighs and groin are in an abusive marriage with no divorce option, unless I drop 80 lbs. Powder doesn’t prevent chafing, sweat or that damp-sock odor. I’m an embarrassment. I’m invisible because people only see fat…..
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- Written by: Jessie McLaren