The chubby kid

I was always chubby as a young child.  From about age six until age thirteen, I was definitely not skinny. 

And I was reminded of it everywhere I went.

People called me fat.  Or “pleasantly plump” (thanks a heck of a lot, relatives!)  And it hurt.  Oh, it hurt.

I can remember feeding that hurt with food.  I’d stuff my face and tears would run down my cheeks.  “Why am I so disgusting?” I would silently lament.  Yet I couldn’t seem to stop.

Then came the summer after seventh grade.  Something clicked.  I just stopped eating one week at camp and noticed my pants were looser.  Easy. 

There was no diet, no desire to be anorexic.  Just… well… just no eating.

From there, my tango with ana spun out of control.  If I could lose five pounds, I could lose six, right?  Then seven… then eight… then 20… then…

But though my outside shrank, I was still the chubby kid inside.  I still remembered the words, the taunts, the nastiness.  And it still stung.  Tears still clung to my cheeks, though this time I didn’t stuff myself with food when I felt upset.  Instead, I withheld nourishment to punish myself for being so hideous.

Today, when I see an overweight child, I have two instant emotions–to protect and to embrace.  It’s not easy to be heavier than one’s peers, especially at a young age.  I hope no girl or boy ever has to go through the torment I did.

Please think before you ever comment on a youngster’s appearance.  Words can last a long, long time.