Fat.
My husband dances around the word, but I know that's what he means.
I've gotten fat.
I know it's true, but that doesn't make it hurt any less.
I'm not blind; I see the rolls on my back that hadn't been there before. I note how my stomach has started to settle in my pants instead of staying within the lines of my t-shirt.
I see the thickness of my thighs.
My arms are not like they used to be, I can't deny.
I had mistakenly thought that this man was someone I could trust,
someone who wouldn't judge me over something so trivial,
like the stretch marks on my legs and stomach, arms and breasts.
My heart hurts and I want to scream and cry, in fact that's what I do.
He tries to back up and claim he only cares about my health,
but I am not the one diagnosed with high blood pressure.
I am not the one that needs mediciation.
I am HEALTHY.
I have always been healthy. Even when I go to the doctor,
they remark on how well I take care of myself and, sure, I've gained a few
pounds, but who hasn't?
I tell him these things. I tell him I love myself.
I tell him that I am the one that controls what I eat and when I eat it.
I tell him if I'm going to lose weight it's going to be for me-
not for him, not for my mom, not for ANYONE.
I CONTROL MY WEIGHT....
But maybe that's the problem.
About the Creator
No One
Anon
Reader insights
Nice work
Very well written. Keep up the good work!
Top insight
Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.