How the F Word Ruined My Life
The realities of being the ‘fat’ girl, body dysmorphia, and mending my relationship with food
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The ‘F’ word ruined my life for as long as I can remember.
As a very small child, I’d always been relatively underweight. I was a small toddler, and even smaller in the weird, liminal space between nursery/ pre-school and primary school. I was an active kid. I loved playing games, running around, and fidgeting all throughout the day.
However, the moment I got to primary school, I filled out very quickly. I didn’t have the opportunity to play football outside with my older brother anymore — financial constraints and the reality of the safety concerns living in a council estate meant it was lot more difficult to be the active young child I once was.
And, let’s hone in on the financial constraints. My mother was working back-to-back to provide for a young son and young daughter — as much as folks love to argue that eating ‘healthy’ (whatever that meant) — was not simply not financially expedient. Fast food was, and is, more convenient and cheaper. We lived on the convenience of the McDonald’s on the High Street, the snacks from the pound shop, the bulk-bought fizzy drinks. The pounds piled on, and I became a pretty heavy-set kid. Not that I noticed…
…until I heard the ‘F’ word.
All I could see was f-
I can’t remember the first time the f word was used to describe me, but I can remember a couple of instances which would shape my sense of self-perception for years to come.
I remember the various parties I attended, where my so-called ‘aunties’ (a term we Nigerians use for family friends as well as blood), would pinch my cheeks and poke my belly.
You’re a big girl now, eh? What has your mother been feeding you? Be careful — you’re starting to get f-’
I remember the time I admitted to a ‘friend’ that I fancied a boy from the all boys’ school nearby. The moment I asked for her advice, she informed me that I simply wasn’t his type. In fact, she already knew what he thought of me, and didn’t hesitate to let me know.
Um, I’m not sure it would work out Renee. He actually thinks you’re ugly and f-’
I remember attending a birthday party with some of my friends. I wanted to hop on the bouncy castle, as any pre-teen kid would. As I prepared to launch myself, a hand stopped me abruptly. One of the attending parents thought it pertinent to warn me.
Hey, stop! You’ll break the bouncy castle — you’re too f-’
There are many other instances I remember. Instances where I felt the overwhelming looming figure of the undisclosed f word. Whenever I went out with my friends, I always felt like the odd one out. When I experienced bullying, and the word used was never always the f word but all its colourful and flamboyant synonyms.
Whenever I looked at myself in the mirror, and all I could see was f-
Spiralling out of control.
The funny thing about having a negative sense of self worth, is that you end up in a snowball situation. The very thing that causes you to despise yourself, is where you find your toxic sense of comfort. I love eating, and I love food. I still do, and always will, but it became very toxic when I turned to food for comfort. We find self-gratification in the place of self-deprecation. It’s the same with any addiction we have in the modern world — excessive food, excessive sex, excessive alcohol, excessive drugs, excessive restriction — we find ourselves lost in self-deprecation, through gratification.
I found myself eating whatever, and whenever I wanted to. There were also a few times I simply just
Eventually, that spanned out into a more substantial eating disorder. I went to university, and it was the first time I was surrounded, en masse, by very small, very white people. All the time. The pressure to fit in mounted to the point that I simply stopped eating. Something snapped in my second year of university. I started exercising excessively (2x per day, every day), and decreased my calorie intake to 800–1000 calories. I find this scandalous when I look back now, 800 calories is roughly how much my breakfast is today.
The weight dropped off…but at what cost?
My happiness. My mental health. My self esteem.
I was smaller, and yet I was never satisfied. I looked in the mirror, even after shaving off 40lbs, and chastised myself for not losing ten more. I was exhausted, sleep-deprived, angry — all the while working at one of the top institutions of the world, notorious for facilitating toxic working patterns and mental health crises.
You look great! What have you been doing?
Girl, how much weight have you lost?
Be careful now Renee! You don’t want to get too small. You look good though!
Whilst the f word no longer came out of the mouths of others, it was still embedded in my heart.
They could see the slimmer frame, and yet ignored the hollow eyes.
Pick up a dumbbell, dumbo!
It all came to a head when I told my brother, who I credit as one of the sole inspirations for my real health and fitness journey, that I wanted to give up. I told him I was tired as hell and hated the upkeep.
‘You’re eating…how many calories?’ he remarked, genuinely incredulous. ‘The first thing you need to do is up your calories to almost 3x that, and pick up a damn dumbbell, dumbo.’
For at least a week or two, I ignored him. But the persistent feeling of sadness, low worth and tiredness pushed me to abandon the trusty treadmill and pick up the 20kg bar in the squat rack. At first, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I sent a copy of my proposed workout to him, and he sent it right back — cutting out all but 1–2 cardio sessions, increasing my calories to 2000, and full of all sorts of weightlifting activities.
To say my life changed is an understatement. I became obsessed with the feeling of being strong and functional. And to my surprise, my hunger increased exponentially. To the point that I had to increase my caloric intake, in a matter of months, to around the 3000 calorie mark. I was scared as hell that I would put on weight, but it was then I decided to use my fond research skills to examine why my hunger surged, my physical composition improved (my ass looked great) and my weight all but budged only a few lbs.
What I found was the importance of keeping your metabolism high, weightlifting activities, increased protein to help with muscle synthesis, and how a positive relationship with food and exercise could improve body composition and sense of self. For the first time in my life, I felt like I could unshackle the chains of the f word forever.
Now, I weight-train 4–5x per week, and go for walks mostly for cardio. I occasionally do HIIT sessions, or go to group classes — not to punish myself for being overweight, but as a declaration of love to my body’s functionality. Also, I mentioned this before, but my ass looks great. My daily caloric intake at maintenance is around 2800, and I now get unbelievably cranky if my daily intake dips anywhere below 2100.
This would have been inconceivable to me just 4 years ago.
And the craziest, most important lesson from these experiences?
Damn, I love me!
Transforming from a place of love — not loathing
We are taught to hate ourselves before we are taught to love ourselves. The world thrives on our capacity to medicate and self-gratify, as a direct result of self-hate. We are taught to pity, victimise, transform ourselves, from a place of disdain. The majority of the world’s market is selling short-term solutions in the hope of dependency. Fat burners. Miracle cures. 30 day restrictive weight-loss schemes.
And then, we are shocked that the results from these efforts are always less than savoury. We are confused when we are left in the haunted, dark recesses of our mind, and are shocked when the onslaught of depression kicks in after the dopamine hit of temporary pleasures. These things will never fix the fundamental problem — that you hate yourself.
Have you ever tried to transform from a place of love? I promise you, there’s a lot more sunshine on these sides. How you ever said to yourself: I love myself, therefore, I should try to make myself a better person? Or, have you spent so much time in the forest of negative self-affirmation, that the thought of being kind to yourself is incomprehensible?
The High Prevalence of Eating Disorders in Women
Women are more likely to have eating disorders than men. They’re also more likely to report binge-eating episode, body image concerns, attempts to fast, and attempts to vomit post binge-eating.
Granted, we’ve occupied space in a patriarchal society for so long, we have got to start dismantling the preoccupation with objectifying ourselves and our bodies for consumption. Be skinny, the world loves skinny. Be curvy, the world loves curves. Be slim-thick — whatever the hell that means.
We’re so focused on how we can be more appealing to the masses, that we forget that we must, first, appeal to ourselves.
Fat is not always the enemy. In fact, fat is essential in not just your diet, but also in your body. As a society, we’ve demonised fat to the point that its mere mention is enough to evoke PTSD in the lives of many women. And yet, for optimum bodily, reproductive and hormonal function, women tend to do better with slightly higher body compositions, and higher fat intakes, than men.
The enemy is you. The enemy is the voice in your head, being fed by the thoughtless words of others who, in the grand scheme of things, don’t matter.
F the f word.
The bottom line is the following:
- Take the time to fall in love with yourself first.
- Stop punishing yourself.
- Enjoy what exercise you choose to do. Do it regularly.
- Take your time and be kind to yourself.
- Go eat some food. Whole foods mostly, with high protein and water. But go eat some damn food.
And my personal favourite?
To hell with what the world has to say. What says you?
