I am fat.

It is definitely a displeasure to look at me. It is not attractive to see my belly move from side to side as I walk, or waddle. It is not attractive to see a mass of blubber hanging over my belt like an inflated balloon. When I tip my chin downward, a second chin of pure fat pops up mockingly. My breasts are as large as a woman's, albeit composed of fat rather than mammary glands. Were I but to grow my hair longer, I could easily pass for a pregnant woman.

I avoid mirrors, avoid them because of the ugliness that is found within. Winter is a pleasure because it provides a chance to wear thick, conceealing clothes that hide the hideousness. Summer is an agony because it exposes me to the scorn of society. I do not use public swimming pools or beaches and seldom wear shorts even on the very hottest days.

Should such a creature of repulsion seek out the companionship of the other gender? Surely you jest. A fat man has no more chance of attracting a woman than does a nest of maggots. Too many times have I seen female eyes turn away, start to giggle and jeer at the sight I present. Too many times have I heard the catcalls, the pointing fingers, the shocked disbelief on people's faces. Too many times I have read women's personal ads with the magic words "must be slim" or "thin desired" embedded ominously.

Nor is it merely the looks that hold me back. To be fat in this culture does not merely mean to have a large body. It is a symbol, a sign of personality. The fat person is lazy, greedy, undisciplined, and shamelessly epicurean. He has lived a sheltered, cozy existence, never knowing hunger, never knowing want, living off the slavery of others. He is neglectful of his health, careless and reckless in the damage his diet and lack of exercise do to him.

So every time I see a woman I might like to know better, I think of what talking to her might be like. I imagine what she must be seeing. And I blanch, retreat, stay silent, seen and not heard. How could I expose myself to the inevitable withering condemnation and scorn? How dare I expect a woman to accept something as sickening as the figure I wield?

Sometimes I try the self-talk exercises therapists love to prescribe. "I love my head, I love my neck....." and so forth. When I get to the stomach, I cannot continue. I do not love this monster that lies on my abdomen. I hate it, hate it with a crying passion, hate the slurs it casts on my name, hate the isolation and ruination it brings me.

Therapists claim that if I think I am attractive, that will be enough for me to become so. Nonsense. A fat person, ipso facto, is ugly. There is no beauty outside thinness. Every magazine, every ad, every TV show, every movie, every fashion layout is vociferous testimony to that basic reality.

Why not diet and exercise and lose weight then? That is a story in itself, one that is better written on an obesity list. Suffice it to say that attempts to lose weight have not succeeded, nor are they likely to any time soon.

So I remain, shackled a body no one can love and no one will mourn.

Soc-phob, Nov. 13, 1997.