Diary of a Former Fat Girl - My 92 lb. Invisibility Cloak

If I turn my head just the right way, just the right angle and just the right tilt of my eyes, I almost see it. Sitting in my corner, propped up against the wall. It followed me from the other house where I thought I left it locked tight in my closet, where I thought it couldn’t escape and taunt me anymore. If I turn my head a little more, it disappears again, invisible to the searching eye that never really knows if what it sees is real.

My 92 lb. invisibility cloak is staring at me while I type this. If it had vocal chords I swear it would be laughing at me, but it doesn’t talk, or laugh, or even snicker as I walk by in my spanky new skinny jeans. It just sits there, waiting to be noticed, waiting for me to try it on again, for me to slip up and revert to old ways and old comforts. My 92 lb. invisibility cloak is both my safety blanket and my prison chain.

This is the diary of a former fat girl.

Growing up I was told, often and with great enthusiasm, that I was ugly and fat and no one would ever want to date me. I was told, often and with great vigor, by family and friends and people I trusted that if I’d only lose about 50 lbs or so some guy might like me enough for my stellar personality to look past my body and into my soul. I was told, and I listened. You get told something often enough you eventually start to believe them. I was told, and I don’t really believe anymore. But that initial lesson learned at my grandmother’s hypocritical feet formed the basic lining of my invisibility cloak.

I don’t know why, but guys I’m attracted to have never really found me attractive back. I end up being their friend, matchmaking with my other female friends. I’m the tagalong girl at the bar that is easily approachable to ask for my best friend’s, the perfect dreamgirl’s, phone number. I’m the homely friend that clues you in on girl things and gives you girl advice. I’m the cool girl that knows about guy stuff, can sit around drinking and eating pizza and watching action movies and not wincing when someone’s guts get splattered all over the screen. I like horror and scifi. I read comics and play(ed) video games. I am the guy in chick’s clothing, although I mostly tend to dress like a guy unless I want to feel pretty.

I don’t often feel pretty.

In fact, most times I only feel pretty invisible. I’m the girl that will talk and have people walk away midsentence because they thought I was finished or forgot I was saying anything. The girl that gets bumped into unapologetically or sat on in the cafeteria cause someone “just didn’t see me there”. I’m the girl that lurks in the shadows waiting to bite your ne—wait, no that’s a vampire. I’m not one of those… yet. *insert evil smirk here*

At least I used to be that pretty invisible girl. I’ve lost ~92 lbs since I was at my heaviest and I’m suddenly not so invisible anymore. I don’t know if its my newfound confidence in my body (well, little confidence. I’m still pretty awkward about it) or if it actually is my new body, but suddenly I’m getting pounced on like catnip any time I leave the house. Whether spiffed out in makeup and form-fitting jeans or trashed out in painted clothes and bare face, it seems I can’t step outside without someone trying something. A guy from high school asked me out (I actually gave that one a chance cause he was nifty). People at grocery stores and home depot very non-stealthily check me out and then swagger over to try to impress me with their mating call and unkempt plumage. Unfortunately the majority of them use the “you’re haaawwwwttt. I like your boooooobs. You should date me cause I’m haaawwwt toooo” variety of pickup lines. And that is a complete turnoff to me. I don’t want to be asked out cause you think I’m hot. This doesn’t work for me when I’ve spent my entire life trembling in the corner in my invisibility cloak because I wasn’t hot, I was downright frigid. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind being hit on by people or being told I’m pretty once we’ve established a non-physical connection. It’s the way they were doing it that left me squeamish and feeling violated. At the very least couldn’t they have said something about my t-shirt being funny and I must have a good sense of humor, wanna exchange numbers or something? Or made a joke about needing a good tool and try to make me laugh?

I am jack’s complete lack of human understanding.

Instead I get leering eyes and ogling guys that think calling me pretty will make me swoon. It won’t. All it does is leave me confused as to the sudden influx of attention until I realize I must’ve left my invisibility cloak safely in my corner at home, collecting dust from months of neglect. No wonder I’ve been so cold lately.
The me I am is 25 years in the making. I don’t really want to change how I think or how I process things, I’d end up losing a part of myself if I suddenly start believing I’m “hot.” So maybe I just need to wear a fake ring on my finger and let them ogle all they wish, as uncomfortable as it makes me. I’m not used to being seen. Even on stage, they were looking at the character, not ME. And you aren’t going to know enough about me after 5 seconds of staring at my breasts to know if we’re compatible. Sorry honey, these tits don’t make the woman and there’s more on my head than whichever bathroom bottle job I’m currently sporting. I am an enigma, even to myself. I’m a jack of all trades, master of none, with loads of ambition and no real clue how to focus it into laser-beam clarity. I don’t usually date because I don’t like hiding parts of myself until the guy is comfortable enough with me to know me better. I usually don’t show all of who I am from the outset because it scares people away. And the few times I haven’t held back, gotten past my shyness and let loose with all my vulgar dry humor and bitterly sarcastic outlook, they run away screaming. A girl can only take so much.

I’m a pretty damn terrifying person when you get to know me, which you don’t. So what makes you think 5 seconds of watching my hips shake as I walk by is any indication that we might hit it off outside the bedroom?

Things were so much easier when I was invisible. At least then I could tell who really was interested and who just wanted a piece of my formerly fat ass. But now that I’ve been halved, it isn’t so easy to tell ulterior motives. And that cloak is beckoning and taunting and snickering from my corner, begging me to don it one last time. Just go to the kitchen and pack my cheeks with fig newtons and mint chocolate chip ice cream and a snickers bar or three. Squirrel it up and bury that spoon down my throat. Even though I cant really stand the supersweet taste anymore, a little sacrifice to make my life a little closer to what I had thought was normal.

But I don’t have the willpower to make myself fat again. Or the energy to make myself miserable cause I’ve suddenly turned visible. That cloak ain’t getting worn anytime in my life again. I should donate it to a worthy cause (oprah and roseanne, where are you?). I should come up with a witty retort to half-assed pickup attempts, like “I have an iq requirement for dating” or “if you had a bigger dick I might consider it.” But those are trite and cliché and all those things I never want to be.
I just want to be free to be me, without reminders of the ghost of fat girls past, without feeling disgusting and dirty anytime a guy checks out my suddenly tapered waist. I want to keep my healthier body and still be invisible. It was comfy and warm in my cloak, if only a little hard to breathe from all the excess weight pressing down. It was my safety blanket, my prison chains, and my butterfly cocoon. But I guess as a former fat girl, I should learn to live with the consequences of my inactions and back away from the ice cream aisle. The mint chocolate chip can wait for another meltdown I suppose.