Humor doesn’t fix everything

So, I have shifted from limited eating to overeating. I am miserable. I keep hoping to feel better, but with every bite, I hate myself a little bit more. It could be hormones. It could be meds. It could be any number of things, but it isn’t funny.

So, why do I make jokes about it?

I make jokes about a lot of things that make me uncomfortable. It is my way of dealing with things. It’s painting a smiley face on that picture of rain that’s torn in five pieces. It doesn’t fix it.

In this case, it makes me feel worse. I find myself joking about all that I eat, because I am ashamed of my intake. I tell my parents that they would be doing fine financially if I would just put down the fork. If I could just say no to pop tarts, my world would make sense. Then I correct it and say the appropriate thing of “Oh, but they’re so good.” No, they’re not. I have never really cared for pop tarts.

I make fat jokes. I say cutting things to myself like, “With my expanding waistline…” When someone says they lost weight, I comment that I found it. The barista at the hospital asked me right after New Year’s, “Did you get thick over the holidays?” I laughed and agreed and quickly offered my excuse of prednisone. Why did I need an excuse?

You may be asking why I am bothering to write about all of this. I am not sure, except that I feel like I am fatphobic. Not toward others… Funny thing is that nobody else is required to live by my standards. I am accepting of all bodies, just not my own. I sit in public places and read blogs and watch people and how they eat and drink and express themselves. I am jealous of those that seem so self-assured. I do not know their problems, but I envy their drinking a beer before dinner. I envy their enjoyment of tira misu and baklava and cake. I envy their smiles.

When I go out with friends who truly understand my struggles, we drink coffee only. I regularly get mocha lattes to remind me that I deserve good things. But, then I have some friends who want cake and cookies. I go along with it, because my disease makes people uncomfortable and people like to eat. They think I am better if I eat. Why not let them believe the lie? Truth bomb: I don’t like eating around people. I don’t like eating with coffee. I have taken to eating in secret because I am ashamed of my interactions with food. If I eat in front of you, it is because I want you to be happy, not because I want to.

I pretend and make jokes to hide how distressed I am. I cry about these things a lot. I cry a lot. And that’s okay. I would tell anyone else that it is okay to fear the changes in one’s body, but I have to be this stalwart anchor for the world… I am holding everyone else in place while I am hiding below the surface. My smiley face is making me miserable.