An Open Letter To Every Doctor Who’s Called Me Fat.
Thank you professional in the lab coat for calling me fat.
Thank you for stating something I obviously can’t see through my eyelids pressed shut by squishy cheeks.
As if the germs fighting my insides are less important than the size of my waistline.
As if I did not already know.
I know I am fat. Thank you.
I wake up every morning and look at myself, disgusted.
Trust me, I know.
I knew when I was 12 at a birthday party and the grass hula skirt did not fit. While all the other kids were dancing away I was tugging and pulling hoping the thin rope extension would make it my size and so that I could fit in.
I knew when I was 7 and nothing from the popular store fit. The stripes on the shirts starting parallel and becoming more abstract.
I’m a work in progress.
As my numbers on your paper chart go up, how I feel about myself goes down. I do not need your expert opinion to tell me my weight is unhealthy. The way it makes me feel on the inside, mentally, lets me know it is unhealthy.
I spend my days trying to look thin instead of just being happy. Shrinking and trying my best to look small because people like you point out the thing that bothers me most of all.
I am a work in progress and today I am fat. When I come back in six months with a sinus infection or the flu I may still be fat then too.
I say I do not like going to the doctors because there are needles. But honestly, I do not like going to the doctors because of doctors like you.
Signed,
The Fat Patient
