Mah belleh is not a moral issue
I’m relatively new to this whole body acceptance thing. I’ve been reading around, nodding along, getting excited that all these people think and talk about what I’ve been slowly figuring out over the last few years. (So now I’m starting a body acceptance blog of my very own. Hi.)
Much of what I’ve read is stuff I’ve already thought about, just never articulated. But there’s one realisation that has completely blown my mind.
Fat is not a moral issue. What’s more, health is not a moral issue.
I have heard many people argue that fat is not necessarily an indicator of poor health, and that lots of people cannot help being fat. Both true, and both important for us to recognise. It would be great if, for example, more GPs could see past a patient’s weight and explore other possible causes of health problems before making a final diagnosis. And none of us want people to instantly assume that we are lazy or have no self-control. But by placing so much emphasis on these arguments, the body acceptance movement is shooting itself in the foot. We do not have to accept their premises. They say “fat is fundamentally bad”. Why on earth are we saying “fat is fundamentally bad UNLESS you are healthy/cannot help being fat/insert caveat here”? Fat is not bad, or good. It is neutral. Fat just is.
I spent a while there feeling dreadful about myself because of these arguments. Because deep down I know that I am not fat because of genetics or a whacked-out metabolism, and that for me this excess weight is a health problem. I didn’t have an excuse. I wasn’t a Worthy Fat Person. I couldn’t justify my fat. Actually, I now recognise that I have had eating disorders plural since I was a teenager, but that probably doesn’t count as a good excuse anyway – and besides, I would still be chubby even if I hadn’t been starving, purging and (mostly) bingeing all these years. I adore food. It is my favourite sensual pleasure. Better than sex (though that’s a pretty close second). I love to cook, to create something wonderful with the palette of flavours at my disposal. And I loathe many forms of physical exercise. Nope, I was never going to be trim, just as I’m never going to be an organised neat freak. It’s just not me.
What I failed to realise for so long is that I don’t have to justify my fat to the world, any more than I have to justify the fact that I hang all my clothes neatly on the floor or can never, ever find my student ID on the morning of an exam. Sure, I’d be a little better off if I were slimmer. I’d have more choice of clothes shops, so my style would be closer to what I really want it to be. I’d be able to do more physically, running without giving my knees and ankles more impact than they can handle, that sort of thing. I’d be less at risk of various long-term health problems. But, pray tell, what the bloody buggering hell does that have to do with anyone else?
I was arguing with someone once, a long time ago, who snidely told me that “most of us don’t want to be a 16 stone person”. What I failed to articulate at the time is that it doesn’t matter a good goddamn what anyone else wants, because I am not them. My fat doesn’t make you fat. It’s not catching. And I don’t have any kind of obligation to be like you, or to be someone you would like to fuck, or to be aesthetically pleasing to you. So until I ask for your opinion on my size, your opinion on my size is supremely unimportant.
