I AM FAT

But I should not love myself any less.

Everytime I read a post about another fat person being shamed on the internet, I share a bit of that feeling, and I couldn't help but cringe.

Growing up, I was never counted among the little fat kids in school. I would stand among the shortest in class, in fact. Being a short kid gave me a bit of insecurity even though I was naturally assertive and was always part of the top students in class.I have always had a curvy figure. My relatives would tease me about my butt all the time, but I always felt I was just, well, more shapely even for an undertall female. No one ever had to tell me to control my eating. I ate right and I was active.

When our guards are let down, we start believing what the environment is suggesting about our 'inadequacies'. When we start forgetting about our uniqueness, we blindly compare ourselves to other people, even against unrealistic standards that the rest of the world ascribe to as 'perfect'.

While I was in college, I started to hate my upper arms. Hardly anybody ever negatively commented about them, but I guess just realized that there was something wrong about them. My hips seemed to have become a second concern as well. I have recollections of feeling sharp pangs of self-hatred in the fitting room. Then I started to take fat-reducing supplements in the hope of controlling my weight. At barely 5 feet, 110 pounds, I was convinced that I had a weight issue. Even when I was considered underweight when I decided I wanted to be a blood donor but had to be turned down, I chose to believe that I was fat.

And I started to believe this more when a college friend teased me of being a fatty, especially after I put on 10 more pounds. The guy that I was dating in college  (He was part of a cheerleading team and was used to throwing 100-pound girls up in the air when we met), was generously affirming me of how 'hot' I was. We never argued much about anything, but our first spat was about the slice of cake I was going to help myself to after we were having lunch. My hunk of a boyfriend, who loved working out, decided his girlfriend was starting to pork out.

It's difficult to understand why I even chose to listen to those voices...why I forgot that I was smart (a Dean's Lister, a scholarship awardee, an achiever), talented (in drawing, creative writing, singing, dancing), and good-looking (hey, I know what it's like to turn down a suitor or a date). In my mind, I was fat.

At 26 years old, I was still sporting a 26-inch waistline. Short, but curvy nonetheless, I was able to get acting projects as a bit-role player. But since I found myself working in an environment of actor/actress wannabes, of 'Class A' models, mestizos/mestizas, I found more reasons to feel more utterly insecure. In fact, when I first dated this attractive Spanish-blooded Filipino guy, I was to be shamed again when his talent manager barked, "How could you have picked her as your girlfriend?"

I got married to this guy months later, but I lost our baby due to premature labor. Grief and depression seem to shut off your sensitivity to what is going on around you. There were very few things that I remember during the year that followed, but I couldn't forget that my post-baby weight prompted a lot of criticisms. People must have easily forgotten that I was pregnant once. Surrounded by insensitive relatives, I get greeted with 'Hey, you've put on some weight again!' every time we had family gatherings. And I started to hate being around these events for a while.

But then, I realize that certain people just simply do not know a thing about making appropriate small talk on these occasions. Even after I gave birth to my second baby, I would get the same greeting so often (usually from the same people) that I started to use this standard response in my most sarcastic tone, 'Fat people can always lose weight, but if you're ugly that's going to be a lot harder to change.' What I really wanted to ask was, 'Why can't we ever talk about anything else?' After all, I have a wonderful, steady job (I probably earn a lot more than you) and love having my own place (while you and your family are still staying at your mother's).

Usually, the most hurtful comments will come from the people you love the most. At 39, I was breaking up with my spouse after 12 years. My ex, who never made fun of my figure, decided that his slim 26-year old mistress was going to be the new love of his life. Just to spite me, he emailed me a psychologically abusive message and even created a fake FB profile using my name and my pictures with the most horrid and sexually inappropriate remarks.

It took a long time in realizing this, but it's when we take stock of ourselves and genuinely realize that our personality, our talents, our achievements, and our passions are more than enough reasons to love ourselves. When we have a healthy self-perception, we focus on doing the things that matter and listen to the voices that uplift us.

The change of mindset for me was slow, but progressive. Starting with a refusal to dwell on the negative, and moving forward to nourish my soul, mind, and body. I've been in and out of the gym and for me that didn't really do much for my weight, though it left me feeling more energetic and wanting more physical activities. I think having to suffer emotional trauma more than once in the last few years caused a weight drop, that it was obvious that a colleague mistook me for someone else. Now please understand that I am not going to say that trauma would be my solution.

The change of mindset, was a great start. I have more people telling me once every so often that I look like I have been losing weight. Some were curious to even ask if I was in love. I am still considerably heavy, but my regained self-confidence and enhanced dressing statements, are resulting in having people complimenting me on being sexy. Well, I've been out on a few dates in the last few months (where dressing to impress was crucial), but I have been spending time with good friends more as well. More important, I have been more and more visible at church, where I am reminded that I am loved by my Creator. So I couldn't say that the inspiration would be coming from just one source.

To every fat person who experiences ridicule everywhere you go, I hope you realize that you are more than the sum of the negative comments that people hurl at you. Whether it's your lifestyle or bad genes, your body is the only one that you have and it is your responsibility to care for it in any way possible for you to make the most of life. Shape is just an empty shell --- Health is wealth!

Don't waste time in self-pity or finding flaws and imperfections. We all have those. But don't hate those who do not know you as a person other than the labels that they use with you. Don't take revenge --- most of the people who have been insensitive towards me have their share of bad karma (trust me, I know).

Instead, realize that you are a work in progress! You alone can determine what would make you happy as a person, but I sure hope it will not be based on what's shallow or fleeting. When you reach that point of self-satisfaction, don't forget to spread that joy to others because they may be going through what you went through before. Set yourself to change, but let your passion for living be your motivation.Think of how great your selfies would be when they show that you have been going places!

Your shape should never dictate how you feel about yourself. Work on being kinder with yourself, love yourself more for the right reasons, and slowly, your figure, even the other aspects of your life, will take shape.

Count me as proof. At 42, still undertall, with stats measuring 41" 32" and 42" --- those numbers are not permanent --- I am FAT.

Fabulous. Attractive. Tempting.

Walking in Mary Embry's Shoes

I had to look up this name using Google to identify the suburban housewife played by Charlize Theron in the movie "Hancock". Not only was I drawn to Theron's stunning kind of beauty I was also fascinated by the superhuman powers secretly possessed by this character. Talk about a powerful being whose anger could conjure a twister and could crush boulders as if they were lumps of sugar.

The actress once described Mary this way,

"She makes this conscious decision to live in suburbia and be this soccer mom to her stepson and be the perfect wife—she lives in this bubble. But when people do that it usually means they are hiding some characteristic inside themselves that scares them. That is Mary's case. She knows who she is and what she is capable of."

However, it turns out that she loses her powers whenever she is close to the lead, Hancock, who likewise becomes vulnerable under the same condition.

Women seem to be at their weakest when they are with the men that they love, easily hurt and wounded whenever they are attacked. And though men, like Hancock, instinctively protect, they do not seem to realize that it's their presence in women's lives that make females feel more defenseless.

And while it seems that we women may learn how to fight battles better in the absence of men, it is not expected that a woman is applauded for bearing arms if it made her male partner look like he failed to keep her safe.

Maybe the story has a hint of sexist overtones. Or maybe not.

It's just that, the part about Mary possessing all of her strength when she is distant from her destined mate got me thinking. If that is the case, then why is it necessary (at least, why do I think it is) to ever feel like we need a partner to feel safe?

Simply Living

Early this year, I created a page on Facebook, "Simply Living", to share some of my own thoughts on making the most of the life I now live by focusing on the things that matter to me.

As I look back over the last few months, I can't help but feel grateful at how my life has moved forward in leaps and strides.

My contentment keeps growing every single day.

Surviving The Climb (Part One)

IT WAS STILL DARK, and the small barrio of Kiloloron in Real, Quezon was still sleeping when our mountaineering group of eight got off the bus after a four-hour trip. We had some time to organize our belongings at our meetup place before starting the climb at seven a.m.

I counted among the newcomers to this sort of outdoor expedition. The goal was to reach the summit of Mt. Binangonan before nightfall, and we were looking at 7-8 hours of river-crossing and trekking. It was a trip that I welcomed, considering that I have never done any major climb in all my life. Sure, I have done some hikes before, through short trails along gentle hillside slopes.

We started walking through grassy patches of land. It had rained hours before, and the surroundings smelled of moist earth and the astringent scent of shrubs and grass. Shortly, we made the first of dozens of river crossings, the cold rushing water causing us to quicken our pace. A few minutes of walking on the rocky terrain started to put a strain on my soles and ankles that I had to slip off my flip-flops in favor of running shoes.

The scenery was captivating --- a background of lush green foliage, rocks and boulders along the banks of the winding river, and clear, mountain-filtered water rushing against our legs. Cameras were at the ready to capture images as there were times when the trail would take us through the water; at other times, through dense vegetation.

We weren’t even halfway through the climb when I started to feel the burden of my backpack. I was already having difficulty in managing my own weight as I skipped from one rock to the next. And when it rained, my apprehension got worse as I struggled to avoid slipping into the icy water. But then I did, in fact, more than once. Every time my foot slid, I felt a pull on my ankles and a skip of my heartbeat.

The more experienced mountaineers felt concerned for me, but I only declined their offer to carry my load. I didn’t wish to be rid of my obligation to bear my burden, as it might make me look like a slacker. Several slips and curses later, I surrendered, and right away I was given a trekking pole to keep my balance.

We made a stop near a 20-ft waterfall, the base of which was a 6-ft-deep pool. Normally, I would be fond of taking plunges into such depths, but since, by then, the pain started to reach my thighs and I was half-shivering from being drenched by the rain. Wrapped in a jacket, I decided to take a nap on a rock. It was already around 2 p.m.

My silent prayer for deliverance from having to follow and cross the river resulted in a more challenging ordeal. With nothing more than roots and branches to grab on to so we could haul ourselves up, we started to ascend the side of the mountain. The detour took us to a trail through the rain forest filled with hairy plants and thorny vines. The muddy floor was covered with wet, decaying leaves and was crawling with giant ants that bit back with fury. The climb continued, as we straddled over fallen logs and pawed our way through leafy branches. Later, we were walking along the rim, where one misstep could send us rolling down on either side of the mountain fold. I could not see the river beneath anymore, save for trees and vines contorted around trunks and branches.

A couple of mountaineers stayed with me as I begged to rest. Full of pain and frustration, I was feeling defeated as the task of finishing the climb began to overwhelm me.