I am not a number
The lechon is dripping with succulent fat. I reach for a piece of skin, but before I can take a bite my mother stops me and tells me to scrape all traces of fat off it first. My fingers are oily, and the piece of skin is finally lean and naked. I bite into it.
I imagine a faceless entity, naked and lying flat on its back on a metal slab. A sharp knife makes incisions all over the bloated body, peeling back skin to reveal yellow fat. The knife makes ragged strokes, hacking at the fat until blobs of it fall onto the floor, carving and sculpting a grotesque body and transforming it into perfection composed of muscle and bone. The entity laughs. It feels pretty.
I am the entity.
The weighing scale has always been my enemy, and from its post at the front of the classroom it is silently mocking seven-year-old me. It is waiting for someone to prey on, and I am its next victim.
“Anyone else who hasn’t stepped on it?” my science teacher tells the class, looking straight at me.
It is a simple activity. All we first-graders have to do is step on the scale one at a time, and the teacher will then announce each one’s weight to the class. Maybe for a normal seven-year-old it won’t be that big a deal, but for a shy, awkward, and big girl like me it is utterly humiliating.
At seven I weigh 102 pounds, and the scale reads exactly that. My cheeks burn with embarrassment as my classmates erupt in mocking, jeering laughter. The scale stares up at me with my shame imprinted on it. It laughs and laughs and laughs as I flee from it. That is all I ever am to the world—someone who does not belong.
Its laugh still echoes in the silent recesses of my mind until today, whispering to me that I’m fat, that everyone hates me, and that I’m a tub of lard that nobody will ever want.
I remember six years of having no one to talk to at school during recess. From 102 pounds I got bigger and bigger, until the hook securing the waistband of my school uniform would sometimes snap when I sat down. I’d go to the bathroom alone and spend as much time as I could there so that I wouldn’t have to go back to the classroom and face the bullies.
While my classmates talked about cute boys and Hannah Montana, I sat alone in the background. I took up so much surface area but I was invisible to them. Nobody wanted to be friends with the fat girl and be branded a loser.
But on the first day of high school, most of my classmates didn’t recognize me. Thanks to the ulcer and the lactose intolerance that I got that summer, I shed my fat suit and I was now a slim 113 pounds. But being thin turned me into a bitch. It’s amazing how getting a layered haircut, wearing contact lenses, and shedding a few pounds could instantly change who I was.
I loved the attention. I loved being popular and finally having friends. But staying thin was a pretty miserable experience. I remember not studying for a test just so I could run on the treadmill and burn what I had eaten. I remember not eating and suffering the pain of an ulcer just so I could maintain my weight. At 13, I thought that staying thin meant staying popular. Little by little, I was turning into someone I was not—a bully. At 113 pounds, I was now the girl who was mocking others who were bigger than her. “Blubber,” I’d say. It felt great. Bitch.
Fast forward to the year 2014. I’m now 17, I weigh 135 pounds, and I haven’t grown an inch taller from my 5’2 since I was 13. Pig, you’re back to square one, but it’s okay. At least you’re happy and healthy.
A few months ago an acquaintance of mine messaged me on Facebook, asking me if I’d like to join a weight-loss program. Apparently he had lost weight on it, and his coach requested referrals of people who he thought could use its help, too.
Ouch. It’s okay, Janelle, I told myself. No, you’re never going to be that skinny bitch again. Never. You’re never going back to being a cheater because you didn’t study for that test so you could run a few miles on the treadmill, or you watched some stupid show so you’d have something to talk about with your “friends.” You’re never going to cry again because you and your popular “friends” are fighting again about something as trivial as attention. You’re never going to be someone you’re not. Remember, you are you, and people will love you no matter how big you are. YOU ARE NOT A NUMBER.
At 14, I realized that being thin was not how I imagined it to be. I was skinny, but I still felt like that fat girl I used to be—a girl who would do anything to be noticed, a girl who still felt like she did not belong, a fat impostor in a skinny person’s body. I realized that I couldn’t do it anymore, that I’d rather be fat and happy than thin and miserable, so I stopped trying. And I’ve never been happier in my life.
Looking back, I realized that the seven-year-old me was never invisible. I realized that the reason nobody listened to her was she never once spoke up, afraid that other people would ostracize her because of her weight. She suffered alone for six years—and wasted chances, opportunities, and irreplaceable memories because she let herself be defined by a number.
The 14-year-old me finally decided to take the initiative to say “hi” and “hello,” and to smile at people sometimes, and she realized that she was not the only one who let herself be defined by something. Others, too, were scared to break the mold. She realized that she’d never amount to anything or have something worthwhile to look back upon in the future unless she tried—and so she did. For the first time in her life, she held her head high and strutted into the room with confidence in her step and a smile on her face. She felt great.
Sometimes I still question God why he gave me this set of genes and this body. I’d question him on why my brother and not me inherited my mother’s petite frame, full butt, and thigh gap. There are times when I’d catch myself looking in the mirror and thinking, “Oh, my arms are pretty disgusting.” I’d pinch at my rolls and imagine how I’d look without them. Maybe someday I’ll lose the weight, but I’ll do it for the right reasons this time. And I’d be kinder to my body and not starve and work it to death like I did when I was 13. I’d do it for myself, and not for the sake of how others want me to be.
Meanwhile, whenever I’m feeling low, and when I hear the scale’s cruel laughter telling me that I’m fat and that nobody will ever want me, I’d just say to it: “I am not a number.”
Janelle Go, 17, studies at Ateneo de Manila University
