Fat and Vegan: Life in a Fat Suit
I remember one activist describing my excess weight as “off-putting,” not because I was fat per se, but because of the inference I do not take proper care of myself. As much as I wish to shed my excess weight, I would love to reaffirm some of the most components of my condition; indeed, my love of food is one of the few remaining sources of profound pleasure in my life. Other addictive substances simply fail to have the same tried-and-true impact on my mood as food, my foremost comfort in life.
Whether I feel happy, sad, angry, or stressed, food has always provided my personal answer to the vicissitudes of life. I celebrate my birthday with outrageous displays of gluttony—two heaping plates, half a cake, and a mango smoothie, please!—and I diffuse my stress by eating cookies, one box at a time. Should I feel angry or depressed, the pleasure of eating not only distracts me from my internal challenges, but lulls me into a state of self-fulfilled complacency. Given the major role that food plays in my life, I felt overjoyed to keep a careful catalogue documenting my dietary exploits over the past week. What I discovered has not only renewed my relationship with food, but also provided deep personal insights into my broader life beyond the buffet line.
Perhaps the most conspicuous aspect of my diet over the past week involved not only my chronic overeating, but, more specifically, my relapse into stress-eating. While I tried starving myself throughout the day earlier in the semester, my small, cup-sized portions steadily faded, replaced instead by platefuls of beans, rice, and vegetables from the buffet lines of Grand Dining Hall. By the time I began explicitly documenting my eating habits, I also noticed my restraint gradually disappearing when reintroduced to my greatest weakness—sugary discs of fat. When my parents unexpectedly returned home with several boxes of cheap cookies from Aldi, from the fudge-striped cookies I adore to my favorite thin mint cookies in the entire world, I initially allowed myself to eat just five cookies a day. But as assignments and stress piled on, I would find myself wandering to the cabinet several times a day for that sugar-high that could—at least for a time—reassure me all was well.
On a particularly stressful night as I worked until three in the morning to complete a crucial grant application for St. Louis Animal Rights Team, my small trips to the cabinet became fistful after fistful of windmill-shaped spice cookies before the glaring computer screen, until, at last, I fingered the bottom of the bag for the final crumbs. Because of my reckless forays into stress-eating, I gained five pounds in just two weeks. Now an uncomfortable 256 pounds, I wonder if I have a responsibility to myself to curb my overwhelming desire to overeat. Despite all the pleasure I derive from satisfying my enormous, stress-fueled appetite, I now bear the painful scars of my overeating all over my body; hundreds of hideous, purplish-pink stretch marks snake their way across my things, stomach, love handles, side breasts, and man boobs. I have grown so ugly beneath the concealing grace of my clothes, I fear I can never expose my body before anyone; it must remain forever hidden by wads of cloth, with celibacy my eternal punishment.
Trapped inside my fat-flooded body, I have also experienced a fundamental shift in my identity. While veganism provided my salvation almost a decade ago, thrusting me from the second fattest kid in my 6th grade class to the fastest long-distance runner at a school of 800 in just over a year, I no longer consider myself a healthy, vivacious vegan, protected from disease and despair by the almost miraculous benefits of a plant-based diet. As I increasingly succumb to the dire consequences of my massive, virtually unrestrained appetite, I feel that I sink ever lower into the dreaded curse of insalubrity. Simple tasks, like putting on my socks, taking showers, and bending down, have become undesirable and laborious chores at just 21 years old. All the while I feel the fat of my erumpent breasts and protuberant gut pressing against my internal organs; I even feel my heart, enclosed beneath layers of fat, struggling to support the weight of my now obese frame. Two years and 90 pounds later, stress-eating has ruined my once young, handsome physique; my identity is now that of the self-ashamed obese, both comforted and tormented by my chosen opiate—food.
Even as I stare in the mirror at my hideous, misshapen body, I try to compartmentalize my grotesquerie; I may be disgusting in the flesh, but at least the day will bring the conveniences that make my life in a fat suit livable. Over this past week, I returned again and again to my greatest comfort and strongest addiction. I ate three cheese pizzas, each covered with vegan sausage, cheese, mushrooms, green bell peppers, and fresh onion. I would try to leave a couple slices for my ailing mom or my younger brothers, but every time I succumbed to temptation, devouring every slice. Not content with this rich feast, I would grab handfuls of chocolate chips and cashews, a new fetish of mine. As endorphins flooded through my mind before the chocolate even reached my tongue, I would fantasize about my next meal; several nights I even struggled to sleep, taunted by the flavors I forced myself to wait until the following morning to experience. Below, you will find the pictures of the many meals I devoured with gusto this past week, meals that remind me that life in a fat suit—and all the emotional convenience it entails—is perhaps not so miserable after all.
