One thing I did not welcome from a so-called friend last year was a comment that I had put on weight, accompanied by a poke in the midriff. It was not exactly information I was unaware of. During a terrible year when I had a mental breakdown as a direct result of the bullying and abuse I was subject to when working for the British Red Cross, I don’t deny that I let things go. I wasn’t looking after myself, I was drinking too much, I was eating the wrong stuff, I wasn’t exercising. To put not to fine a point on it, I was ill. The last thing I wanted was for someone, a so called friend, to make me feel worse.
Have you noticed how it’s almost always slim, or even thin, people who point out weight gain? The thoughtless people who have tried to make me feel worse were always thin people, occasionally middle aged lycra clad men, a look that, I can assure you, is not a good look even with thin people. Mind you, I never said to them, “You look a right prick wearing that.” I like to think I am a bit more thoughtful than that.
The weight is, ever so slowly, beginning to come off now as I try to return to a more acceptable level, acceptable to me, that is. I AM a bit more sensitive than some because I am, according to the British Red Cross occupational health officer, “emotionally weak”, whatever that is supposed to mean. Why, I ask, is it acceptable to point out someone’s weight gain?
I suspect there is a bit of sneering superiority going on here, accompanied by a ton of selfies on social networks. “Look at me. I’m slim, trim and fighting fit. You, meanwhile, have let yourself go to pot. Be more like me. It’s all about me.” No. I know there is sneering superiority going on and the fact that I am still hung up about it many months on just goes to show how much it got to me. Honestly, it made me cry when one person said it. Not when I was standing in front of them. It was when I was alone, much later on.
I thought I was hardened to this stuff. Since age 13, I have had a large scar on my right cheek following a number of operations to remove a keyhole-shaped birthmark (laser treatment did not exist when I was a kid). I had plenty of nicknames from “Keyhole Kate” to “Mole” throughout my school life and have had to explain countless times to people who seem to care about these things how the scar came about and why one side of my face is tighter than the other. I swear I would never go up to someone – often a stranger – and ask them how they had come about getting a scar on their face, but like in so many things in life I seem to be in a small minority. I would not feel better about myself if the only way I could do so was at the expense of someone else.
I remember the jibes only too well because when they were delivered I was suffering from even lower levels of self-esteem than I am now, and that is really saying something. And when people know you are ill and still go on to make hurtful comments, what does it say about them? I do let these things bother me and I do judge people when they say things like that.
There were times last year when I no longer wanted to live, although by the same token I didn’t want to die. That’s the fucked up mindset of a severe clinical depressive. My reaction, as New Order put it, was “You caught me at a bad time, why don’t you piss off?”
When I needed help and support, some people thought it worth making digs at me. Did they really think I wanted to be in a pit of despair and that I was purposely not looking after myself?
I’ve had to try to put myself back together, both mentally and physically, without any treatment and I have been told I may not get mental health therapy this year. The next step after mocking me physically will be to mock my mental state. Don’t be surprised if I never speak to you again if you try that one.
