I’d rather be fat than anxious

For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to be thinner than I am. Even when I was “thin” in the technical sense, I wanted to be thinner. The number on the scale matters to me more than it should and it always has.

I’ve also always loved food. I find immense joy when eating a good meal. I have always struggled to find a balance between indulgence and discipline when it comes to food.

In high school I was a competitive figure skater and, later, a swimmer and those two activities kept me in decent shape. I pretty much ate what I wanted, because I burned calories like crazy. I was still never “skinny”, but I was toned and trim and athletic looking.

I wasn’t happy with how I looked though…even then.

Then college came, and I stopped competitive sports and I put on a little more weight. I began to battle with the scale on another level. I’d try all kinds of fad diets, lose some weight for a few months, then gain it all back. Yo-yo dieting at its finest.

I joined weight watchers and lost 20 pounds for my wedding.

Then, in my mid-twenties, I gained it all back…and then some. The battle with the scale continued. I would lose 10-15 pounds, then put it back on.

I was also struggling with intense and debilitating anxiety at this point in my life. I remember thinking that maybe weight loss would help me feel better. Maybe gaining weight had been a major catalyst for my mental health struggles. I shed many tears over my weight throughout the years, in dressing rooms, at home, on the scale, after a doctor’s appointment. Maybe it was the culprit for my anxiety.

I always looked for a reason for why I was anxious. I had to know the why. I needed to blame something, to focus on something. There had to be a reason for why I felt so poorly. Spoiler, there was. There were multiple reasons for it. I was convinced my weight was one of the reasons.

Finally, I signed up for a pretty extreme weight loss program. I lost thirty pounds in three months. I was as thin as I’d been in ten years…And I was miserable.

My anxiety was higher than it had been prior to the weight loss. I was having panic attacks, feeling sick, struggling with sleep, ridden with anxiety symptoms of all kinds.

But…I looked better than I had in years.

I remember telling my therapist that I wasn’t happier after losing the weight, that if anything, I was actually more depressed, more anxious now than I had been.

“There’s an important lesson there,” She said.

I was happier with how I looked, but I was still anxious.

You see, it’s tempting to think you’ll be happier if you are skinnier or prettier or richer or smarter. If I get the promotion. If I find a spouse. If I have the perfect body…

I fell for that lie. I thought my problems would be immensely better if I were just “healthier”, aka “thinner”.

I couldn’t keep up with my extreme weight loss program. It wasn’t sustainable for me, and a year or so later, I put back on the weight I had lost.

In 2020, I made the decision to go on an SSRI medication. It wasn’t an easy journey, and you can read about that here, if you’re interested, but in the end, it was a game-changing decision for me.

A year into taking it, I started feeling my anxiety lift. I was able to handle things that I normally would have been totally derailed by. Slowly, I started to crawl out of the pit of anxiety I had suffered in for so long.

SSRI’s are notorious for causing people to gain weight. I had avoided one for many reasons for a long time, but this was a big one for me. I didn’t want to gain weight. I was technically already “overweight” and I struggled enough to lose weight without having a medication complicate factors.

But, when I started to feel different, when my anxiety started to dissipate, when I found myself able to face things I hadn’t been able to in a while, when the tears started to stop, and the irrational fears started to dissolve, I decided it was worth the risk.

I did gain weight. I gained another twenty or so pounds. I can’t be sure how much of it is solely the medication’s fault. I don’t think doctors even understand why certain SSRI’s contribute to weight gain in certain people.

I’m not happy with the weight I’m at. That’s the truth. I wish I could say I’m feeling “body positive” and that I don’t care, but I’d be lying. I look at the scale and I’m mortified. I see pictures of myself and I do a double take. Is that really what I look like?

So, yes, I want to lose weight. Badly. Do I still cry or get upset about the number on the scale? Absolutely.

Do I want to go back to the me in 2018 who was about 60 pounds thinner than the me today? Absolutely not.

That girl was thin. She looked like she was in good shape. She could pull off a two piece bathing suit and wear cute outfits and she felt confident in pictures. That was great.

She was also anxious. She couldn’t sit through work meetings. She couldn’t travel without taking Ativan. She was uncomfortable in her own skin. She had stomach problems and panic attacks and a plethora of other anxiety symptoms. She was miserable.

So, when I’m tempted to think about how much happier I’d be if I were thinner, I remember that thin, anxious girl. I’m bigger now, yes. Do I want to lose weight? Yes. Is it healthy to be carrying around this extra weight? No. I’m a work in progress. I am trying to become a physically healthier person.

But, in the meantime, I’m not struggling with a debilitating anxiety disorder, and that, to me, is worth the extra poundage I’m carrying around right now.

If I had to pick between the two, I’d choose the girl I am now because, hands down, I’d rather be fat than anxious.

Anxiety left me feeling like a shell of who I once was. I’m going to continue to work on my physical health but I am so grateful for my mental health today, regardless of my pant size or the number of the scale.