[Hiatus over. Still sad. Also, still fat, so onwards and upwards.]

[Oh yeah, and trigger warning for anyone who don’t want to read about the diet commercials and diet talk that’s frakking KILLING me.] 

I have never felt quite so bad about myself as I do right now. 

Hold on—give me a second to explain. 

Over Christmas I was snowed in at my mom’s house. We weren’t expecting much in the way of holly jolly magic anyway (since my dad died only a month ago), but all that time stuck inside meant I watched a heap more TV than usual. And as Christmas passed, the commercials for diets and gyms and Truvia and Special K and cake-flavored yogurt made me bananas. REDRUM indeed. 

This year, I’ve gained weight. Stress made me lethargic and sleepy and gave me an unquenchable taste for Pillsbury cinnamon rolls in a tube. That accounts for some of it. The rest? Who the hell knows. I’m not going to overthink my rotundity. It’s there. I’ve grown to like it as it has grown around me. I’ve spent a full year steeped in FA and HAES, discovering more new rad fatties every day. (NOTE: If were to apply to that MTV show, MADE I want to be one thing : a Re/Dress shop girl. For serious.) I can get great clothes. I know some of the people who make them. I feel generally healthy, and I’ve got a battery of doctor appointments planned for February just to be sure. I’ve put off going to the doctor because of the new fluff, but my dad’s passing scared me to pieces. To the doctor I will go. Also, I’m running low on my dearly beloved antidepressants. 

Back to the commercials. So here I am, fat and proud-ish, in a blue state (figuratively and literally) trying to get through a hard holiday. And after the three thousandth Weight Watchers commercial, I start to get Stockholm Syndrome. By the grace of god or the universe or the great sparkly unicorn in the sky, I FINALLY started reading Linda Bacon’s “Health at Every Size” before Christmas. I got the principle of it and read plenty of summaries, but never the source itself. So here I am, flipping through the book on my iPhone while simultaneously being beaten over the head with that godforsaken Truvia commercial, and the Truvia starts winning. 

I mean, heck, I didn’t have an app last time I did Weight Watchers (and lost 40 pounds only to gain back 60). Maybe the app would do the trick? And then my inbox pinged and LiveStrong.com and mydietdiary.com and youaretoofat.com (ok, last one is mine) wanted me to try their apps. Damn it. Screw Linda Bacon, the commercials knew better. Chocolate cake yogurt, indeed. Bring it. I started researching the apps online and feeling like a hot mess. Jennifer Hudson started singing and she was feeling good and didn’t I deserve to feel good too? 

After Christmas I took a train ride and sat near a family who spent the entire trip, 60 minutes, discussing the points values of the Applebee’s menu. If they said, “Margarita Chicken” one more time, I was going to have to throw myself from the train. 

From Ronkonkoma to Woodside, Linda Bacon was winning. I could see that they were, as a family, completely obsessed with the points. Health was irrelevant. Mom was explaining how important it was not to drink on an empty stomach to her college-age daughter. “Save some points for that, honey. And drink light beer.” Holy bananas, great fat unicorn above. 

But then I got back in front of the TV. And the facebook resolution status updates came like a great plague. And Jennifer Hudson would NOT SHUT UP and that song, THAT TRUVIA SONG. Then a slimy guy pinged me on a dating site (even if you were born in ‘69, please don’t reference it in your username boys, OK?). And that the guy I’ve been pining over for too long doesn’t want me back? And did I mention my college boyfriend (of 8 years) is getting married this year? And that I’m single? And losing ovary-strength by the second? And that I feel like I’m a bad friend and a bad daughter and that I’m FAT which is clearly a fate worse than death according the the frakking commercials. 

Vacation ended and the train spit me out into Queens and I was a quivering mess. That was yesterday. Today I did not watch TV and I did read Linda Bacon and I am feeling wobbly still. I don’t want to feel wobbly. I want to feel strong and fierce and magical. And I want to laugh at the commercials and the diet apps and to throw a kitten heel at the TV screen the next time I hear, “I love you sweetness…” 

But I’m not there. Tomorrow, I will wear my hot pink teggings to work with my favorite not-too-sparkly-for-the-office dress. And I’m going to try so damn hard not to let the resolutions and the commercials and the jingles nick me so much. I’ve felt much too fragile for the last few months. There’s good reason for it, but god, I hate feeling like a delicate piece of spun sugar.