The 'One Day' Dress

A month or so ago a 'motivational' photograph was posted on Facebook. "Every woman has a pair of 'they will fit me one day' jeans". I smirked; it wasn't so long ago that maybe I'd have been consumed by that kind of mindset. Obsessing over the notion that "things will get better IF I lose weight", that seems to over-arch the common experience of adulthood. How sad, I thought, to delay happiness because of the size of your clothing, and how well your body fills material based on the number on the label.

And then it hit me. I've still got my 'one day' dress. 

It was 2012 and I was in a charity shop in Kingston, Milton Keynes. Jay found a suit jacket in his size and was really pleased; it was almost brand new and super cheap. I spotted a gorgeous cream dress with a floral pattern on it, and an adorable heart-shaped cut-out over the cleavage area. My eyes were drawn instantly and I needed to have it. Unfortunately, when I grabbed the tag, I saw 'size 18' slapping me across the face. "No matter", thought 21-year-old Sophie. "I'll fit into it one day".

A screenshot from my instagram in 2012. Seeing my own words, and my own insecurities thrown out there for all to see in an attempt at justifying my own body, makes me so sad. Why shouldn't I have "rewarded" myself for the beautiful body I was in, instead of punishing it? My body is capable of brilliant things: in fact, at that very moment there were cells dividing without my knowledge, beginning the wonderful adventure that I now call Moo.

Because that's what I did. I dieted, I got depressed, I binged, I put on weight, I got depressed, and then the cycle began again. But each time was the last time. Every time, I started with a heart full of hope because all of my problems would go away if there was less weight on my body. How could I be sad when I was confident? Who could help but respect me if my stomach was flat? What would I have to worry about if I was fit and healthy? I could go shopping with friends and family without spiralling into depression because all of my attention was focussed on how nothing would fit me. In my mind, if my stomach didn't hang, I could conquer the world.

Anxiety doesn't work like that, and neither does depression. People don't work like that - they don't automatically decide somebody must be a bad person because they weigh more than them - and if they do, they're not people I want to know. I am happier and more confident than I've ever been; I have modelled for a plus size brand (and would be happy to do so again), I take more pride in my appearance than ever [unless I'm at  University. University would be lucky if I washed, let alone brushed my hair or even put some make-up on], I'm super happy to take outfit photos and promote my fat body in all its glory, and I have a solid group of friends who promote body positivity at any size. And so, just like that, I decided to get rid of the 'one day' dress.

I didn't make a fortune; it sold on eBay for about £1.50 plus postage. But it wasn't about the money I could gain, it was about my mental health. This was the last step in accepting that I am who I am and every body, at every size, deserves love and respect. And actually I would encourage anybody who is punishing themselves for being who they are to challenge their mindsets. If not now, then when? 

Mental Health: Caught Between a Rock and a Hard Place

This post is going to be in stark contrast to my last one, to the point that I'm really going back and forth about whether or not I should actually post it. I don't want to be a liar and I don't want to offend anybody. I don't want to trigger anybody. I don't want to open myself up for hatred from a) the body positive community and b) trolls. But I guess I'm human and I am allowed to feel things, and maybe this will represent the undulating nature of mental health. Just because something is okay on Monday, doesn't mean you won't hate it on Tuesday.

Here is something that is not a secret: I am fat. And I worked hard to reach a place in my life where I didn't feel an internal flinch when I made that bold statement. At the doctor today, my nurse took my blood pressure. It was high. She asked if she could then weigh me. Just an FYI, I was there for a smear test, so my weight really had nothing to do with why I was there. Just routine dignity invasion. I asked if I really had to, she said I'm afraid so, yes. Then she looked at the scales and said "oh gosh, you really have put on a lot of weight, haven't you?" [referring to the last time I was weighed at my GP, two years ago, at my postpartum check-up] ... She really was only trying to be kind I suppose, and she whispered "Obviously you know you're...." and I replied "fat" and laughed because laughing is how to make things not sting, dontcha know. And she said "right, so lets deal with it. How can I help?"

And honestly I was stumped. Because here's the thing. I've worked for so long to convince myself that its good to be me, exactly as I am. In the past I've had a tetchy relationship with food. I used to sneak food to bed and eat it in the middle of the night. Food has always been a reward to me. And when I feel bad about myself, food is a comfort. Even to the point that I have hidden empty wrappers, or gone to a shop to replace something so nobody knows its gone, as an adult. When I'm really down I eat an embarrassing amount and sometimes I don't even know I'm doing it until its done and Jay gets home and says "did you eat an entire multipack of Twixes?" and I think "shit, yeah, I must have done". So when I have dieted, one of three things has happened.

Scenario A: I achieve goals when I diet. Reward? Food. Just a little bit in secret to say well done. Addiction back. Can't stop. Time to start over.

Scenario B: I lose no weight. I fall into a pit of self-loathing. Comfort? Food.

Scenario C: By the second day the feeling of restriction is too much. I literally feel no point in living anymore, as dramatic as that sounds. I hide and cry. Depression plummets. I have no alternative but to go back to life exactly how it was. I talk myself into eating my old diet because it's better to be fat and happy than thin and depressed, right?

And so I tried to break this cycle by jumping into the world of body positivity. Wonderful bloggers, vloggers, models, writers, who had such beautiful things to say about bodies that looked just like mine. These ladies are sassy and they aren't afraid to show it, so why shouldn't I be happy to look like me? I honestly felt this way almost unfalteringly for months (High street clothes shops make me feel like utter shit because I am confronted with a million things I'd wear and 0% of it would even fit me) and I was on a pretty high cloud. Heck, I even figured I'd start swimming a couple of times a week so that I could eat the same, look the same, but just feel a little bit fitter. I got to the happiest I have felt about my body in my adult life (which happens to also be my heaviest) and I was proud of myself for breaking the cycle and approaching the situation in a mature, rational and stable way.

But then the doctor happened. "Let's deal with it. How can I help? I can help with getting you in to exercise, I can refer to you to a dietitian" and I interrupted because I felt drained just hearing the conversation begin. "I go swimming actually, I've just been there now, that's why my hair is wet" "Well done, that's an excellent start. What else can we do?"

What did I want to say? "I am scared to go to a dietitian because I think I am going to feel overwhelmed, controlled, restricted and my depression is going to get out of hand again. I am worried I'll get into a cycle of hiding and binge-eating.  I am scared to feel judged. The thought of even embarking on this journey exhausts me. I feel like everything I say sounds corny, or like an excuse, and I'll never be taken seriously or understood. I don't feel mentally strong enough to deal with this right now."

What did I say? "Not sure really. I'm just... Swimming."

"Right. Well I leave that with you", she said with a smile. She didn't pressure me or make me feel guilty. We changed the subject, I left feeling fine. But the more I reflect on things the more I wonder what I am supposed to do. Mental health vs physical health, I suppose. Can I even achieve one without the other?

I'm screwed.