I Am Fat Because My Body Houses All My Trauma

First Person

I Am Fat Because My Body Houses All My Trauma

Illustration: Akshita Monga

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esterday while scrolling through my Instagram feed I came across a recent picture of mine that was clicked after a post-Diwali family lunch. In it I was wearing a black skin-fit top and a flowy wraparound orange skirt. I was surrounded by my cousins, all looking happy. And I looked fat. It’s the only thing I could see. How my arm fat was dangling. How my love-handles were bulging. How out of proportion my entire body was. In short, I look ugly.

I was annoyed at the wrong, unflattering angle at which the picture was clicked. Maybe I shouldn’t have sat in the front. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn that top at all. I couldn’t stand to look at the picture so I put the phone down. Went to my weighing machine, stood on it, and forced myself to look at the reading. The weight was no more than it was the day before. Or the week before. Or the month before even.

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