A few years ago, I got really depressed. Not just my usual sadness or bitchiness, but real-deal, medically diagnosed depression. One of the things that came from this bout of mental anguish was a newfound animosity of my body.
Now, I've never exactly loved my body. We're frenemies at best. But things took a real turn when I gained a whole bunch of weight and had trouble finding happiness in any of the things I used to enjoy. So, instead of feeling happy, I figured "Hey! How about I hate myself?"
With therapy and Zoloft, I started feeling better, but my body negativity was still at full force. I didn't want to take pictures, I didn't want people to see me, I wanted to wear stretch pants and hide from society.
One day, I felt like breaking my routine of spending every waking moment inside my crappy Hollywood apartment and settled on seeing "A Quiet Place." As I got ready to leave, a familiar refrain went through my mind "You're too disgusting to go outside. People will be horrified to look at you."
Usually, that pissy inner voice would be enough to make me stay at home and spend hours on my laptop alone. But that pissy voice tried to screw with me on the wrong day! For the first time in months, I realized how wrong I was. I wasn't disgusting and people wouldn't vomit upon seeing me. I was just an ordinary fat girl who'd be one of many, many weirdos walking the streets of Hollywood. I wasn't going to let my pissy self and shut in tendencies keep me from seeing Emily Blunt silently give birth in a bathtub!
I put on a mix of Cher's greatest hits and headed out the door. I strutted down Sunset Blvd, bolstered by the beat of "Train of Thought." My trek to the theater became a beautiful choreographed music video where I was the star. I didn't care if someone laughed at my lip syncing or occasional dance moves - I was going out on the town in style!
In the end, no one cared or noticed me. Mostly because there were a lot of people on the streets and people tend to pay more attention to the Walk of Fame than a chubby girl living out a Cher fantasy.
Sure, maybe someone on the street occasionally thought "oh man, that girl is big." But you know what didn't happen? People didn't scream, avert their eyes, and tear out their hair at seeing the horror of the Fat Blonde Girl with Glasses.
I'd constructed this fantasy that I was some kind of monster because I gained weight and got depressed. But since that day, with the help of Cher and scary monster movies, I'm tearing that nightmare scenario apart and trying to live in my "the world is my musical number" fantasy a lot more often. I'm not always perfect, but I'm a lot happier, a little thinner, and starting to maybe not hate my body. I'll count that as a win.