Hey everyone! I feel fat today! Isn’t that just a terribly pathetic, boring, self-absorbed thing to write? I mean, even more than the stuff I usually write. But anyhow, it’s true. Today, folks, I feel fat.

There’s no point saying it to my partner; he thinks I look fine and besides, he’s still jobless and has proper shit to worry about. No point saying it to my sons; they’re too little to understand and if they were old enough, it’s hardly a message I’d want to share. No point saying it to my friends; they’ll just point out that I’m smaller than them (even if I’m not) and that by saying I feel fat, I’m making them feel fat. So I have to shut up about it, and I will, apart from here. Here I’m fat fat fat fat fat.

It’s not as though I haven’t had genuinely crap things happen to be. With some very selective editing, I could cobble together a properly tragic life story. Hey, if I were more successful in life, I could make it into a real “overcoming the odds” drama-fest. But I’m not. And sad things aside, today I’m more sad about feeling fat.

There may be lots of reasons why I feel fat. I’m stressed at work. I worry about being a good enough mum. I worry about money. I worry about my partner. I worry about my extended family. An experty-type person would say “ah, when you worry about your weight, you’re transferring your worries over into something you can control”. But that’s not even true, or it doesn’t feel true. I feel fat and it’s not a feeling I believe I can control.

To feel at odds with your own body is horrible. It creates a low-level, buzzing anger at yourself that’s with you all day, an anger that flares up every time you pass a mirror or rest your hand on your fat, stupid stomach. Or now, as I write, I pause and rest my hand on my chin and it’s a double chin and it’s wrong and it shouldn’t be on me. I feel infested with a moral weakness that everyone can see. And, quite obviously, this makes me want another bag of crisps. Or possibly a doughnut.

At the moment, I feel like I’m not really me. I’m occupying flesh, too much flesh. What a ridiculous way to think and feel. If I’d been told I had six months to live, would I still feel this way? Or if my children were sick, would I then? Actually, I know the answer to that one. I would still feel this way. I have a picture of me, in hospital with my youngest when he was five weeks old, hooked up on tubes with a then-undiagnosed illness. I was scared that he might die. I was also, albeit to a lesser extent, scared that my arms might look fat in the photo. What a complete and utter tosser!

So now I’m annoyed at myself for being fat, and I’m annoyed at myself for feeling fat. And that of course will mean I need to eat another bag of crisps. Jesus. Call myself a feminist? Is it just me? Do other people get like this? Well, all I can say is, what a stupid way to be.