by Laura

I mean, I’ve never been a twiggy girl. I’m totally cool with that. Even at my smallest, I was made of hips and butt. I’m what a more gifted wordsmith than myself might call “thick.”

But another thing I am? An emotional eater. I always hear stories of these mythical people who get sad and lose their appetites. I have never been one of these people, but seeing as I ‘m twisted in the head, I wish I was.

Because when my mom died? I went on a sordid year-long bender involving a lot of shameful threesomes with Ben and Jerry.

And I gained weight. Like, kind of a lot of it.

But I don’t hate myself for it. In fact, I refuse to.

The year after my mother died was horrible. To use a worn-out but accurate cliche, she was my rock, the person who helped me survive losing my father and my best friend. I was often inconsolable. I was renegotiating the dynamics of my family, with only extended family left. I was effectively an orphaned adult. Not to mention, I was planning funerals, dealing with the legal and financial ramifications of an estate, and dealing with any number of other circumstances well beyond my maturity level. When I say I was barely keeping it together, I’m not exaggerating. I went through a phase of auditory hallucinations during which I heard quiet, tinny music that wasn’t there. I found out later that this is a somewhat rare side effect of being under extreme duress, but was forced to consider the possibility that I was actually going crazy.

So going a little binge-eaty? That felt forgivable.

Now, it’s been almost two years, and the fog is finally starting to lift. That’s not to say I don’t still struggle. But the estate has been closed. Her belongings have been dealt with and her house sold. The immediate stressors of the acute grief phase have passed. And me? Well, no excuses anymore. My mother can’t take care of me. So I should probably start.

So this year I made resolutions for the first time in a while. They were:

I mean, look, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t have a little to do with wanting to fit back into my bodycon dresses and have more options at Proenza Schouler sample sales (whatevs, fat girls like looking fancy, too). But mostly, it’s an effort to overall feel better and treat myself with the respect that I deserve.

Because to quote RuPaul (which is a thing we should all do ALL THE TIME):