Reviving the Fatty Chronicles: Storybook Style

Once upon a time there was a girl, she was made up of a specific combination of universal matter. She spent most of her time in train stations although she did have a home. Two in fact. But one she was unwelcome at, and the other had worn her out six years ago…

Everyone has a voice, in the sense they have something to say. True. It doesn’t mean it offers anything of significance. I surely don’t expect mine too.

But this is my therapy.

This blog started as an attempt to fix some superficial problems. And while those problems may be easier and more enjoyable to digest, (who doesn’t love a fatty makeover?) I realize now after a series of long and unfortunate events that it all runs deeper.

It’s funny I should find myself back at my parent’s house. For the first time, I can see this as a good thing. Here lives my teenage angst, my guilt complex, my self image issues, and my anxiety. But, as I am realizing now, here is where I first got that spark, that desire for independence. Out of sheer frustration and depression, here is where I first broke free and became strong.

I’ve since moved back twice, and have yet to get that back. I keep coming back like that episode of Buffy when the geek squad cast the mummy hand spell, or Moulder when the bank kept exploding, or when Xena has to live the same day over and over until she stops a massacre. Or, you know, Groundhog Day.

That’s me. Each time I’ve been back I’ve missed something. I’ve missed that drive to be myself, get to know myself, be independent. I can’t remember the last time I felt empowered. But that’s my Rita, and I have to go to sleep next to her.

I skipped a huge important step in gaining my independence. I am 22 and without a license or car. And so I’ve identified step one:

By December I will have both. That is my promise to myself. Small step for a big effect.

And while her particular combination of universal matter hadn’t existed very long, even in the human sense, she had always considered herself ahead of that game. But life has a annoying habit of smacking you in the face to get your attention. And confidence can easily become arrogance, which may as well be debilitating self doubt.

Here I am, having lost all my bragging rights. Though I refuse to call it rock bottom. Sure, I live in a bedroom of half storage and mold spores, in a house of clutter with a family that sometimes sets my anxiety in a whirlwind. But maybe it’s what needs to be done. I have to solve the mystery of the mummy hand and I have to grow up…more…again.

And as that same particular combination of universal matter which made up her rather large bottom sat blandly on a train seat not much older than it’s carrier, she realized she preferred to think of things in this way. The poetry of reality gave her a place to explore and hide in. It was a place where she didn’t have to matter, but could. A place where her love for one human should be trivial, shouldn’t matter. But it did. Which was part of the whole complex simplicity of the picture, and made it just as wonderful.

If I’ve learned anything from Buffy, empowerment doesn’t always feel empowering. I could go full force into independence, girl power, Amazonian goddess but I know that I will always long for that partnership too.

If I go full force into love and partnership, its so easy to let that strong girl slip away. She did. And this is my slap in the face.

It is time to rebalance. And that is this blog.

So for now,fattyisoutreminding herself that “rock bottom” is just a hilarious episode of spongebob and nothing to fret about.