Suicide weight. Have you ever used this term? I have. Never aloud (until today), but I have. I should premiss by saying that I’m not and have never been suicidal. I don’t know if it’s how I was raised or the religion I was bought up in or the control I have on my mind or what.. but it’s never been a thing to me. I’ve had lows and I’ve had periods of doubts but in no world is contemplating committing suicide ever been something to realistically consider.

And I also want to say that anything I may say going forward in this post has nothing to do with whatever stereotype you think I’m associating suicide with. If suicide and the free language I associate with it following this sentence are going to be an issue for you, then I advise you stop reading. I know suicide is serious and in no way do I mean to take away from those we’ve lost to such a tragedy.

There have been so many times throughout my life where I’d rather be die than deal with the humiliation of this or that. The fall of 5th grade specifically is the first time I literally thought I’d rather be dead in a hole with worms and bugs surrounding my corpse then put on my swimming suit over my underwear. I had my period and I didn’t do tampons.

There was also a series of times I wanted to crawl in the lonely hole I was living in following being the new kid in the middle of a semester in 9th grade. If ever there were a worse time to be the new kid on the block, let me know.

I remember being mortified when a kid in the class above me asked if I was a lesbian because I had a rainbow on my bracelet and I “look like one.” To this day, the only thing I can think of for his reasoning was because I was heavy. Obviously lesbians are not universally fat but this was the reasoning I had when I was 15.

I remember wishing I’d sink into the ground and suffer a slow quiet death when I sat on a chair in Nutrition class the 2nd year of college and it broke instantly. I was so stiff with fear wishing my heartbeat racing and the anxiety that followed would have been clear signs of a heart attack.

I remember stepping on the scale less than 30 days ago and seeing that I was 8 pounds shy from 400 and wondering where the cut-off would be before I slit my wrists and thighs in the bathroom at work. How far would I let myself go?

Today I was reminded of this recurring half-thought of suicide when a co-worker was contemplating eating a piece of banana bread but decided not to because she’s “dangerously close to suicide weight.”

Let that sink in.

I know you don’t know this woman but I love her dearly. She’s one of my favorite people that I work with. She’s a mom to 1 handsome little kiddo and she’s smarter than I’ll ever be. She’s beautiful and she’s kind. She (in her mind) is overweight I suppose. To me, she’s healthy. She doesn’t have a double chin, her boobs are bigger than her stomach, her fingers don’t absorb her wedding ring. She is fine.

But she had the willpower not to take a piece of banana bread because she hadn’t stepped on a scale in so long that she fears she’s nearing suicide weight. Can you believe it? I know the saying.. don’t judge me until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes but whoever you are saying that can shove a big one.

I’m sure she doesn’t know I heard her nor do I care. I don’t want people to be sensitive around me or be careful of what they say because I’m fat but this struck a nerve. I wanted to stand up and punch her square in the face. She has no idea what it’s like to be fat. Carrying around lingering baby weight 3 years after birth is not the same as what I’m carrying around. She received the gift of motherhood from her weight.

Although she said it in a completely figurative sense, what is her suicide weight? What is mine? Have people whom I know or don’t know seen me and thought to themselves.. “If I ever get that fat, kill me.”? Think about it. Have they?

They have. Because I have.

I’ve seen people.. Grotesque, gigantic people. In public and restaurants and stores. Stomachs stretching beyond the fabric of their shirts.. wobbly walking like a duck.. weighing down a scooter at Wal-Mart.. I’ve seen huge people and I’ve said that very thing to myself: Do not get like that. Do not get that big. Please, kill yourself before you get that big.

I think I suppress a lot of my feelings surrounding my weight because of this literal realization.. I don’t want to think about how big I am because I AM already. I am that huge. It’s a magical set of finely tuned movements that make sure my clothes stay in place.  I’m sweating and sticky and feel gross under my worn out body shaper, I haven’t worn jeans in over 3 years, my front butt is bigger then my real butt..

When I see photos of myself that I wasn’t in charge of taking, I want to vomit. I legit want to shove my hand so far down my throat so that I can puke all of my fat up. I want to get into a car accident on my way home and die. I want to fall in the bathtub, hit my head and never wake up.. I push these “feelings” of self-hatred and disgust down as far as they can go because I don’t want to think about how big I am.. Because I’m there. I am at my suicide weight. I’m there, guys. I can’t get any bigger. I can’t.

Follow more of my journey on my Instagram page where I post regular happenings, weekly weigh-ins, and daily struggles @iatemylife89. (This is a private Insta account so depending on who you are, I may or may not accept your request to follow. In other words.. If you are a co-worker, long lost friend, or someone I kind of know.. you’ll have to wait until I’ve lost any weight for me to feel comfortable enough to share the worst thing about myself. #sorrynotsorry)