Have you ever looked at someone hugely, grossly overweight and thought Thank goodness Im not them!

Did you clock their bulging seams, their cushions of flab, the way their legs bulge out around the ankles (feet in their shoes by comparison appearing tiny), the way the features of their face seem to be engulfed by a neck which just took over?

Did you ever smell them in high summer?

Did you ever see a small child, who is really beyond chubby, and recall that image of the fat, fat person to mind, and think Oh dear I can see where youre headed!

Or a big, ungainly, overweight teenager, looking awkward and uncomfortable in clothes designed to hide, and think Its not too late! Stop now! Stop the eating! Get some exercise! Its so simple!

Ive thought all of those things. Fortunately (thus far) Ive managed to stop myself from saying any of them out loud. Because I think if I did, I would (deservedly) be punched in the middle of my face.

Its a highly emotive issue for some, this business of fatness.

The general media consensus tells us that Slender is Sexier (I know; blah blah blah old news) while there are those who attempt to convey the opposite message Fat is Fabulous theres more to love and in some part they succeed, drawing obsessive followers, while in dark corners, the Thin-titled put their heads together, purse their lips and whisper in scandalised tones about chubby chasers and fat freaks.

The health crew reliably tell us (nearly causing blunt force trauma as they hit us over the head with that ungainliest of tools; the Body Mass Index (BMI)) that TooFat and TooSkinny can be equally unhealthy, and that what we need is BMI <25, 7 hours of sleep a night, 5 portions of fruit and vegetables per day, and 30 minutes of exercise as often as we can bear to take it.

Fashion is torn. Music and Movies largely follow fashion. And in the end it all comes down to money.

Because truly, in the western world, we eat too much.

Never before have so many calories been consumed by so few.

We pay for food we dont need to give us energy we wont use and then buy new clothes (because the old ones dont fit) and a gym membership (to get back into the old clothes).

Call me cynical, but I dont really think anyones looking out for us. Not really.

Which brings us round to common sense (should we not be taking care of this for ourselves?), and the fact that it might just be lost with our ancestors.

Allegedly we are built for running. We carry the bulk of our weight carefully around our middles, ensuring a low centre of gravity whilst allowing us to remain upright. We have tall, upright bodies for seeing well with our binocular vision. We have long legs and strong muscles (when developed) and can go on for miles and miles and miles (once trained). We are tough, athletic creatures at heart.

And weve let it slip.

Since the advent ofwhat shall we blame today?

Canned goods which allow food to be stored for longer and used when convenient?

Refrigeration which allows food to be stored for longer and used when convenient?

Fast food notoriously full of grease (because our brains are programmed to love sugar and grease, because these are the things which grant fastest energy (which is what our anciently-historical selves would have needed whilst living in caves and going out to hunt bison)) because its what sells well??

Family breakdown because parents no longer monitor what their kids eat, or feed them out of guilt or indulgence?

Advertising because they confuse us by showing the most outrageously sexualised adverts of perfect bodies alongside an offer for Buy One Get One Free on processed food?

Consumerism because in the end its all about giving us our opinion, telling us we demand it, and then offering a supply?

Poverty because fresh food and foods-with-fewer-additives-and-preservatives cost more?

Personal trauma because its easier to eat (or starve) away the pain than deal with it?

We are absolutely buffeted with conflicting messages, the most prevalent of which is this:

Fat Is Bad.

I should know.

Im remembered as a skinny child with a dairy allergy, but looking back at my childhood photos, I see a well-rounded girl with a wide, lumpy face.

Once the dairy allergy was gone (simultaneously with my home life taking a nosedive for the far worse) I entered 12 years of over-indulging and comfort eating.

I dont even remember when I first noticed I was fat. It goes so far back I cant remember.

Photos of myself as an older child and a young teen still make me cringe deep inside. Why was I allowed to continue eating myself into a sphere? How could I not have noticed?

Ill tell you how food was feedback.

It told me Yummy. Delicious. More. Yours.

It delighted my eyes, my nose, my taste-buds even my fingertips as I reached out for another delectable morsel.

It was positive input.

It counteracted the daily negatives I received via word, non-word and inference – Burden. Unworth. Ugly. Greedy. Vile. Unwanted. Failure.

But with that positive input, there was the weight, too. That kindasorta happened along the way, almost incidentally.

I do remember the first time someone else noticed I was fat, though. A routine check-up at the doctor necessitated me to lie on the bed, and after examining me for whatever-it-was, he put out his big, mans finger and poked me in the middle of my belly Youre getting a bit fat he said.

It echoed round my brain.

Judgement.

Shame.

Hurt.

Fat.

I cant have been more than 10 or 11 years old.

I clammed up and didnt meet his eye for the rest of the consultation. I remember staring determinedly at the edge of his desk and answering questions in a monotone. He offered no advice (that I recall) other than that damning announcement.

I made a fuss and we changed doctor. The new one was nice. She didnt call me fat. But by then I didnt need her to tell me.

Then my schoolmates began to notice, and they called me fat, too.

I was worst at Physical Education (PE). I achieved a reasonable time one year on our annual cross-country run because I somehow missed an entire lap. I frequently found reasons to be ill before PE. Or to join in the least I could. I hated the communal changing rooms and tried desperately to hide my body as it continued to grow outwards.

I left school with self-esteem that rock-bottom couldnt even see down to. It wasnt just the Fat (though that weighed heavily on my mind) the bulk of the issue stemmed from an abusive home and the systematic destruction of my self-esteem. But none of that mattered, because the me I presented to the world, the one who was perceived and judged by others, was Fat.

I grew up hiding myself in big clothes. I lurked. I socialised very little. I ate. I did make friends at college, for the first time, who liked me for myself; who appreciated my creativity and sense of humour and the person who I was. But I drove those friends to distraction with whining about my weight, leading one of them to finally snap and tell me Do something about it or stop complaining.

This was the best advice Id ever received, and in that moment, I finally owned my fat.

It hadnt happened to me I wasnt afflicted I didnt have fat genes or big bones I had done this to myself. And I could undo it.

This was a powerful tool, once Id admitted it to myself.

I got a job and joined a gym, and the weight fell off. I began to feel better.

Then the membership lapsed and the time wasnt there any longer, and the weight went back and I felt worse.

Then I signed up for a half-marathon and began doing some training and the weight fell off. I began to feel better.

Then the half-marathon was over and the weight went back on and I felt worse.

Then I got engaged and was going to be married and I dieted and the weight fell off. I felt better.

Then I got married and the cooking for Husby and the wonder of being in charge of my own pantry went to my head and the weight went back on and I felt worse.

The rest of me was better I had some self-esteem, some good friends and family and a man who loved me dearly, however I looked. They encouraged me and told me I was strong and striking and intelligent and a wonderful daughter/niece/sister/wife, and that they loved me very much just for being me.

They didnt care that the me was Fat. But I cared.

I cared because I could still poke myself in the belly with one finger and say Youre getting a bit fat, and I was I was at my heaviest ever. I cared because when I saw a photograph of myself, I saw a blob. An ungainly, ugly, flabby, lump, trying to look good in clothes which still couldnt hide the truth.

I decided to lose weight to qualify for fertility treatment (whose requirements demand a BMI of <30). On the day I was first measured, my BMI was 31, which, shockingly, put me into the obese category. Obese.

Like those Fat People.

Something had to be done, so I installed a lifestyle diet the 5:2 fasting diet, where for two days a week, you eat nothing for as long as you can; then only fruit and veg until a normal (but healthy) evening meal.

I gave up cheese.

I began going for walks with a friend twice a week, and we encouraged each other to follow work-out DVDs when it was raining.

The walks turned into walks with running-y bits, which turned into runs with walking-y bits, which (for me) have turned into Proper Runs.

Sometimes the not-eating would spill into other days, too, and it didnt matter because (lets face it) there was lots of fat to lose.

I found some inspiring quotes:

Sweat is fat crying

No food tastes as good as slender feels

The second quote caused an argument, as my friend believed that it was the kind of trash associated with pro-anorexia literature and websites. I disagreed, finding it motivational. We were both vehement, and in the end agreed to disagree.

Since April, Ive been working hard.

The next fertility appointment came, and I was excited to show off my progress and my commitment. But they didnt even ask, and I was knocked off my feet by how much that hurt me. I decided there and then that the inconsiderateness of fertility clinics and even the possibility of having a baby was not a good enough reason to lose weight, however noble. I needed better motivation.

To look good. Purely, simply and superficially, so that when I meet someone they dont think Im a big, fat cow first, and a lovely person second (as if that even matters after the judgements happened. All I am then is a fat, nice person).

I gave up desserts. Not intentionally, but just because I didnt find I wanted them.

My portion sizes have shrunk drastically.

Ive been dieting and exercising and remaining in control of it all, ensuring that I eat healthily but not too thoroughly in between fast days. I doubt Ill ever be skinny, nor do I really want to be. Because I do love food, and I doubt my ability to ever get that thin, though toned and slender surely might be achievable?

But the allure is strong, and Im beginning to understand the delight in conquering hunger. Of embracing it and knowing that it means its working.

I dont mind being cold any more, because shivering and trying to maintain body temperature burns calories.

Ive reached the point where sometimes, I genuinely do forget to eat lunch, and its okay it doesnt kill me, and it all helps towards the goal.

Ive come to a point where the bathroom scales are my friends, because they show my progress so delightfully (GOODBYE 20kg of unwanted blubber (HOW much?!!?!)) and I get onto them several times a week to check how Im doing.

I recently got a new job, for which I needed to buy some new trousers. Thanks to the slimming, I astonished myself by fitting straight into a UK size 14 (I had previously been a generous size 18) and in realising the difference, congratulated myself mentally for a bare moment before the thundering realisation of just how incredibly fat I had been, crashed down on me.

I strengthened my resolve.

I will get this.

I continued with the 5:2 lifestyle and upped the ante on the exercise front, taking on a squats challenge, adding back in my old gym-years routine of push-ups and sit-ups. I began going for longer runs, alone. I was able to do up my belt an extra notch, and danced in celebration when it happened.

And today I realised that the size 14 trousers I bought a month ago are baggy in the front, baggy in the back and round the thighs and round the tummy. I wont hold my breath, but I mightve slimmed out of them!

For a moment I felt really good about myself and my efforts, until I got home and looked in the mirror and could still see pudgy arms, a wobbly tummy and jelly thighs.

Im still Fat.

And Im disappointed, too, because I know Ive been doing well. But just not well enough.

But theres more to be done. More weight to be shifted. More toning to happen. More running and striving and training and starving and

and its only now that Ive realised where the work needs to be done.

On the inside.

On the part of me which looks at Fat People and sees a Fat Person rather than just a person; the part of me which looks at a Fat Teenager and sees Heartache Waiting To Happen rather than a teenager; the part of me which looks at a Overly Chubby Toddler and sees the early stages of Fat Problems rather than just a toddler.

The part of me which looks in the mirror and sees a Fat Kid rather than Lizzi.

Because when I look on the outside, I only see the me the physical, awful shape, who was told all those nasty things from an age too young to protect herself. Or to know any different. Or to know that the horrible things werent Truths.

So those skewed truths were internalised and now the mirror spews them back. To slim is to beat them. To get stronger is to refuse to listen to them. To (begin to) look good is to flip them the middle finger and tell them to fuck off. To be fitter and slender and in control is to conquer them.

Because the person in the mirror is not who everyone else sees. Everyone else seems to see someone they really like. Someone maybe sweet, kind, valuable, worthwhile, inspiring, good, helpful, worthy of love.

And one part of me wishes I knew that person. And the other part of me is terrified because those nice things still feel like lies, and that the people who think them might one day find out that theyre lies, and know the truth. The one I cant unhook from.

And so I strive to look on the outside like what people seem to see on the inside. Because that other image is too entangled with the original truths, and this way, I have half a chance of learning to like myself.