Physical vs Mental Health: The Weight They Both Carry

Ahhhh! It’s January! So you all know what that means – New Year’s Resolutions – or more specifically, everyone in the world essentially, joining gyms and meal prepping.  Don’t get me wrong, I 100% root for these people! I really fuckin’ do! I hate when people are all, “Let’s see how many of you make it to February” or some shit like that.  Like my dude, these people got goals, why you crapping on that? This shit ain’t easy!


Speaking from experience, on the whole weight fluctuation – to my highest point in 2013 (greaaat times…) to finally hitting maintenance somewhere in 2015, this shit really sucks! And yeah, I’m gonna hold a grudge against people that never had to be fat! Trust, I respect that you never used food as a source of comfort, but for some us, that just wasn’t the case.

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For someone of an oversized stature it takes immense courage and bravery to make a life change.  I remember the days, fearing to enter the gym because I was afraid someone would post an unflattering photo (FUCK TECHNOLOGY), talk behind my back, or call me “just another New Year’s Resolutioner.”  Same would go for ordering food. Going out with friends and ordering a salad, getting sent looks from across the table as if I’m Judas himself.


I’d done it all.  Weight Watchers, low carb, starving myself (which led to binge eating), even attempting a vegan diet (Fuck. My. Life.).  But guess what yo? These were all just temporary solutions to a much larger problem. My brain was hella’ fucked up.

Which leads me to my next point, the ever so fun topic that everyone treats with the utmost respect (eye roll)… mental health…


These two coincide enormously.

Once I got myself to a more realistic mental state, I worked on the why’s of how I got so big, how’s, and the what the fuck am I gonna do about its? My mental health is what made my physical health attainable.

I realized, Caitlin, you ain’t dropping 20 pounds this month. It’s unhealthy, unattainable, and unrealistic. It’s a set up for failure. Accepting that was tough.  I wanted the quick fix, which just wasn’t going to happen.

I’m not going to lie, I’m hella proud of how far I’ve come.  I lost over 100 pounds, maintained a healthy weight for over 3 years, and have more physical and mental health goals than fitting into a certain size pair of jeans.

I want to be stronger, mentally and physically. I just want to constantly improve on me.

Dear World…

That being said, let’s get fuckin’ dark.

From about mid November to mid January, I was in a bad spot. Mentally. A lot had been going on in my life. Things I wasn’t used to. Things I tried to brave on my own. Things I didn’t want to talk about with anyone. Things. I tried to put on a brave front and to be fair other than one person in my life, no one would’ve known what I was truly going through.

My mental health was slacking. I’d finally “come out” to the world (even though everyone who mattered to me had already known), I was looking into moving out of my parents house, and work was brutally killing me due to the holiday season.  I had many more added stresses, which at the moment, I’d prefer to not get into.

Long story short, I wasn’t eating.  Every time I ate I had a pang of nausea. I would either physically vomit  what I had just eaten or barely eat because the nausea was unbearable.  Yet, no one knew.  I mean, people would comment on how little I ate, but it wasn’t too noticeable, especially since eating with company created a huge distraction to my problems.

I put on my happy fuckin’ smile, listened to peoples problems, helped where I could, and essentially, was me. Strong. Always strong. Forced to be strong. However, other than my one person I confided in. No one would’ve know what was happening with me.

Soooo I lost weight, a lot of weight. I’m talking in Christmas to my birthday alone I dropped easily 15-20 pounds.  It was noticeable. Thankfully, due to my average build it looked like I was just losing weight and not suffering from an eating disorder – but it still wasn’t healthy.  My mental health was seriously effecting my physical health.

And here is the sick part.

Everyone was complimenting me.  “Wow Caitlin, you’ve lost so much weight.” “I want to be on your diet plan.” “You look amazing.” Then everyone would get “mad” at me for having a negative reaction to their compliments.

Trust me, living a majority of my life as a big girl, I get it. Fat=Bad; Skinny=Good.  You’re telling me I’m skinny, why am I reacting negatively? Because I know it wasn’t healthy. But how do you tell someone that? Why is it shameful to have a mental health issue? And then I’d feel like shit for having my problems. I was literally consuming about 500 calories per day because my mental health was causing physical fucking pain.

I don’t blame anyone for these “compliments.” They’re doing what society has taught them for years. I just wish that it was different.

I wish that mental health was talked about more.

I wish I didn’t have to go through what I was going through essentially alone.

I wish I wasn’t always forced to be strong.

I wish I wasn’t so guarded.

I wish I wasn’t complimented for being “healthy” when I was so unhealthy.

I wish therapy and self help wasn’t so frowned upon.

I wish I didn’t mask my pain with a smile and a beer.

I wish society didn’t base someones worth on their jean size.

I wish we could all look in the mirror and be like “Damn Mami, you lookin’ fly!”

I hope for a day when all my wishes are a reality.



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