These quotes are from a diary I kept when I was 11. Every once in a while I will pull out my old journals and flip through them to remember who I was as a kid. Some of the things I wrote shock me. Time can numb the memory of old wounds, but their scars may never go away.

I recently listened to a This American Life episode about the experience of fat people in America. Ira Glass begins “Tell Me I’m Fat” with a discussion with Lindy West, who describes her experience of “coming out” as fat, and fighting the stigmatization of obesity in her workplace. There’s also a story from Elna Baker about how she was happy and secure in her weight, but when she lost 110 lbs., and became a skinny person, she discovered how radically different people treat you and view you after weight loss. Ira then talks to Roxane Grey about her experience as a “super morbidly obese” black woman, who’s often treated as if she’s empty of value, uneducated, and vulgar. While listening to these stories and experiences, I found myself wincing as some of those old wounds felt like they were opening up.

From a very early age I earned the designation of “morbidly obese.” At my biggest, I weighed 250 lbs. and wore XXXL shirts. I have always been fat. If you don’t remember or didn’t know me back then, the character, Carl Wheezer, Jimmy Neutron’s asthmatic, near-sighted, sensitive, fat—and, yes, red-headed—compatriot, was my closet analogy. I’m pretty sure the creators of Jimmy Neutron based the character Carl on me.

Left: Carl Wheezer. Right: Me showing off my bar-mitzvah beach bod.

As a fat kid growing up in America, I got two incongruent messages about my body. The first was that my fat was a deformity. Like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame, I was born with a disfigurement that I would be forced to live with forever. The other message, in contrast, was that my obesity was my a result of my own irresponsibility and immorality. Being humungous was a choice I elected through gluttony and lethargy. it. Teachers, parents, doctors, peers, the media—they were all telling me that I needed to do something about it, while the bullying and isolation sent the message that my fat was intrinsic to who I was. My fat was my identity and it would never be any different. I learned that I was helpless.

I began losing weight at 16. The pent up angst from the years of shame fused with puberty’s hormones and a newly developed sense of self-actualization. Together they fomented enough kinetic energy to empower me to take control of my body. And, well, at the time I was sure that my body would prevent me from ever being attractive in the eyes of the opposite sex. And so, with the goal of winning the affection of a certain girl, I started a daily running regimen. I felt that, as fat as I was, I had no chance of her seeing me as anything more than a joke. I ran every morning for a whole summer. Although no romance sparked, I lost 30 lbs., and another 40 lbs. over the following couple years.

That said, I’m not here to boast or pander about about my weight loss, because honestly, the pride I once felt about my accomplishments has diminished. It’s been several years since then, and I’ve vacillated between 155 lbs. and 200 lbs. multiple times, feeling momentarily empowered, then later a failure. In Lindy West’s story on This American Life, she talks about how when you’re fat, you’re a “bad skinny person.” The term “overweight” implies the state of being off the mark from what is good, and the real you is beneath the layers of fat on your body. At one point I believed I was on my way to being a “good skinny person.” I don’t feel that way anymore.

I’m not skinny, and I probably never will be. For one, I’m not a small person. The most fit version of me is more likely to be stocky than slim. No matter how much weight I lose, I’m not going to shrink down to skinny, unless I venture into unhealthy territory. And two, I’ve learned what it takes for me to lose weight—it’s possible, of course, but not without sacrifice. Over the several attempts I’ve made to lose weight from the point I’m at now, I’ve learned that “eating healthy” and “getting some exercise” is not enough to progress. Only through obsessive calorie counting, the elimination of carbohydrates from my diet, and a relentless adherence to a workout regime, has any fat been lost. I’ve attempted this kind of endeavor a few times now with varying results. The task envelopes my life, and staying on track is a constant anxiety.

Then, even if I lose weight, the results are fragile. I hit my lowest weight at the beginning of my thesis in college, the success of about 6 months of effort. For four weeks I had to let go of meticulously counting calories and going to the gym in order to prioritize my work. Once my thesis was over, I nervously stepped on my scale again…

Fifteen pounds. I had gained back fifteen pounds over the four weeks in which I still ate pretty damn healthy, and went to the gym when I could. But doing mostly good isn’t good enough. I’ve gained some and lost some since, but my weight continues to hover around 175 lbs., 25 lbs. or so higher than (what I’d imagine) I’d be comfortable at. Skinny isn’t on my radar anymore, because even if I achieved that goal, there’s no way I could maintain it.