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  I Do It with the Lights On is a work of nonfiction based on the life, experiences, and recollections of Whitney Way Thore.

  Copyright © 2016 by Whitney Way Thore

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  With the exception of the following, all photos are from the author’s collection: this page, this page, and this page courtesy of Misty Felde (2013); this page courtesy of Devon Currie (2013); this page and this page courtesy of Joseph Bradley, tattoo by Megan Massacre (2016 and 2015, respectively).

  ISBN 9780399594502

  ebook ISBN 9780399594519

  randomhousebooks.com

  Book design by Virginia Norey, adapted for ebook

  Cover design: Caroline Teagle

  Cover photograph: © Deborah Feingold

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: Life Got Better When I Was Fat

  Chapter 2: I Wasn’t a Fat Kid—but I Graduated Kindergarten with Body-Image Issues

  Chapter 3: I Don’t Want to Kill Myself When I Look in the Mirror (Anymore)

  Chapter 4: “Fat” Girls Have Eating Disorders, Too

  Chapter 5: PCOS Didn’t Make Me This Fat

  Chapter 6: Americans Aren’t the Worst of the Fat-Shamers

  Chapter 7: Losing 100 Pounds Didn’t Make Me Happy

  Chapter 8: Being Fetishized Isn’t Flattering

  Chapter 9: I Do It with the Lights On

  Chapter 10: Feminism Is My Favorite F-word

  Chapter 11: Body-Positivity Doesn’t Promote Obesity

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  LIFE GOT BETTER WHEN I WAS FAT

  It was the sexiest photo I’d ever taken.

  At 340 pounds, I was only just beginning to believe such a thing was possible. It was the fall of 2013 and a local photographer had asked me to pose seminude for a boudoir photo shoot. I was the heaviest I’d ever been, and in real danger of being the most miserable I’d ever been, when I decided to approach my life in a different way. I promised myself that instead of declining an opportunity on the basis of my body insecurity, I would force myself to take it anyway. So when I was asked to do the photo shoot, even though it was miles outside my comfort zone, I said yes.

  It turns out this would be the first time in my entire twenty-nine years that I wouldn’t cringe when I looked at a photo of my body. The photo was taken from behind, of my bare back, and the rolls of flesh on my sides formed a particularly curvaceous hourglass (with a few extra minutes). I found that image, and others from the shoot, more beautiful than I ever could have dreamed, and I proudly shared them on Facebook.

  I got plenty of flattering and supportive comments, but I also got nasty ones, including a disparaging remark and a request to remove the images from Facebook because they so offended one “Sarah Lynn.” When I clicked on her name, I saw all the telltale signs of an Internet troll. There was no picture or other identifying information, just a sparsely completed profile connected to a handful of friends. “Sarah Lynn,” with all of her anonymous bravado, had this to say, verbatim, about my body:

  [Note to the readers: the spelling and grammar that follow are “Sarah Lynn’s,” not my own. Duh.]

  Hey nobody wants to see fat rolls!!!!! I would not want my daughter to see this and think its ok to be over weight. Nobody should be proud to be fat they should (you) try to get skinny and show our youth how to loose weight. America is one the most overweight countries in the world and I hate that because fat = lazy.

  Her comment was such a perfect, all-encompassing example of the fat-phobia I’d been subjected to for years, and I was so agitated that, in that very moment, I decided I had to respond. And I did—in the form of a makeshift blog titled No Body Shame Campaign.

  That was the moment my life changed.

  It was responding to “Sarah Lynn” that marked a tectonic shift in the way I viewed myself and how I would choose to live the rest of my life.

  In high school a fortune-teller once observed that I had an uncommon “broken lifeline” on my palm. What that meant, she told me, was that I would experience a physical death or possibly a spiritual one, followed by a rebirth. It’s something I never forgot (who could?), and looking back, I realize that I was reborn the day I responded to “Sarah Lynn,” transformed into a warrior who lived a life of action instead of passivity. That makeshift blog has now been revamped into nobodyshame.com—a worldwide movement that encourages everyone to live their lives free of shame—but it all began with an open letter to my detractor, where I articulated what had taken me nearly thirty years to discover about life and my self-worth.

  Here is what I wrote:

  Dear “Sarah Lynn,”

  I put your name in quotation marks because you’re not a real person. I know this because this weekend after I read your comment on a Facebook photo of me (Damn!! You are a big o’ girl), I clicked on your profile. I quickly realized that your page was a front so that you could say something to me on the Internet that you weren’t comfortable putting your real identity behind. But it doesn’t matter that you aren’t real, “Sarah Lynn,” because there are a million men and women just like you in the world, and I’ve officially encountered too many of them to keep my mouth shut about it any longer.

  While this is nowhere near the most hateful thing that has been said to me, on the Internet or otherwise, I thought it was a good representation of so much ignorance fat people (and more specifically, fat women) deal with on a daily basis. And since I’m an optimist and you might just really be uninformed and not a hateful asshole, I’d like to address your points.

  1. Hey nobody wants to see fat rolls!!!!

  Actually, some people do. Some people don’t. Some people want to see blond hair. Some people don’t. Some people want to see big lips. Some people don’t. I would go on, but I reckon this point is pretty elementary and has probably been sufficiently illustrated. Different people like to see different things, and, as human beings functioning in society, sometimes our eyes pass over things we don’t find particularly aesthetically pleasing, but we just move on. Because it’s easy.

  2. I would not want my daughter to see this and think its ok to be over weight.

  Unless you plan on keeping your daughter captive in a house full of average or underweight people, devoid of magazines, television, Internet, and other forms of media, she will inevitably see overweight people. She’ll see all kinds of people who look nothing like her. She’ll see old people, differently abled people, tall people, freckled people, people of all different races…and it’s certainly “ok” to be all of these people. People are what they are and they can’t inherently be “wrong” based on appearance. If you’re worried about your daughter becoming overweight, I can assure you that, similar to skin color or stature, being overweight is not contagious. Exposure to my fat body won’t cause hers to morph into something it isn’t already.

  3. Nobody should be proud to be fat…

  This might
shock you, “Sarah Lynn,” but I’m not particularly proud to be fat. I do happen to enjoy parts of my body—I think I have beautifully shaped breasts and full eyelashes. I like my belly button. I think I have a killer smile. These are all parts of my body, but they’re not me. I am fat. And I am proud of myself. But I’m not proud of being fat any more than I’m proud of being brunette or proud of being five-two. Am I comfortable being photographed in lingerie? Yes. But I wonder if you would look at a woman in a bikini who has size A-cup breasts and say, “Nobody should be proud to have small tits.” For some reason, all other women in their various nonfat bodies are just existing—just wearing bathing suits in the summer, tank tops around the house, or lingerie for a boudoir shoot—and no one shames them for that. No one accuses them of having so much pride in their bodies that they aren’t afraid to show them. The implication is that everyone who is not fat is allowed to show their body, but if you’re fat and not wearing a potato sack, Whoa, you’d better check your pride, sister. I’m proud of myself as an entire person. My body is fat. I deserve to wear the clothes I want and to live the way I see fit just like every other nonfat person. End of story.

  4. …they should (you) try to get skinny and show our youth how to lose weight.

  One of my pet peeves, “Sarah Lynn,” is when people assume. I’m sure you’re familiar with the old adage about that. I’m almost thirty, and I was not overweight until I was nineteen, so I’ve actually lived the majority of my little life here on Earth as a “thin” woman, a “normal” woman, an “average” woman, whatever. I’ve also tried to “get skinny.” After being diagnosed with PCOS (save both you and me time and just Google it), I was never able to “get skinny,” but I did lose 100 pounds once with the help of a wonderful personal trainer and a shit-ton of dedication and hard work. But really, it’s no concern of yours what I should do with my body.

  5. America is one of the most overweight countries in the world and I hate that because fat = lazy.

  I will agree with you there: America is one of the most overweight countries in the world. But I must wholeheartedly disagree with your statement that “fat = lazy.” Some fat people are lazy. Some aren’t. Some thin people are lazy. Some aren’t. Again, it’s not any concern of yours if I’m lazy or not, but…I’m actually not. And plenty of fat people aren’t. I’ll never forget the time I busted my 250-pound ass at the gym, outperformed all of the thin people in there, ran four miles, and walked out to the sidewalk dripping with sweat, only to be greeted with “Hey, fat-ass!” from a passing car.

  This blog post was the beginning of my new life. It’s a life I never could have conjured up even in my wildest imagination—one full of genuine confidence, happiness, and respect for the old life I survived. To call this change in my psyche a “rebirth” isn’t the least bit overdramatic, either; I am actually living in a way that I previously thought impossible. Sometimes I still have to pinch myself.

  When confronted with all the implausible circumstances, auspicious opportunities, and boundless reserves of love (for myself and others) that have appeared in my life, I often wonder how in the world I got here.

  Here’s how…

  2

  I WASN’T A FAT KID—BUT I GRADUATED KINDERGARTEN WITH BODY-IMAGE ISSUES

  “Oh, honey, that’s not chocolate milk.” My mother tapped her long red nails against the gallon of chocolate milk at which I was pointing. “That’s just white milk in a brown container.”

  I may have been only five, but I knew that my mother, who was now pushing the grocery cart past the milk—the chocolate milk—and shooting me a backward sympathetic glance, was a liar. She desperately needed an excuse to explain why I couldn’t have my favorite drink, when the truth was that my pediatrician had concerns about my weight and had instructed my mother to restrict my chocolate milk and ice cream intake.

  In the early mornings, hearing the familiar clacking sound of my mother stirring Nestlé Quik into a tall glass of milk was the overture to every good day. Those days ended with a bowl of chocolate-and-vanilla swirl, which she scooped from the gigantic tub in the freezer. I usually requested that she zap it in the microwave for thirty seconds, and then I’d sit in the kitchen, or outside at the patio table if it was warm enough, and savor every spoonful. In between my favorite treats there were lunches of ham sandwiches on white Sunbeam bread (cut into “teepees” for me and “houses” for my brother, Hunter) with a handful of Doritos on the side. For dinner my mom served our family sensible meals like meat loaf with broccoli, always flanked by a tiny side salad and an icy glass of sweet tea.

  Rocking my bathing suit during the summer before my first diet (1988).

  My first soccer game as a Pink Panther (1990).

  While adjectives like “skinny,” “lanky,” or “bony” have never been used to describe me as a child or otherwise, until the is-it-or-isn’t-it-chocolate milk showdown in the dairy section of Kroger, I’d never had a second thought about what or how much I ate, much less about the consequence either had on my body. An average American five-year-old in 1989 stood 44.2 inches tall and weighed 44.3 pounds.* According to the old medical records I’ve dug up in the years since, I stood 45.5 inches tall and weighed 46 pounds. I certainly don’t think my extra pound or so qualified me as a porker, but evidently it did for the pediatrician. So, just after preschool, I was indoctrinated into diet culture. It would be more than twenty years before I had any idea what that meant.

  I was a precocious child with lopsided bangs, courtesy of my dad’s barber, and a never-ending tank of energy and curiosity. I dressed as much like a tomboy as I did a princess, piecing together outfits of Ocean Pacific surf-wear complemented by plastic jewelry and pink jelly shoes that caused my mother to proclaim in her saccharine Southern accent, “Oh, Whi-itney, you’re a viii-sion!” I eagerly joined a recreational soccer team and skipped along in an honorary uniform to my dad’s softball games where he was the coach, Hunter was the bat boy, and I the ball girl. Hunter was four years older, and we played outside every day. We skinned our knees climbing trees, chased our sweet but unsuspecting Pomeranian around our backyard, rode our bikes in circles around the block, and didn’t come home until the sun went down. This was 1990, of course, so there were no iPads or DVR’d episodes of our favorite television shows tempting us to stay indoors. We did have an early-edition Nintendo, but we preferred active games like Duck Hunt and racing each other on the Power Pad.

  The piece of technology that really got us going was my dad’s enormous, clunky, RCA camcorder, which he used to record Hunter and me re-creating scenes from our favorite movies like Rambo (which is undoubtedly why I harbor a crush on Sylvester Stallone to this day—don’t judge me). Even though Hunter always made me play the Russian when we reenacted Rocky IV, my brother was nothing short of heroic to me, so I was more than happy to be cast in whatever play, movie, or skit he dreamed up. I took my role of supporting actress very seriously. Hunter was all too quick to remind me that if I messed up or forgot my lines, he could easily replace me with Spencer (the Pomeranian). Much to my embarrassment, we have video evidence of Hunter lip-synching “Fat,” Weird Al’s parody of Michael Jackson’s “Bad” into a toy microphone while I bounce on our mini-trampoline with a basketball stuffed up my shirt, dropping a plastic hamburger bun, patty, and toppings beside my tilted open mouth onto the floor. Dad gets a close-up while I sing off-key, “Shamone!”

  Despite my apparent clairvoyance, honing my psychic skills didn’t appeal to me. I discovered my true passion in life (no, it’s not the chocolate milk, either) when Hunter was cast in a community theatre production of Pippin, playing the title character as a young boy, and I treasured the evenings that I caught snippets of rehearsals, tagging along with my mom to drop off or pick up Hunter from the theatre. I was transfixed by the show, and within days I’d memorized all the songs and dance numbers. The Fosse-inspired choreography would set my lifelong love of jazz dance in motion, and the ensemble dancers, slithering and swaying in their ski
ntight leotards and bodysuits, with their teased hair and colorful makeup, made me hog-wild with enthusiasm. I’d been dancing at home since I could walk, just moving however I felt. Hunter wrote a song called “Shakin’ Fanny.” (The lyrics? “Shakin’ fanny, shakin’ fanny, shakin’ fanny-anny!” Repeat.) I, of course, shook my fanny to the amusement of Mom and Dad, who begged us to perform it whenever they had company over. Hunter sang, and I shook, and the adults shrieked with laughter. But the Pippin dances were different; they were carefully rehearsed, perfectly controlled, and timed to music in a way I’d never seen. I was dumbstruck.

  Mid-curtsy following my “performance” after Pippin. Mom put pearls on me since we were at the “thee-ay-ter” (1990).

  The dance number from Pippin I most liked to imitate was “Spread a Little Sunshine.” The song was performed by a woman named Amie who would eventually become my real-life dance teacher ten years later. I executed all of the sassy moves and hip thrusts with gusto, even though the sexual innuendo was lost on me completely. I took to performing it nightly for my mother and father, who encouraged me to show Amie my personal rendition one night after a show.

  I surveyed the nearly empty theatre one night as a few audience members milled about before heading home. The black stage, the brightly painted set pieces, the glittering props that would look gaudy and kitschy anywhere else…I drank it all in and was devastated when Hunter told me the set had to be “struck.” He explained that the carefully constructed castle would have to be disassembled, the props would be returned to a building downtown, and the set pieces would be repainted black again. The thought of this spellbinding place disappearing distressed me more than it probably should have. My parents took note of this, as well as the fact that I literally could not sit still when I heard music. If I was in the car and they were blasting oldies on the radio, I was convulsing haphazardly beneath my seatbelt to the rhythms of Motown, hitting my back hard against the navy blue seats of our station wagon. If we were watching TV, I jumped off the couch at every commercial jingle, landing on the carpet, thrashing and stepping to the beat. Although I was athletic and enjoyed any kind of exercise in general, my love of dance was intrinsic. I instinctively understood the nuances of how to move my body to a particular kind of music, because I could feel it. The melody of a song was all I needed to detect an electric current vibrating in my bones, and, like a conduit, I had no other choice but to channel it through movement. I am still the same way as an adult—you can often catch me tapping my feet in intricate patterns, punching my arms out of open car windows, or waltzing down a store aisle.