Confessions of a gay overeater: ‘School dinner ladies were my saviours’
Je Suis Fatty Gay is an anonymous contributor who, every month in Attitude, takes us on a very personal journey that began in the closet – and the fridge. You can read his first column online here – this is the second instalment:
From seven years old, the school playground was torturous. I was shamed and physically and verbally attacked for being queer or fat or both, pretty much on a daily basis. Sticks and stones didn’t break my bones, but their words almost killed me. The young Fatty Gay learned to trust no one, boys or girls. Looking back, it’s not hard to see why I’ve spent years of my adult life in therapy trying to rebuild my shattered self-esteem and self-worth.
It was my therapist who suggested that my early relationship with food could have actually saved my life, before it ended up ruining it. For me, it was clear that if I was going to survive school, I needed protection. I’d already found my savior in food. I ate whatever I could, whenever I could to make myself feel better. And I couldn’t stop. Sweets, chocolates, pastries, big portions at meal times, second, third and fourth helpings, snacks and tuck lunches. As I piled on the pounds, the fat was my protection. But of course the bigger I got the more of a target I became. I was safe hiding at home in front of the TV, but at school I was in danger. I needed rescuing, but by who? Enter the dinner ladies.
In primary school, dinner ladies were not only my best friends, but my saviours too. In their oversized blue gingham cut uniforms, sensible shoes and cheap, pink Avon eye shadow, they were my guardian angels: Mrs Tara, Miss Bombi, Mrs Whiting, Miss Stella, Mrs Wentworth and Mrs Miller. I loved them all, and they loved me. I was their ‘fat-hag’. In the lunch hall they always remarked what ‘a good boy’ I was for finishing up my plate. They were only too happy to pile up extra big portions of fish and chips and sponge and custard because they knew I’d not leave a crumb. I’d always be the last to leave and help clear tables, just for them to throw me seconds and leftover scraps like the blubbering whale I was slowly becoming. Today, post-Jamie Oliver, it might be a different story, but back then they were my feeders. And I craved them.
While I relied on them for my overfeeding, it was in the playground where they really came into force. I wouldn’t leave their sides. Ever. I was no longer alone. I was untouchable to the bullies and all my playground traumas subsided with them by my side. I was safe. My ladies and I strolled together, often holding hands like a dysfunctional couple. It was the closest I got to experience any kind of intimacy that I could openly express – although of course I could never tell them I liked boys, though I’m sure they must have known. Sometimes I sang or recited poems I’d written especially for them. Sometimes they read me stories. But always, they shielded me from the taunts of the playground. Sometimes I felt brave enough to venture off on my own, maybe just to throw a sweet wrapper in the bin – but it was the perfect opportunity for someone to punch me in the arm as they ran past screaming out ‘Hey Gaylord’; something they’d dare not try while I was with my ladies. For the best part of four years those women saved my life every day.
As I headed towards my last few weeks of term I became incredibly anxious and teary because I knew I’d be moving on to secondary school. How would I cope without my ladies? Being sweet, they gently reminded me there would be new dinner ladies for me to make friends with – although these ones didn’t patrol the playground. This would turn out to be a disaster for me, and I’d have to find new ways to survive. I would still end up depending on them for my food supplies and endless tuck through my teenage years. But all that was yet to come.
On the verge of turning 11, and with just a matter of weeks until the summer holidays, something happened that would devastate me far more than having to say goodbye to my dinner ladies, or any of the bullying I’d endured up to that point. It was the single most traumatic moment of my life, and it turned me into an inconsolable wreck. My whole life was about to come crashing down around me, and it changed everything. It all began with a phone call home from my Headmaster.
You can read the latest instalment in Je Suis Fatty Gay in the current issue of Attitude – available in shops now, to order in print from newsstand.co.uk and digitally from attitudedigital.co.uk.
