When I so desperately needed to lose weight, it hurt inside to watch friends devour delicious looking restaurant food while I nurtured my cup of low-calorie soup and a bland garden salad. I drooled over the thought of taking just one bite of Thai curry, but I knew I couldn’t. I read the description of its flavorful sauce over and over until it was as if I was tasting the savory sauce. But I was obese and didn’t get to eat things like that. At least not in public.

Whenever I purchased a bag of candy guilt would taint my cheeks red, even if the candy was meant for my husband. I’d cringe when the clerk scanned the bag, feeling as if she’s wondering why a fatso would buy candy in the first place. It would make me so angry that I’d want to rip open the bag before her, unwrap a piece, stick it in my mouth and chew, daring her to say something because people like me aren’t supposed to eat candy. At least not in public.

Almost every public toilet stall is quite narrow and the seats are so low that it’s hard to turn around, lock the door, pull down my clothes and lower myself. I wondered if architects only envision skinny people using them, not the obese. To be comfortable, truly comfortable, I’d use the handicapped stall, expecting and often receiving the evil-eyed looks given by those waiting in line. And then guilt would wash over me, knowing that “normal” people fit in “normal” stalls, which meant that something was wrong with me.

Not all fat people like being fat. Not all choose to eat themselves to death. Most don’t sit in front of televisions stuffing their mouths with bonbons. The biggest hurt is that many believe that fat people choose to be fat.

If only the scoffers knew the hours I put in at the gym. All the laps I’ve swum and the miles I’ve done on the elliptical and bike. All the weights I’ve lifted and the trainers I’ve hired and the steps I’ve climbed.

If only they sat with me to witness what I put in my mouth. The fruits and veggies. The limited amounts of carbs and “bad” sugars. To look at the white space on my plate and see that I often don’t finish that one helping.

Buying good-fitting clothes is next to impossible. Designers don’t cater to fat people. Beautiful styles are for the emaciated. Fat people are supposed to wear frumpy looking old-lady sacks that bunch in all the wrong places. Most fat people want to look nice. To wear clothes that feel good, that hang just right and sport fabulous colors.

Dressing rooms are not designed to make fat people look decent. Most are so tiny that fat people have to turn sideways to open and close the door. Seldom is there a chair of bench designed for the larger woman. What they do have are mirrors hung on three walls so that a fat person can see their naked body from all angles, in glorious detail, a reminder that they don’t belong in a dressing room pretending that they’re going to find something that fits.

Cars, airplanes, theaters and restaurants are designed so that fat people feel unwelcome. Try squeezing a fat body between arm rests and sitting there for hours. Imagine holding your arms across your body for the entire voyage so as not to encroach on your neighbor’s space. Imagine what it feels like when you see the expressions on people’s faces, hoping, praying that you aren’t going to sit next to them.

I’ve known I was big since I was three and saw a picture of myself standing next to my ninety-pound mother. I was so puffed up that I had folds at my wrists, ankles and elbows. My tummy stuck out like a barrel. I didn’t know the word fat then, but I learned it in kindergarten when my classmates called me fatty. When the neighbor kids invited me to play games in which, no matter what they called it, I had to stick my butt up high enough so they could laugh about the size of it.

I attended a Catholic school that required uniforms. Because we were poor, I wore the hand-me-downs from give-away day. Very few fit someone my size. My mom had to sort through the pile, hoping to find at least one for me. Usually what she found was stained and faded. I was teased for wearing old-style uniforms and for being fat. Picture tears running down my face.

In fifth grade, sitting next to a classmate during a mandated church service, I became aware of laughing to my left. When I turned my head, every girl in the pew had tucked their skirts under their thighs, making it quite clear that both of their legs were thinner than just one of mine.

In high school I was the fattest kid. Imagine undressing in front of dozens of thin girls, day after day. Imagine lining up, buck naked, to shower, waiting for the teacher to hand me a postage-stamp sized towel. The snickers echoed in my ears.

It didn’t matter that I was an excellent athlete. I could play almost any sport better than my peers. But when I had to run laps, I came in dead last, every time. Before the beginning of my sophomore year I run the track, around and around, stopping when it hurt too much to continue. My hope was to lose weight, to run faster. Did I do either? No.

I can’t count how many diets I’ve tried. Each time I had limited success, losing a tad of weight. But each time I’d reach a plateau from which I couldn’t descend. I later learned it was called yo-yo dieting, because I’d lose, some, gain some, over and over, making only minimal change.

It reached a point when I considered giving up. I was tired of the fight. I could no longer pretend that someday my body would look like other’s. I was frustrated with weekly weigh-ins that showed a loss of a fraction of a pound.

There was always a part of me that understood that, if a health issue arose that required losing weight, I’d find a way.

That time came about four years ago when I needed major surgery to remove my stomach from a large hole in my diaphragm. The surgeon, a kind and smart man, insisted I had to lose thirty pounds before he’d operate.

Getting rid of the persistent pain motivated me like nothing else had. I recorded every bite. I upped my exercise regimen. I lost weight.

Why did it work this time when all previous attempts had failed?

I think it was because I finally understood the toll my weight was taking on my body.

After the surgery I lost more and more weight.

I now fit in regular clothes. I’m no longer embarrassed to walk out on the pool deck.

I still watch what I eat, but I also allow myself a treat here and there.

I’d like to report that I am no longer the little fat girl, but inside of me that image lingers on. It’s what keeps me from pigging out when I really, really want that bowl of ice cream. Or makes me choose the lowest calorie item on the menu.

I think about giving up, but then I remind myself that I lost that weight once and can do it again.