Recently I went on a hike with my fiancé Paul. It was one of those sunny British days when the weather absolutely called for a pair of shorts. I have some sensible black walking shorts in a size 8-10. Yet as soon as I got them out of the drawer, that same old voice started up in my head.
‘You can’t wear those!’ it whispered. ‘Not with your legs! They’re like a rugby player’s. Why don’t you stay home, put your baggy old trackie bottoms on instead, and open a packet of biscuits?’
In the past I would have obeyed that voice. It’s one I have heard every day of my life, urging me to hide from the world and stuff endless amounts of junk food into my mouth.
In my 20s, I was a size 28 and weighed 22 st. It has taken me more than 20 years to lose 12-and-a-half stone – that’s more than my current weight of 9st 6lb. Now, at 52, I’m a trim size 10, and all my friends flatter me by telling me I’m a bit like Benjamin Button, in that I look younger as I get older.
In her 20s, Sarah-Jane was a size 28 and weighed 22st. Now, at 52, she is ‘a trim size 10’
She says she has heard ‘the voice’ every day of her life, ‘urging me to hide from the world and stuff endless amounts of junk food into my mouth’
And yet, despite my outward appearance, I know I still have a ‘fat brain’. No matter what the scales or the mirror say, I fear I’ll always think like an overweight woman.
It’s a quandary the comedian Ed Gamble recently acknowledged, explaining that, despite having lost 7 st many years ago and no longer being overweight, he still feels he has a ‘fat brain’.
‘I’m constantly thinking about food,’ says the 38-year-old, who once weighed 19 st. ‘I’m always thinking: ‘I shouldn’t eat that.’ I’m always ready to binge-eat.
‘But now I’ve got an extra layer to my thoughts where I can think about how food makes me feel in the future. I can think about the next few hours as opposed to the instant gratification.’
I know exactly what he means. But having a ‘fat brain’ is about more than just how you think about food. It also constantly affects how you see yourself, no matter your outward appearance – and how you fear other people see you.
I’m constantly on my guard because my ‘fat brain’ can be triggered by everything from having a stressful day at work to hearing someone shout ‘Oi, fatty’ in the street – I will always look around and assume they are talking to me.
People are surprised when I confess I’m still wired to think this way. After all, my weight loss has given me a lot of confidence to achieve so much in both my career working in mental health for the NHS and in my personal life; I left my unhappy marriage and now I’m due to remarry next month.
No matter what the scales or the mirror say, Sarah-Jane fears she will always think like an overweight woman
But I am still haunted by memories of the overweight woman I once was and who still, in many ways, lives on inside me.
Take the simple matter of going on holiday. At 22, I went on my first trip abroad with my boyfriend at the time. I was so excited, but after boarding the plane, I found myself in the desperately embarrassing situation of literally wedging my body into the aeroplane seat between the arm rests. Then, the seatbelt wouldn’t stretch over my belly – there was a huge gap between the buckle and the clasp. The air stewardess had to get me a seatbelt extender so it would fit.
Utterly humiliated, I could hear passengers sniggering as I sat there with tears rolling down my cheeks.
Even now that I’m on the petite side, I still get anxious when I arrive at an airport. All those old emotions come flooding back, making me feel huge again. It feels like my body is expanding on approach to the plane and I genuinely panic I won’t be able to do up the seatbelt again.
It’s when I’m in this kind of stressful state that my fat brain response kicks in. ‘Get that enormous bar of Toblerone in Duty Free,’ it says. ‘Go on. Get it. Eat it all. It will make you feel so much better if you do.’
Because, unfortunately, we’re so used to comforting or treating ourselves with food that our brains are complicit in it. Experts say that sugar can be as addictive as cocaine thanks to the reward and pleasure response it gives.
In the past, when urges like this struck, I’d go to the nearest local shop and buy a carrier bag full of food. We’re talking family-sized packets of biscuits, chocolates and sweets. The moment I was home I would scoff the lot.
I’d eat and eat until I couldn’t eat any more. But though my brain tried to fool me into thinking that kind of behaviour made me feel better, afterwards I’d experience heart palpitations, sweat profusely and feel physically exhausted and emotionally bereft.
It can be incredibly hard to stand up to your fat brain. For me, the thing that finally proved a turning point was when my sister died four years ago, aged 40, of pancreatic cancer. I knew I needed to take better care of my physical – and mental – health.
I still have moments of weakness, but when I do, I forcefully remind myself that while that food might taste good in the moment, then what? The self-loathing, the weight gain, the terrible skin. It’s just not worth it.
Usually, after 20 minutes or so, the wave of temptation quietly passes, though I still feel the need to take precautions, just in case; I purposefully don’t keep any junk food or ultra processed food products at home.
But while I can resist the urge to binge, shaking off the negative thoughts about how I look are much harder.
Triggers are everywhere. If I’m on the beach I’ll never walk around in just my bikini; I have to wear a sarong because I’m convinced those rolls of (non-existent) fat are still hanging off my hips and thighs. I also have to force myself to wear a dress or a skirt, because my fat brain tells me I’m too big to wear them.
I’m a life-long fan of Swindon Town football club, but I’ll always make Paul go through the turnstiles behind me so that he can help me if I get stuck, as I once did years ago.
And some days I’m so convinced I’m putting on weight I’ll have to find the toilets just so I can sit in the privacy of the cubicle and look at the labels on my clothes to convince myself I’m still a size 10.
She says the turning point in her weight loss journey was when her sister died four years ago, aged 40, of pancreatic cancer. Sarah-Jane knew she needed to take better care of her health
In moments like these my fat brain uses every weapon in its arsenal to pick apart the arguments that the slim, healthy, happy me presents. It sneers at them all. It won’t believe they’re true. ‘I look good and I feel great. I deserve to feel good about myself,’ I tell it.
‘But do you really?’ it shoots back.
Rationally, I know that even if I did put some weight back on, then – as long as I wasn’t back at the point where I was putting my health at risk – that shouldn’t be something I crucify myself over. But after years of experiencing public ridicule and self-loathing over my size, the fear I experience in these moments is very real.
So, how do I cope? Being outside, whatever the weather, helps me unplug from those negative thoughts. When I’m outside, listening to birdsong or watching the clouds scud by, I am present only in that moment.
I take one day at a time and each morning I wake up and set my intentions for the day, deliberately choosing to be healthy. Every morning and evening before I go to sleep I listen to a guided meditation (a favourite is Louise Hay’s Power of Thoughts). To treat myself, I’ll have an Indian head massage or go to a restorative yoga class.
These treats make me feel permanently better – not temporarily better, and then absolutely awful, like a food binge used to.
After decades of being laughed at and seen as someone less worthy for being overweight, I’m so grateful for my health and the body that I have now. But I know that in order to feel truly happy, the last battle I need to win is how I view myself.
As told to Samantha Brick.
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