I’ve always been weird about physical touch. Even from a young age, I have been hyperaware of my body in relation to others’ bodies. I have also always been fat. I have also always been queer.
In first grade during cheer practice, I was always the base. Everyone took turns being a flyer, but I stayed the base. Even at 6 years old I told myself I was too big to be lifted. Even at 6 years old I saw my weight as a burden. Even at 6 years old I felt like people would be repulsed by touching me because I was fat.
Growing up, I was always the biggest person in my friend groups. Everyone around me was tiny and cute. They would pile on top of each other and carry each other and joke about being “too heavy”. I stood to the side and watched. If they were “too heavy” then what was I?. There was no way they would want to carry me or let me be a part of the pile.
From elementary school through middle school, I remained the biggest girl in class. Then in high school, I came out as a lesbian. And I was still one of the biggest people in class. And was still in a friend group of thin people. I would look around and see all the (straight, thin) girls climbing all over each other and being all touchy-feely with each other without reservation, meanwhile I was too afraid to even hug a person or lean on them. No doubt my weight would crush them. I was probably disgusting to them. I didn’t want to be the weird, predatory, fat lesbian at the all-girls Catholic high school. I didn’t want people to see me as that fat dyke who stands too close for comfort (think Big Boo in Orange is the New Black). So I once again distanced myself. I never leaned on someone unless they leaned on me first. I overthought every interaction. My mind went into a panic whenever I accidentally stepped on someone’s foot or grazed their hand or bumped into them. How could I? How could I enter their personal space? How could I repulse them by my presence.
It is this intersection of being fat and queer that I think has held me back from so many relationships, familial, platonic, romantic, sexual, you name it. Da’Shaun Harrison said it best in Belly of the Beast: “The feeling that your gut is figuratively and literally keeping you from experiencing what it’s like to wrap your whole self around someone and for them to do the same to you is almost suffocating” (Harrison 22). Who would want me? I can’t go on a date because I’m a fat lesbian. I can’t cuddle because I’m a fat lesbian. I can’t have sex because I’m a fat lesbian. No one wants to touch a fat lesbian.
This insecurity is why I allowed myself to be in a toxic friendship/relationship. She called me beautiful. She allowed me to put my weight on her. She initiated physical contact and made me feel like my body wasn’t a burden. I saw past all the toxic things she did because of the way she treated my body, even though she just wanted to use me to experiment with a (fat) lesbian.
This feeling, this anxiety that I ingrained in myself from childhood has been nearly impossible to shake. I am still trying to teach myself that my fatness shouldn’t prevent me from living and loving. Starting small with letting my arm touch my friend’s arm if we are sitting close together. Initiating a hug. Laying my head on my friend’s shoulder. Slowly, but surely, allowing myself to just be a fat lesbian.
Unruly Bodies 
I really related to this post. I also have been hyperaware of my body and have had trouble with physical touch. To the point where it has affected my relationship with people. I used to say, “I have too much trauma from being hugged by men.” I also related to being used for someone else’s experimentation. It doesn’t feel good. This intersectionality is not often and I appreciate your vulnerability. Hopefully, this world becomes more understanding to the point where queerness doesn’t matter. I mean, that’s what I hope for.
This post really resonated with me. I’m transmasc and just call myself queer now to encompass my range of preferences, but I spent years identifying as a lesbian. And I was masculine. I’ve seen before posts talking about how queer fat people are expected to perform gender a certain way to be seen as “desirable.” There’s no room for the fat butch lesbians or the fat femme gay men, or anyone who is gender nonconforming. Even for femme lesbians or the masculine gay men, the “ideal” is skinny, unless you’re a hypermasculine bear, and I’ve seen this mirrored heavily in trans spaces. The queer community doesn’t allow us to make room for ourselves being fat, even when there’s no way we’d rather be.
Thank you for sharing such a personal and intimate part of your journey with us. Your words speak so strongly; they show the burden of navigating the world at the constant intersection of societal expectations and identity. It’s heartbreaking that from such a young age, you were made to feel like your body was a burden and that this belief followed you into relationships and friendships. But that strength within your story is undeniable, the way you’re teaching yourself to reclaim your space, to embrace your body, to experience connection on your terms, that takes courage. You deserve to be loved, to have intimacy, to belong, not despite being fat and queer, but because all of you deserve those things. Your journey of unlearning and healing is inspiring, and I hope you continue to find spaces and people who make you feel as whole and cherished as you truly are.
Although I don’t necessarily understand the experience of being fat in queer spaces and in general, I can definitely relate to being scared of being perceived as predatory as a lesbian. One moment sticks out particularly in my memory:
When I was in late middle school or early high-school, I was sitting on the beach talking to a longtime family friend’s daughter, who was 3-or-so years younger than me, about being queer and whatnot (she was not queer whatsoever) – when my brother came by and shouted, “She has a biiig crush on you!” – to the family friend. I don’t know if it even occurred to my brother why that upset me so much. I didn’t (have a crush on her, that is), but she seemed apprehensive about the conversation after that.
I wish it were easier to get over fears like that, but, in my personal experience at least, even letting myself think about letting it go just reiterated it in my head; what if I’m somehow hurting or scaring people by just thinking of NOT being terrified of touching them (though that specific experience may be due to some additional mental health things I have going on). I wish you well in your journey and hope you get to love and be loved in all the ways you want and more, and to be treated with the care you deserve.