A Vile Book

I re-read a book I own this week and once again wondered - why on earth do I own this book? It's Fat Girl by Judith Moore. The inner cover and reviews make this book sound like a triumph of woman over biology, a victory. It's not. It's 196 pages of self loathing, I spent the whole time reading it wondering if the author was dead by her own hand. It tells the author's life story from childhood on and never once calls the mother's and grandmother's treatment of the girl for what it is - blatant child abuse. Every page is full of hatred, just to read it makes me feel bad about myself. The whole book views being heavy as a permanent character flaw. It even implies those who are fat are evil at heart. It's not that I don't understand some of the sentiments. Believe me, I've been there. I'm not *huge* but I was heavier during my first marriage and the shame of being told you're too fat to f*** never goes away. Once that idea is there you always wonder if you're too big to be loved or desired by anyone without a fetish of some kind. There is no light at the end of this tunnel, no acceptance, no recovery, no hope, just a never ending spiral of despair. So, I've made a decision. This book will not stay under my roof but I cannot in good conscience give it away to possibly damage anyone's self worth. So I'm going to destroy it. It's not a no-one should-ever-read-this-burn-them-all thing. I simply don't want to be responsible for passing on the idea that being fat is a moral failing or damaging anybody else's self worth.