Jennifer Carroll: My comedic persona became my safety blanket - at my expense

Jennifer Carroll: "There were definitely a few a**eholes who made fun of me — but I allowed myself to think that everyone felt this way towards me"
WHEN I walked into a room, I felt that people didn’t see me — they just saw my size. So I created a loud, larger-than-life, bubbly personality that, I hoped, would show others that there was more to me than just my weight. I fell into a bad habit of making ‘jokes’ or derogatory comments about myself.
My reasoning behind this was always ‘I know everyone else is thinking it, so I’ll break the ice and make it less awkward for us all by mentioning the elephant in the room.’
I became the person who constantly made fat jokes, but it was always at my own expense. I built up a wall by saying the most awful things about myself so that if anyone else ever tried to say anything to me, I’d already have heard it or been called it. I think many people believed that I was this confident, bubbly girl, and had no idea of the insecurities and sadness I was hiding inside.
I’m sorry that I allowed myself to think that way. I am sorry that I felt like I was less deserving.
One form of escape I always had was the theatre. I talk so much about struggling with confidence, so it’s often a surprise to people that I love to be on stage because, for many people, that is the last place they would want to be. But for me, it was my escape.
I was never Jennifer Carroll on stage; I was always in the role of my characters, telling their stories.
I had good comedic timing, so I loved to play the funny characters and have everyone in the audience laugh along with me. This satisfied my need to please people, and I felt I was being seen for more than just my size. It became the role I took on in my personal life, too: the fat, funny friend. I hate that term because it is such a cliché, but I was that jolly girl.
This persona I took on essentially became my comfort blanket. I didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin, so it was easier for me to put on this act and feel more accepted.
Around this time, my friends and I reached the point where our little worlds revolved around boys. In school, it was always a topic of conversation: ‘How many boyfriends have you had?’ ‘Who are you seeing?’ ‘Who have you dated?’ I used to dread these questions. By the time I was 16 or 17, I felt like I was one of the only single people I knew, but I never put myself out there when it came to boys.
All my friends had been in serious, long-term relationships by this point. I hadn’t had a serious or long-term relationship, and I was really self-conscious about it. I had conditioned myself to think that I was undesirable to anyone because of how I looked physically, regardless of what I was like as a person. For that reason, I never put any effort into boys.

If anyone did show me any interest, I would worry that it was a joke because I wasn’t worthy enough to be approached. I became so paranoid, and people always told me how paranoid I was. This was frustrating for me, as there were so many occasions when I would see people look in disgust at me or whisper to another person. I could spot it a mile away, which made me paranoid about anyone who looked my way. I felt angry a lot of the time. Every event held the possibility of being a spectacle. My paranoia grew and grew. I was obsessed with my size and constantly worrying over every little thing and what other people were thinking.
Over the years, as I got bigger, it got worse. Things like walking to the shops or answering the door. Looking back and seeing how much time and energy I wasted worrying about what other people were thinking (or not thinking) makes me sad. It also makes me realise that I was more self-obsessed than I had thought. My people-pleasing — a trait that had flourished since I was at school — became even worse. I wanted to be liked by everyone, even people I didn’t particularly like myself.
But some people can see this trait in you and take advantage. They could probably smell the desperation off me a mile away, and they knew that if they told me to jump, I’d ask how high. I would accept poor treatment from people because I had been conditioned to think I was bad because of my weight. There were definitely a few a**eholes who made fun of me — but I allowed myself to think that everyone felt this way towards me.
My mind was so engulfed with those thoughts — the feelings of shame that I’d picked up from the media, careless family comments and the few instances of genuinely malicious bullying I’d suffered at school and since — that I believed everyone thought of me the way I thought of myself.
I’m sorry I allowed myself to think that way. I’m sorry that I felt like I was less deserving. I’m sorry I didn’t allow myself to do what I wanted. I’m sorry I said no to things because I worried it would make other people uncomfortable.
- ‘Jen’s Journey’ by Jennifer Carroll is published by Gill, €21.99

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