"You're as skinny as a bean pole!" my mom exclaimed admirably to my younger cousin. I jumped in front of her eagerly.
"What about me, Mom? Am I?"
She hesitated. "No," she said slowly. "You're built more ... stocky."
I don't think she realized those worlds felt like a shotgun to my heart. From then on, I viewed myself as "stocky," a word which I associated with other words such as "fat" and "ugly." It became my identity in a sense. Strangely, I don't even think that is the word my mom used to describe my build. I think the word she actually used at the time was "sturdy." But "stocky" is the word that I took; "stocky" is the word that seared my heart and burned into the back of my eyelids.
It is strange to me that I did not ever go on any diets until I was 17 years old. I hated my body and considered myself fat, but it never occurred to me to go on a diet or exercise. If I ever considered it, I always saw it as much too difficult and time, even energy, consuming. I wasn't exactly wrong.
It was when I was 17 that I started being around more people than I had ever been around before. As a sheltered and home-schooled child, I didn't get out much. But once I started working with peers, I started feeling more conscious about how I looked and how I was perceived. I went on my first diet. It worked, but it only lasted about 6 months.
Three years and several health regimes later, I wonder to myself. Why does body image consume me? Why am I so obsessed with being thin? Am I really just a self-absorbed, selfish person ...? I wonder.
At times, I am happy. At times, I am sad. So sad I wish for death. I cry endlessly in the mirror as I stare at my naked body. "Why?" I cry. "Why am I so fat? And why do I care?" Will it ever end? Will I ever feel like enough?
At times, I feel enough. At times, I feel miserable. I walk into the bathroom fifty times in one hour, staring once again at my ugly body, as if somehow it will magically transform into what I want it to be. It never does.
Is this an impossible nightmare? Will I wake up? Sometimes the dream is sweet. Sometimes, it is hopeless.
I know I was not meant to live this way. God never intended this for me. If I remember that, I suddenly realize how ridiculous it is, and such a waste of my time and energy to focus on the size of my body. But it can be hard to remember. It can be hard to stop the frenzy and look outside of myself. What was I really meant to be? Created to be?
Lately I have been taking much thought, trying to sort out what is truth, and what is lie. I thought I knew the lies. I thought I could see through them. But, after all, I have been believing them all along.
"What about me, Mom? Am I?"
She hesitated. "No," she said slowly. "You're built more ... stocky."
I don't think she realized those worlds felt like a shotgun to my heart. From then on, I viewed myself as "stocky," a word which I associated with other words such as "fat" and "ugly." It became my identity in a sense. Strangely, I don't even think that is the word my mom used to describe my build. I think the word she actually used at the time was "sturdy." But "stocky" is the word that I took; "stocky" is the word that seared my heart and burned into the back of my eyelids.
It is strange to me that I did not ever go on any diets until I was 17 years old. I hated my body and considered myself fat, but it never occurred to me to go on a diet or exercise. If I ever considered it, I always saw it as much too difficult and time, even energy, consuming. I wasn't exactly wrong.
It was when I was 17 that I started being around more people than I had ever been around before. As a sheltered and home-schooled child, I didn't get out much. But once I started working with peers, I started feeling more conscious about how I looked and how I was perceived. I went on my first diet. It worked, but it only lasted about 6 months.
Three years and several health regimes later, I wonder to myself. Why does body image consume me? Why am I so obsessed with being thin? Am I really just a self-absorbed, selfish person ...? I wonder.
At times, I am happy. At times, I am sad. So sad I wish for death. I cry endlessly in the mirror as I stare at my naked body. "Why?" I cry. "Why am I so fat? And why do I care?" Will it ever end? Will I ever feel like enough?
At times, I feel enough. At times, I feel miserable. I walk into the bathroom fifty times in one hour, staring once again at my ugly body, as if somehow it will magically transform into what I want it to be. It never does.
Is this an impossible nightmare? Will I wake up? Sometimes the dream is sweet. Sometimes, it is hopeless.
I know I was not meant to live this way. God never intended this for me. If I remember that, I suddenly realize how ridiculous it is, and such a waste of my time and energy to focus on the size of my body. But it can be hard to remember. It can be hard to stop the frenzy and look outside of myself. What was I really meant to be? Created to be?
Lately I have been taking much thought, trying to sort out what is truth, and what is lie. I thought I knew the lies. I thought I could see through them. But, after all, I have been believing them all along.
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