Hey there, so today’s I would like to discuss my journey with body image. So later we can talk openly about it.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve felt uncomfortable in my own skin. As a kid, I wanted to be like a boy. It seemed like people didn’t care if I boys got dirty. But, I had long hair therefore I was a girl. I felt constantly judged because I got dirty anyways. Judged by the adults because of the dirt, judged by the girls because I was boyish and judged my boys because I had long hair. But I shrugged all the judgement and was myself.
On one particular day, my mom decided to cut my hair short. It have been influenced by the fact that I had lice and they weren’t going away. I was so happy because I could finally fit in. I was so naive. I didn’t want to be a boy, I just didn’t want the judgement. I cried the entire day I went back to school with my short hair. Everyone call me a boy and call me names. I wasn’t a boy, I was a girl with short hair. I liked being a girl. I was determined to be call a girl again. Luckily, I had a pink bow I could clip on. Although I didn’t realise at the time of the stupidity behind gendered colours, it saved me. Every time I got called a boy, with just a short finger pointing to the bow, I was a girl again.
I grew up in the nineties. Every item of clothing was meant to show your belly. It made me feel so uncomfortable. I don’t remember been called fat during that time, but I felt huge when my clothes showed my belly. It was not a trend I could get behind.
After hitting puberty at 10 (not kidding), I felt increasingly wrong in my own skin. Lumps, hair, pimples, blood, pain, skin, everything happened at once. Or at least it felt like it. I remember the first time I got catcalled. I was twelve and going to see Madagascar on the big screen. A 30 something guy call me a sexy piece of ass. I felt used, looked, dirty. Not like I want to be before, a different kind of dirt was expanding over my skin.
Since that horrible memory there hasn’t been one day I haven’t gone out without thinking about what I’m wearing out. I felt like my body was a curse. It felt wrong. I felt trapped. So I ate. I ate away so many feelings. I didn’t have energy to exercise anymore, so I quickly put on weight. I felt saver when I was bigger. It meant to been catcalled all the time. It meant not been sexualised. It mean I was in control. Kind of.
Gaining weight also meant losing the image of my body that I actually liked. I liked being slim and athletic. I enjoyed not having to count calories, and still been able to enjoy fats and sugars. Being overweight meant that I could do that, but I must be ok with being called fat. I couldn’t have everything, I had to choose.
I took it serious when it threatened my health. I started having headaches. Someone suggested it was high levels of cholesterol. I was 22, I wasn’t ready to find out. So I got motivated to lose the weight. All that weight that keep me safe and isolated and lonely. It was the right choice.
It still feels like a struggle. I still have binges. I sometimes feel trapped. It sometimes feels like a curse. Sometimes I feel the fattest human in the planet. Sometimes I feel myself. Sometimes I want to be felt. Some other times I want to be felt alone. My body does not have to suffer for it. I should suffer for it.
It has been a long journey, it is a long one. I’m learning to feel my body’s needs. I’m trying to get it healthy. All while not losing my mind.
An awkward hug from an awkward body,