My mother always told me I was beautiful. I was her perfect gift, and nothing would change that, but I never fully believed her.
As long as I can remember, I have been the “bigger” one in a family of gorgeous, slim women. I was the odd one out. I remember always being aware of my size, but it finally got to me in middle school.
“Jade, you would be so pretty if you were skinny.”
I was told this so casually by a boy in my class, no older than 13. That was the moment I realized my size decided my beauty. Not my personality or even superficially my face; none of that mattered when my body was that size.
I remember brushing it off in that moment because I didn’t want to show that the comment had gotten to me. I chuckled. I agreed. I allowed myself to be reduced to “the fat girl.” Something I had always believed to be true in the back of my mind had now come to the surface.
The older I got, the more I became aware of the rolls on my back and the marks on my stomach. I would sit in the bathroom and analyze myself in the mirror. I would grab my stomach and my arms, imagining what I would look like if I could just magically melt the fat off my body.
The older I got, the more I began to despise waking up in my body. All I wanted was to wake up skinny. I’d listen to weight loss hypnosis on YouTube and pray every night that when I opened my eyes, I’d be able to feel my collarbone and see my ribs when I stretched.
I just wanted to wear clothes without someone telling me everything that was wrong with me in them. I craved the freedom I associated with being thin.
Then the guilt started. Around 10th grade is when I decided I couldn’t eat in front of people because that was disgusting. If I dared to eat anything, I convinced myself I’d be judged for it. If I ate a salad, people would look at me and think, “Look at that fatty. Who is she fooling with a salad on her plate?” If I eat anything that is not healthy, I’d hear, “Wow, what a pig just filling herself with more carbs.” I wasn’t allowed to win.
After a day of hiding the fact that I eat food, though, I’m left to binge away all the sorrows and shame of being fat. I’d eat as much as I could because the feelings were eating away at me.
The feelings, the embarrassment is inescapable; I constantly remain in a state of shame. I’d think, “I shouldn’t have eaten that, wow, you’re really going to add extra cheese, all that ice cream, no wonder you look like this.”
When I look in the mirror, I know exactly where I’d draw the lines. All along my body, where I would draw the lines of what I want to take away. All the flab, fat and stretch marks I want erased.
When I look in the mirror sometimes, I can only see regret.
I still crave the freedom of being skinny. I wonder if I’ll ever know what it is to be thin. As much as I allow myself to wear what I want, I can’t help but feel shame for it. The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve fallen into the habit of only dressing nicely when I feel like I must. I almost don’t deserve to be beautiful. I don’t get to walk around on a regular day and get complimented.
To hate your body is to hate the one thing keeping you alive. It’s to hate what lets you walk, what lets you breathe, smell and taste. To hate your body is an intimate hatred. It is a painful hatred. And I am so exhausted from this hate.
As much as I’d love to be perfect, I am not, and I never will be. The best I can do is be okay with who I am. And I really want to, so I’ll try. I may fall into bad habits much more than I’d like, but at the same time, I appreciate my body. I am proud of my body for pumping my blood and beating my heart. My body works hard to make sure I am okay, even when I am neglecting it.
I may still be apprehensive about trusting my mother, but I promise myself I will try a little more every day.
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