A Tale of Body and Burden
I always knew the people around me were more aware of my size than I ever was. I don't remember what specific age the shape of my body became the only thing that seemed to define me. But, what I do remember, are the moments that pushed me to become extremely obsessive with my body image. During the summer I turned seventeen, my sister and I excitedly showed our father the clothes we bought as we sat in front of Starbucks waiting on our step mother. I remember placing a crop top, size x-large, in front of my torso saying, "look, daddy! Isn't this cute?"
“Are you sure that's going to fit you, baby?" He questioned, clearly wanting to retract his words the moment he noticed my saddened expression.
“I didn't mean it in that way, baby," he quickly added. There was a panic in his voice. Yet, I reassured him with a smile. He was my fitness fanatic father who had good intentions behind his concerning comments about my weight. So, like any other person, I brushed it aside as we made our way to Red Lobster for lunch. However, I slowly came to realize I wasn’t like ‘any other person’ because, as we sat at the table, tears were threatening to burst out of my eyes.
“What can I get for you young lady?” I hardly registered the waiter as my eyes soaked in the amount of calories listed inside each dish.
“A lemonade,” was all I replied. I didn't deserve to eat, not when I felt out of place just by sitting beside my medium-sized sister.
“That's it? You not getting food?” My sister, Starr, asked.
“I'm not hungry.” The lump in my throat felt like a large pill lodged inside, causing discomfort as I forcefully choked those words out. Almost as if I was trained, those lies seeped passed my lips, leaving behind a sharp acrid taste; and before I knew, those lies had become my masquerade costume. A costume that had me wishing to look like an influencer, a model—and not the fat ones that got ‘I love your confidence’ under anything they posted, but the skinny ones that got famous for dancing in a bikini. However, my masquerading principle wasn’t enough to fix my problems.
“You’re severely overweight.” The doctor so kindly explained to me when I reluctantly told her about my missing my period.
“And you've been starving your body for quite some time now," she said almost mockingly. She was ideally emaciated, her collarbone protruding sharply behind her scrubs, so I knew she didn't understand what I was feeling. Yet, she ironically ripped the layers of my skin like an onion leaf, layer after layer. With every “professional opinion” I felt more angry and sad, but worse if all, seen. Nothing I tried was working, from regurgitating everything I consumed to having nothing to bring up. It was obvious the cards I was dealt were against me.
I realized it for a third time the following year I turned eighteen. I went to the doctor again, but instead it was for constant stomach pains. I remembered being nervous, scared out of my mind; but for the wrong reasons. Instead of being concerned about my health, I was terrified of the number written alongside 'body mass'.
“You're borderline obese. If you change your diet and exercise you won't experience those symptoms anymore.” This time, it was a hefty male doctor that gave his professional opinion. His eyes lacked sympathy behind his specs as he examined me, yet, I could no longer ignore the real source behind my problems.
If I became smaller, I wouldn’t have been hiding in a restroom stall crying. If I became smaller, I wouldn’t have an irregular period cycle. If I became smaller, I wouldn’t have severe stomach issues. If I became smaller, I would finally be worthy enough to sit beside my sister and wear average size clothing. Yet, when I became smaller, the only thing that changed were my father’s words.
“You need to eat something other than fries, baby.” My father begged me one day. “Please, you have to take care of your body.” Nevertheless, I’d say this was an accomplishment, I guess.