Now I am not going to go into each black hole we have climbed into, every enemy we have given up our souls to, but I want to chew the fat for awhile about the world of body image – the lack of it, the self loathing that surrounds it and I really want to be perfectly honest with you all.
I would like to start of by saying that I am one of the lost souls. I will always live in that land of touching thighs and upper arms being mistaken for wind chimes in a sand storm. And I will always hate myself for falling short when it comes to beauty. Always. To say that my self image has impacted every aspect of my life is a no brainer. In fact, if I find out that my brain is carrying around a little fat, I will start to loathe it and will try to starve it.
I was taught to despise my body early on. My father was critical because I had not lost all the baby fat, so the first man I loved turned against me because of baby fat. I never got past it. I was around six. And they wondered why I didn’t stand up straight. If people couldn’t see my face, they couldn’t identify the cubby girl who walked in front of a speeding train. I daydreamed about leaving the world because I was a fat freak of nature. You told me I was and why would you lie to me?
Then I got a Barbie doll as a gift and realized that I would never have her heat seeking missile-like breasts. And I hated myself even more. So I received more Barbies for my birthday and Christmas. I don’t believe the intent was to scar me, but I believe self-administered electrical shock would have been less painful. At least I could have controlled the pain.
And the plastic bitch was blonde and my mousy dark blonde hair became my crown of thorns.
I came into my teen years and found myself living in the same world as Twiggy, the ultra thin English model. God must have really hated me. The message was loud and clear – If you wanted to be admired, adored and wealthy shrink back into the body of a six year old. I took on the challenge and did acquire a “moderate” starved look. Not good enough. But if you mixed enough booze with pills you could lose the weight and your stomach lining.
But my body decided to reject me like a transplanted hand as I got older. I could actually feel my skin trying to shrink back around my bones, but my fat was holding unto dear life and kept pushing out. It kept winning as my self esteem tanked. Over and over and over.
I am a failure. People only see my fat and are repulsed by it. If I am disgusted about myself, how could I expect others to embrace me? If they did they would feel the back fat. Disgusting.
I have not enjoyed my body at all. Okay, maybe for a total of 10 minutes. I pretended I was someone else. But I sometimes feel like a highly functional woman who is in search of a vein to open because I never measured up.
And I know I am not alone. I am one of the millions of women who can’t accept an extra 15 to 20 pounds on their bodies. Is this not freaking insane? I am embarrassed but I know one thing is for sure – I will never feel any better about myself until the weight comes off.
I will feel accepted. I will feel loved. And most important, I will feel worthy.
So here you go. I finally got honest about myself.
So every story like this needs a silver lining. And here it is:
Take it from someone who will die feeling like I missed my mark in my life. I fell short and for that I apologize to all I have met in my life. You deserved a better “me.”
From this day on, get off your fat asses or highly toned butts and say “ENOUGH.”
I would love to help, but I don’t know the first thing to do about accepting myself.
But you all better reject what society says is beautiful and you must redefine it. I can’t be saved, but you still have a chance to reclaim your life. Do it for every six year old girl who is looking at her baby fat while she has her finger down her throat.
If you don’t, then we women will have gotten exactly what others think we deserve.