Yesterday I had a can of flavorless chicken soup and four stale peanut butter crackers to eat. I was not busy, and it was not easy. When I got done with my day, my head was pounding and my hands were aching, I have come accustom to the feeling of hunger over the years. The feeling I have not embraced, however, is that pitiful hateful feeling I get directly after I eat. This will usually occur after a "good day" where I have eaten healthily all day(or the smallest amount I could.) On many "good days" I spend the day unhappy, telling myself constantly and irrationally what happens to food after you consume it. At the end of "good days" I am normally emotionally unstable. I most commonly end up at Wendy's on West Jackson. Here, I can be seen eating and normally crying in my car. I have sat there on many nights, staring out at a starless, night sky, wondering why I have zero self-control.
Food runs my life. I spend more time looking at my waist in the mirror than I do looking at my face. Having the knowledge of the notion of a healthy body image, I have tried, desperately, to love what I see in the mirror. Countless hours have been spent staring and hoping at a never changing reflection. Frequently, I am caught in a restroom pinching the sides of my body in confusion and pure hate. I remember the first time I saw myself as fat. I was a senior in high school, and in the bathroom where the guys in choir sometimes practiced. Though I had recently lost over a hundred pounds, I caught my profile in the mirror and started sobbing. I had been overweight and unhealthy for awhile, but at the time I did not hate myself. Vanity had crept in me and I had a pulse in my body towards perfection. I retreated to a stall and told myself I could not leave, fearful that someone might realize that I was fat again. I spent an hour in that stall, and that moment has stayed with me since.
I am aware of the struggle, and I write this to free me. Fully aware that I am not the only one who is waging this war, I write to encourage. Often when people speak about their distaste for their body, I consider them selfish or perhaps vain. Then I reread my previous two paragraphs and how often I use "I". My obsession with my body is an obsession with me. I have given into conceit. The battle is hard because I fight alone. Perhaps if we, the insecure, would start thinking outwardly, instead of constantly inwardly, we would be more equipped against the enemy, us.
This body is the only one I have. When I speak ill of my body, I encourage others to do the same. If I don't respect me, how can I expect others to. These feelings will surely not leave me, yet I feel that with honesty comes healing. I serve myself so many lies, and have become my own barrier in life. Let brutal honesty be a sledgehammer.