CONTENT WARNING: EATING DISORDERS, FAT HATE, BODY HATE, BULLYING (but there’s a happy ending!) “I hate it. Just…being a girl. It’s hard.” I’m watching “So You Think You Can Dance” (Season 11, Episode 2, which aired on June 2) and this quote, uttered in desperation by Christina Applegate, and the contestant’s story that preceded it, brought me to tears. The stunningly talented Dani Platz had just told the judges—and America—why she’d stopped dancing for 2 years. She’d been overcome by an eating disorder, and had to go into treatment. It made me recall a time in my life when I stopped doing lots of things I was passionate about because I didn’t love myself, because my sense of self-worth was warped, because I felt hopeless, ugly, unloved and unlovable. My disordered eating patterns began at a very young age. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t skip meals. I was called “fat and ugly” the first day of Kindergarten, and the label stuck. I was “that” girl all through middle, junior, and high school. There was not one single day that I was not tormented by my peers, until I moved to a new school senior year. Things at home weren’t much different, though, at least I know now the hurtful things my Dad said came from a place of love. He didn’t know that I could have a full, happy life if I was fat. He thought I needed to be thin in order to be beautiful, and I needed to be beautiful in order to be successful. And, because of his words and actions, because of the way my classmates treated me, because of the messages being spoon-fed to be by the beauty and diet industries, so did I. Diet pills entered my life around age 12. Next came bulimia (binging and purging,) then full on starvation (anorexia.) I don’t think anyone in my life knew, I worked very hard to conceal my weight loss efforts, but if they did, they never said anything, presumably because I actually was fat (based on height/weight ratio.) You see, when thin girls (and boys) engage in disordered eating, they’re thwarted at every turn, told of the dangers, told they’re killing themselves and hurting the people that love. Fat kids, on the other hand, are encouraged to work out until their bodies give out, to cut their caloric intake to levels so low their organs fail, to diet and fast, to hate themselves into “better shape.” And, so, I made food my mortal enemy, became anemic, started losing my hair, and developed a calcium deficiency that eventually led to the destruction of my natural teeth. All in the hopes of someday being “pretty.” At the height of my illness, I stopped singing, writing, dancing, *living*. My entire existence revolved around my disease. The idea of being accepted by girls and desired by men *consumed* me. Not *once* did anyone come to me and say, “This is not how you have to think/feel/act.” Not *once* did anyone tell me that being fat is not a character flaw, that my body was not a crime, that I was perfect just as I was without weight loss. I never received any sort of counseling or treatment. Now, months shy of turning 30, I realize that those cruel kids, my father’s warped ideals, and billion-dollar industries stole my youth. They took from me the time of my life when I was supposed to be finding out who I was, not forcing myself into their mold. They robbed me of joy for nearly 2 *decades*. Now, food is my passion. I love tasting new flavors, creating dishes, researching herbs and cuts of meat and flavor combinations, writing recipes for my cookbook, styling and photographing my tasty creations, cooking for my loved ones and coworkers and anyone else that is willing to sit at my dining table. And, eating. I *love* eating! It’s taken me years to retrain my brain, to learn what hunger really feels like, to learn to listen to my cravings, to learn how to give my body what it needs and wants, to learn to enjoy food instead of hating it. Now, I love myself, inside and out. I love my soft, squishy body. I love my stretch marks, my cellulite, my back fat, my jiggly arms, my random moles and freckles, my wide, flat ass and my uneven tits. I love the way my stomach feels when I lay on my side in bed. I love the way I look in clothing, especially clothing I was always told I was not “allowed” to wear, like bikinis, tight sweater dresses, sheer tops, leggings, and skinny jeans. I love my face with makeup, and without. I love my septum piercing and my tattoos. I love my weak fingernails and my cowlicks and my weird pinky toenails that never grow. I love *me*. And that feels *amazing*. I can’t get back those 20+ years of self-loathing, I can’t erase all the pain and hopelessness, but I *can* tell my story. I can continue to love myself loudly and proudly, I can quell diet talk and body negativity, I can teach the young people in my life to rebel against the hundreds of messages the media is sending them telling them they aren’t enough. I can continue to tell everyone I hear insulting their bodies that they don’t have to live this way. I can spread love and acceptance instead of hatred and fear. I can be the voice of reason I never heard.
Posted on: Sat, 28 Jun 2014 03:12:39 +0000
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