Women seem to take things personally.
Today, I’m not average weight. Sometimes I’m “curvy” and sometimes I’m “obese.” The more fat I am, the more vulnerable I feel; the harsher I am to myself, the more unforgiving. I sometimes look in the mirror and see that young girl dressed in a baseball cap and flannel shirt, and I think, “Damn, I’m so ugly.” My husband scolds me, telling me to stop being mean to his wife. But I have no control over that part of my brain.
Why is it that when I put on makeup and get my nails done, I instantly begin to feel better about myself? Who pounded that into my brain? Too many people, too many messages along the way from pre-pubescence to adulthood to pinpoint any one moment I decided my body wasn’t good enough, wasn’t beautiful enough.
I buy Spanx to hide a stomach that, frankly, cannot be hidden. It does not matter that I have had four abdominal surgeries: that does not quell the insecurities. It does not matter that I have grown two children. Or that my body has taken in countless medications, from birth control to ovary stimulating hormones; from anti-anxiety pills to anti-inflammatories. All of which list rapid weight gain as a major side effect. Knowing that some of it is out of my control does not help my self-esteem.
As I stare at myself in the mirror, baseball cap and flannel shirt staring back at me, I wonder how that girl turned into this woman. And in the background of my thoughts, emanating from the other room, the sounds of the TV blare, “You’re a fat pig! Look at that face. You’re disgusting.”
