I Think I'm Fat
Watching my sister emotionally tortured over her weight - by family, schoolmates doctors and others - taught me one thing: if I wasn't skinny, I wouldn’t be loved.
Once, my sister and I made a rule. If someone’s stomach was bigger than their boobs, they were fat. As preteens, this sounded reasonable. But as I developed, my boobs stayed kind of small. So the margin for normal bodily functions (like a bit of bloat) was minimal.
My sister was overweight; food was probably just a coping mechanism. At school, she was picked on, teased, and bullied for her size. Her classmates whispered and laughed behind my back. “Chaya’s smelly and fat”, I’d hear them say.
I thought everyone hated her, including my parents. They wouldn’t let her eat, they’d lock food out of reach “because Chaya can’t control herself”.
She started stealing money and buying snacks at the convenience store. Every time she was caught, I felt my parents’ disdain. Not only was she eating things forbidden by the religion, but she was eating. Mind you, I ate those goodies too.
But I wasn’t fat.
When extended family would visit, they’d tell me I’m pretty. They’d kiss her on her cheek and say “you could be pretty if only you were skinny”. Maybe they thought love could be guised by criticism. In retrospect, I wonder if that’s what my parents thought too.
I began to associate size with love. The skinnier I was, the prettier I’d be - the more love that’d be showered on me.
In my teens, I started to hate the mirror. I didn’t want to look at everything that could be wrong with me. I didn’t want to catch a glimpse of my imagined double chin, round cheeks, or normal belly. If I did stare, I’d obsess over angles, wondering if my stomach stuck out too much.
Watching my sister emotionally tortured over her weight - by family, schoolmates doctors and others - taught me one thing: if I wasn’t skinny, I wouldn’t be loved.
I promise - I can look you in the eyes and tell you it’s irrational. I can even admire women with varied body types and find them truly beautiful. But when I glance down and see my very normal belly, or sit on the toilet and watch my thighs spread, I’m often gripped by the same obsessive thought. “I’m fat. I’m fat. I’m fat.”
Recently though, something’s changed. I’ve started going to the gym. At first, I was scared to look in the mirror. I looked away when doing squats. But a few weeks in, I started to realize; my body has more modes than ”skinny” or “fat”. My body can also be strong.
With every squat, curl, jump, and stretch, I cautiously shed old rules. I’m gradually proving to myself that love and size aren’t parallel.
I remember the times I spent in front of the bathroom mirror, eyes closed, willing me to love myself. I couldn’t wish myself into self-acceptance; will I lift myself there?
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