I don’t want a perfect body. I know there is no such thing. I’m aware.
I want a body that I like and that I feel comfortable in. I don’t think that’s asking too much, right?
I’m morbidly obese. I’m not lying. I am technically, according to the BMI, morbidly obese. This is not only extremely unhealthy but also a major blow to my self-esteem, self worth, sex life, and ability to show myself in public without being paranoid and depressed. I attribute much of my now life-controlling agoraphobia and social anxiety to how I look.
I feel judged and ridiculed while I’m outside the doors of my apartment. I feel judged and ridiculed inside my apartment. I cannot be comfortable anywhere, at anytime. What do I do when I feel the worst about my body? I eat. And eat. And then I feel sick and guilty. I think of what my mom would say to me if she was here. She’d probably ask me why I was eating, again. She’d tell me to stop snacking. No more sweets or chips. I’d have to revert back to my old ways of hiding food and binging in secret.
Wow, now that I think about it, maybe I do have an eating disorder. No, I’m not anorexic or bulimic but I sure as hell have a horrible relationship with food and with my body. It’s become an obsession, like so much in my life. I cringe when I see my body, fully clothed or naked, and I want to die. My heart is in poor condition from being overweight as well as from chronic stress and anxiety. I’m only 27 years old and I’ve already had major surgery to remove my gall bladder. I’m probably not too far from being diabetic or having to worry about cholesterol. What sucks about this is knowing I’m not alone. I wish no one else had to experience this but, in this country, there are so many obese young people, it’s scary.
As a child, I was thin and tall. Energetic, lanky, and flexible are perfect descriptive words for myself. I was a dancer, I played kick ball, and loved running around like a crazy nut. Once I hit puberty, around 13, it all began to change. I lost any bit of energy I had. I started gaining weight almost immediately and it seriously depressed me. The boys loved it, of course. I became well endowed in both the front and the back. All I saw was a stomach becoming rounder and love-handles. Stretch marks and cellulite were terrifying to me and I began covering up my body. I wore baggy clothes and crossed my arms over my stomach at all times. I never worse a swim suit or shorts. My thighs began to painfully rub together. I was falling apart, as far as I was concerned.
My mother has always, and will always, had issues with control. She is obsessive about it. This didn’t stop when it came to my food intake. Once I started gaining weight in middle school, she tried everything she could think of to get me to lose the weight. She’s always claimed it was for my health but I’m not so sure. She embarrassed the hell out of me in public, in front of friends and family, and made me feel guilty for being who I am. I will never forgive her for the way she’s treated me because of my weight. When we went out to eat, she would either order for me or tell me I couldn’t eat something. She’d make remarks like “Should you be eating that?” or “Are you sure you want to order that?”. It made me so self conscious and miserable. My family even took notice of it and told her she should stop. She didn’t. I still feel guilty and like a failure when I’m around my mother.
When I had to start shopping for clothes in the women’s sections and then ultimately the plus sized section, it was over. I was utterly hopeless. I bounced back and forth from not caring and then caring too much. To this day, I hate my body more than anything else. I cannot name one good thing about it.
Blame society, blame my mom, blame men, whatever. It just is and I have to deal with it everyday of my life.