I remember the first time I thought I
was fat.
I was at a middle school Sunday
school class. I was thirteen and up until that point, blissfully unaware that
all of the other girls were skinnier than me. But it was summer and hot, so we
were all wearing skirts and t-shirts to combat the non-air-conditioned basement
youth room. I clearly remember bowing my head for prayer, and suddenly noticing
that there was an obvious roll on my stomach as I sat on the couch. I stared at
it through about half of the prayer, suddenly becoming grossed out by my own
body. I spent the second half of the prayer sneaking looks at the other girls’
stomachs, seeing if my roll was bigger or smaller than theirs. When I got to
the last girl, I took a sharp intake of breath. My roll was bigger than every
other girl in the room.
I thought about this for weeks,
wondering if it was okay that I was the “fattest” friend in my friend group. I
went through my clothes and decided what I could layer to keep this information
to myself, what I needed to get rid of because there was no hiding my stomach
in that shirt or dress.
I can even remember going so far at
the next sleepover as hugging a pillow to my stomach through the entire movie
marathon with my friends because I didn’t want them to see my roll.
I’ve had moments and years where this
pillow is my best friend. I’ve been thankful for certain friends not because of
their friendship but because they are bigger than me and that boosts my
confidence. I’ve had moments of being jealous of people I knew who were
anorexic because in those worst moments, it seems like that word would fix all
my problems (note: I am not nor ever was in no way shape or form anorexic nor
will I ever be, just sharing a thought).
I was probably my most thin senior
year of high school carrying into freshman year of college. But what’s funny
about this is that these were also my worst and most depressed years of my life
thus far.
I like to remind myself of this
because sometimes I need to be slapped in the face with the fact that being 10,
20, 40 pounds lighter than I am right now will not automatically make me a
happier person.
What will make me a happier person is
loving myself.
I know, I know. I am the master of
cliché. But hear (or read) me out.
If I love myself, that means I will
feed myself things that are good for me, and I will also treat myself with
splurges.
If I love myself, I will exercise an
appropriate amount and work all of my muscles, not just run myself to death in
the hopes of becoming skinny.
If I love myself, I will treat my
body with kindness and find positivity in myself instead of focusing on what I
may be hiding behind the pillow.
I read a quote one time by J. K.
Rolling that said, “Is fat the worst thing a person can be? Is 'fat' worse than
'vindictive', 'jealous', 'shallow', 'vain', 'boring' or 'cruel'? Not to me.” I
printed this quote out when I first found it and taped it to my scale to remind
myself of its truth every time I weighed myself. So what if I’m the biggest
girl in my circle of friends? It’s also possible that I’m the nicest or the
sweetest or the one with the most intoxicating laugh, and if I had my choice, I
would rather be those things than skinny.
So yeah, I don’t want to be skinny, I
want to be skinny in a movie. Because if I were in a movie and became skinny, I
would think that also means I would gain the affection of every male in a 100
mile radius, I would gain instant best friendship with all the most popular
girls, and I would find some kind of inner being and become a magical better
person.
In real life, if I were skinny, I
would be dating a man who was crazy about me, I would have 2 or 3 of the
dearest and sweetest friends I could ever ask for, and I would be a child of
God who loves herself.
Oh wait. That is real life. So what
am I complaining about, again?
Right. I’m not skinny.
Meh. Who cares?