Love Handles and Other Soft Spots

/
0 Comments
My mind has been on constant rotation thinking of my body when it was sick. 

I wasn't sick with the flu or a virus or even an eating disorder. No no no. I was Sick with panic and depression and 24/7 anxiety. 

I only ate liquids for three months as I thought solids would inevitably become lodged in my throat and I would choke and die. I lost weight rapidly. And a lot of it. And although I hated, and I mean loathed the mental warfare I encountered daily with myself, I loved that my thighs didn't touch and I was a bra size A. I loved how far out my collar bones protruded and that you could almost start to see them in my chest. I loved how baggy my jeans looked and when I paired them with heels I actually looked like one of those famous blog girls. 

Now, how did this valued and twisted image of myself come to be? That's what has been tripping me up. I was never a big girl. I always have had (and will have) hips and thighs for days. That's just my shape. But it was always well maintained through constant watch of what was being shoved down my gullet. But through it all, I truly did like being curvy. But to an extent. 

God forbid I passed the scale of 130 pounds- the flood gates would open. I'd start counting calories and formulating ways to burn off fat while at school or work. 

Well now... Now. Now I'm a bit past 130. To the point where it's quite noticeable to multiple people. And it's uncomfortable.
This is partially due to hormones from birth control tied in with a love for cheese and wine, cupcakes and chocolate. 

But back to the brunt of it- why is it uncomfortable? Because of what others may think or say? Because I'm not a size 26 anymore? Why is it so fucking uncomfortable? 

I think the tumultuous relationship I've had with my dad is a big part of it. As little girls, the first men we ever love are our fathers. They are the first men that see us the way we are- they are the first men we ask to see us in the light and tell us what he sees. 

When I started to hit puberty, it was as if my father disowned me. Shut off from me, he judged me harshly with awful comments and concerns that were worded with an underlying tone of "slut". Even though I was as sexually pure as any thirteen year old should be.

This in turn led me to believe that my body was sinful and should be hidden and not be appreciated by anyone (especially boys), but mostly, that translated to being unappreciated by myself. Maybe he's right- I shouldn't have eaten that ice cream cone or those brownies, I'd think to myself choking back tears in my walk-in close. It just makes my female curves more visible and shapely, which daddy thinks is slutty. 

Fast forward ten years. As an adult and  fully developed female, I've been appreciated by a past love who essentially worshiped my curves. 

"You are a women. You were made beautifully and I love every inch of your body." 

He made me feel "thin" not thick, as if I'd eaten too many cupcakes. 

And yet, I still look at myself in the mirror wishing my curves were a little less a-line, a little more straight. Maybe I wouldn't still be a big sin, a shapely young girl with the body of women, one to be avoided and looked down upon by daddy. 


You may also like