I am using this icon because it's my face right now and it's kinda cheering me up
I am pretty certain that the next time that my mom says something about my body I am going to scream. Just keep wordless screams in her face until she promises she won't say anything about it again, because I can't handle one more word of oh you're so pretty so skinny so lovely so lucky- and then out of the fucking blue something about how she was "even skinnier than you at your age-" oh but don't worry, it's FINE, she was TOO skinny! And how I shouldn't worry about how I looked in that play a few months ago; I was even thinner then than I am now! Honey, is that a size small? Really? Don't you think a medium might be too big? And how I'm SO lucky! So lucky to have that cute little body and that cute little figure and all the while I can see her hating me for it in the little ways she slips and sighs when three? Gosh, life must be so hard for you."
And I can't help it, because that's just my body. That's how I'm built. It's not my fault. I'm five foot five and one hundred and twenty pounds, but she can just look at me and make me feel like I need to mark all the places where I can pinch the skin too well and whittle myself down. And I have to keep reminding myself how it felt when I started to get closer to 115, to 113, to 110 to 105, how I always felt weak and my hands were always shaking because I wasn't built to be that thin and I didn't feel healthy and I didn't feel happy. I'm more athletically built and more muscular than most girls that I know, which means that I weigh more. And objectively I know that. But then I catch myself in the mirror looking again and I'm twisted all in knots. Feeling that mixture of hate-pride-shame that I felt when the seat or the legs of my jeans were so much looser than they were before and they didn't need to be. I'm pulled back and forth between feeling like I'm a prize horse to be trotted around and like I did something wrong. She'll flaunt my body like it's a point of pride, like it's something she did aside from slapping some genetics together with my dad. Little comments to clothing store clerks, to her friends and co-workers when they meet me, flaunting the skinny daughter. And I just want to cover myself in layers and layers of myself until there's nothing left to see or whistle at.
I'm sick of living under a microscope. I'm sick of looking down at my stomach when I sit to see if the skin there folds over, I'm sick of turning turning turning in the three-way mirrors in shops because I'm scared she- or anyone- will see where my body curves where it should dip and lift. I'm sick of thinking about my friends in the locker room with their hatelovehate comments and I'm sick of feeling nauseous because I didn't do any sit-ups the previous night. I'm sick of the girls who don't mean anything bad asking me whether I diet, what workout routine I use, and all the while I'm thinking "Don't look at me don't look at me don't look at me please please please stop." I'm sick of feeling disgusted with myself after a meal, then feeling disappointed in my own disgust. I was supposed to be above this. I was supposed to be past this. It's like all the parts of the flesh I can't stand is rebelling against the voice that tells me my body is fine the way it is.
And I can't help it, because that's just my body. That's how I'm built. It's not my fault. I'm five foot five and one hundred and twenty pounds, but she can just look at me and make me feel like I need to mark all the places where I can pinch the skin too well and whittle myself down. And I have to keep reminding myself how it felt when I started to get closer to 115, to 113, to 110 to 105, how I always felt weak and my hands were always shaking because I wasn't built to be that thin and I didn't feel healthy and I didn't feel happy. I'm more athletically built and more muscular than most girls that I know, which means that I weigh more. And objectively I know that. But then I catch myself in the mirror looking again and I'm twisted all in knots. Feeling that mixture of hate-pride-shame that I felt when the seat or the legs of my jeans were so much looser than they were before and they didn't need to be. I'm pulled back and forth between feeling like I'm a prize horse to be trotted around and like I did something wrong. She'll flaunt my body like it's a point of pride, like it's something she did aside from slapping some genetics together with my dad. Little comments to clothing store clerks, to her friends and co-workers when they meet me, flaunting the skinny daughter. And I just want to cover myself in layers and layers of myself until there's nothing left to see or whistle at.
I'm sick of living under a microscope. I'm sick of looking down at my stomach when I sit to see if the skin there folds over, I'm sick of turning turning turning in the three-way mirrors in shops because I'm scared she- or anyone- will see where my body curves where it should dip and lift. I'm sick of thinking about my friends in the locker room with their hatelovehate comments and I'm sick of feeling nauseous because I didn't do any sit-ups the previous night. I'm sick of the girls who don't mean anything bad asking me whether I diet, what workout routine I use, and all the while I'm thinking "Don't look at me don't look at me don't look at me please please please stop." I'm sick of feeling disgusted with myself after a meal, then feeling disappointed in my own disgust. I was supposed to be above this. I was supposed to be past this. It's like all the parts of the flesh I can't stand is rebelling against the voice that tells me my body is fine the way it is.