Clearing Space In My Bed
Trigger warning: This post contains sensitive topics such as eating disorders.
When I crawl into bed beside a woman, I often feel like jealousy crawls into bed with us. I’ve never been one to believe in types; my attraction to people is never noticeably influenced by their weight. But I won’t say I don’t think about it — because I do. As a queer woman who had an eating disorder for years during her adolescence, even after recovering, I still had to deal with how I constantly compared myself to other women. I wonder how much the women I fall for have to work for whatever their physique is, I pay attention for signs of body issues and I try to be considerate about any food choices. And I compare. I am ashamed of it, but it’s true. Her stomach is so much flatter than mine, she doesn’t care what anyone thinks about her body, my body doesn’t fit with hers well.
Realizing I was bisexual was made more difficult by my body image issues. For a long time, I couldn’t tell the difference between being attracted to a woman and wanting to look like her. As a result, a whole portion of my sexuality was invalidated. By the time I found myself looking for someone romantically, a dislike — even disgust — for my own body ran deep. Looking back, I can’t remember the boys I thought were cute, but I do distinctly remember the girls I was jealous of. It wasn’t until I watched Cassie’s “Me & U” video that my sexual attraction to women really hit me. (Watch the video, you’ll get it.)
When I left home for boarding school my junior year, I got my first crush on a woman. She was gorgeous; tall and thin, more interesting than anyone I knew in my small Mississippi hometown and friendly enough that I felt at ease with her. At her house one weekend, vodka and curiosity fortified my will to kiss her. I wasn’t turned down either, even though the voice in my head told me it would never happen. Even now, four years later, we still casually hook up. And yet I never got over the shock that someone so thin could be attracted to me. It’s still hard not to be jealous of her body.
During my first real stab at recovery, I was in a serious relationship with a woman whose weight was more similar to my own, and at times fluctuated to above mine. I was always mortified that my own neuroses and obsession over my own body image and weight would affect her or bother her. She herself was in recovery, which brought its own issues: her success felt like my own personal failure. How is it so easy for her not to obsess at the gym or cafeteria? Why can’t I stop weighing myself, too? What would it take for me to butter my freaking toast?
Then, as I went into college and really fought — with myself, for myself — for recovery, the whole thing seemed ridiculous and shameful to me. I wasn’t doing anything but making it impossible for me to be problematically attracted to women and making myself feel worse. I would never want any of my friends or girlfriends to ever experience the type of judgment that I passed on myself, and I was ashamed that my judgments of myself were seeping onto the women I surrounded myself with. I have to admit that it was hard to actively fight the creeping thoughts that hung about my hips and arms and whatever else. But the relationships I’ve had with women since, whether they were just casual flings or dates or what have you, haven’t had the same poison of jealousy around that base attraction.
I still don’t like butter on my toast, but I’ve started drinking Starbucks Frappuccinos. And I still sometimes look at my body and wish it smaller, but I don’t lie in bed worrying about my body rather than the girl I’m trying to woo who’s lying next to me. There’s much more room with only the two of us in bed.
