Belly
A piece on self-acceptance
A year of comfort eating is showing in ways I do not like. The emotions that I have swallowed down are revealing themselves in the layers of softness I carry.
Some people think of these extra rolls as padding. Protection that I have created to soften the impact of the outside world, but the external judgements have nothing on the wounds I inflict on myself.
The thing is, it feels separate from me, an alien substance that clings like a parasite, feeding away at my confidence and pride. I can feel it touching me and I long to scrape it off and throw it away. It’s not the real me I want to shout, I’m here underneath, hidden from view. This is not how I’m supposed to appear. This is not what I want you to see of me.
I have no compassion for the part of me who finds some days too hard, so she sinks into comfort once the house falls quiet at night. I have no patience for the lack of motivation. Of course, I can find time to exercise and eat well, I’m clearly just too lazy. It’s only this belly, this body that is judged, not the beautiful women everywhere I go of all shapes and sizes. The skin that was once so taut, stretched to its limits for the fourth time, is now soft and dough-like. Like a building without its rigid structure, it has fallen apart.
