The Story of a Body

At an early age, I was told that my body takes up a lot of space, too much space, more space than should be allowed for one person. Shortly after, I discovered that when my mother was pregnant with my older brothers, she prayed to her God that she would never have a daughter. Her daughter would take up too much space with shoulders that were too broad, enormous feet, and she would certainly be overweight. These words came out of her mouth easily and confidently to some relatives as I sat in the same room, taking up more than my share of space yet trying to be invisible. I didn’t understand the gravity of those words at the time, but I consumed them and soon realized my mother thought any daughter of hers would be a monster. With a long list of failed diets and much criticism about the size of my body, and the space it occupied, I became that monster. I learned to loathe myself and my body, and with each digression from a diet or workout regimen, the more weight that piled onto my body, the deeper the grip of self-loathing.

I am forty-eight years old and for at least forty of those years, I tried to hate myself thin. I thought the disgust and rage and revulsion I had for myself and my body would compel me to be successful. I don’t think I could have hated myself more. In reality, my own self-hatred and body-shaming only led me to eat more and take up more space.

Three years ago, I attempted my last diet. It was a medically-supervised, full-fast diet where one consumes five, one hundred calorie shakes a day. A person as fat as me can lose five to seven pounds in a week. It was a final and desperate attempt at taking up less space in the world. I lost some weight but realized this program hurt more than it helped because it focused on the food as the problem, not the symptom. So I started meeting with a therapist who specialized in eating disorders.

The first thing he said to me was that he didn’t care if lost weight, that wasn’t the goal. The goal was to stop bingeing, to stop using food as a coping mechanism. He asked me if I would 100% commit to stop bingeing. I lied and said yes. I had made that promise to myself so many times before I couldn’t possibly believe I would be successful this time.

I haven’t binged in two years now. I am still working with a therapist to address the feelings and trauma that led me to food in the first place. I also work with a nutritionist as I navigate eating without bingeing. For the first time in my life, I trust myself around food. I actually trust myself in general. I have begun to unravel the tie binding my self-worth with the amount of space I take up in the world. I no longer live in a constant frenzy around what I should and shouldn’t eat on a daily basis. Instead, I eat when I am hungry and stop when I am satisfied. No foods are off limits.

I may never take up less space than what I do now. I have come to terms with that. The peace of mind that comes with not bingeing is worth far more than taking up less space. Perhaps one day I will have both, but for now, I am comfortable with the space I am in.