Granted, every post within this blog is painfully open-souled. My mom says I'm honest to a fault.
As much as I've talked about beauty and loving self, as passionate as I am about helping other girls discover their true beauty, I've left out the most important part: the trigger.
Recently, someone I care about playfully referred to my waist as a tire. Of course I still love that person. Of course I've forgiven that person. But, I noticed when I next saw myself in a mirror, I looked at myself differently.
That's not ok.
Every comment, tear and scale reading from junior high came flooding back, putting me right back where I was ten years ago. (Before the trigger triggered, if you will.)
trigger:
In 7th grade, my co-ed PE class was forced to take a physical to see how fit, limber and athletic we were. Needless to say, a class full of sweaty, awkward kids who only took PE because it was mandatory aren't fit, limber or athletic.
Regardless, I was called to the center of the gym when it was my turn to be weighed. I waded, toward the scale, through the masses of crew socks and braces being tested on flexibility and jumping jack ability. It tipped too far.
"175!"
Mortified. Absolutely mortified that my 80-something male teacher alerted the entire class of more than fifty students (I reiterate - co-ed) of my pre-pubescent obesity. I ran to the bleachers and allowed every molecule of water in my body to escape through my tear ducts while a group of girls pointed and laughed.
My friends tried to console me. They told me that I was beautiful. That I wasn't really that big.
None of my friends weighed more than 110.
They didn't understand. Why couldn't I look like them?
I'd tried dieting before. I'd tried being active before. (You've seen in previous posts how well diets and exercise work for me . . .) I knew they weren't going to work. I needed something different that would make me lose my dozens of pounds of shame quickly.
So, I stopped eating.
I lost 25 lbs. within the first month. Everyone I knew, and many I didn't, told me how great I looked. I got a "boyfriend." (As much of a boyfriend as you can have when all you do is hold hands in art class.) I made the cheerleading squad.
It was working. But, it wasn't enough.
Because I was pursuing a materialistic beauty and chasing a white rabbit ideal, I was never satisfied. The more I sought perfection, the emptier I felt. I hadn't eaten anything but saltines in months and I still wasn't good enough.
Depression seeped in. I could only see how terrible my life was and how worthless I was. I wanted to die. I tried to die. Something always pulled me back.
Sometimes, that something was common sense. Sometimes it was cowardice. Once it was my dad.
Every time, it was Christ.
One night, I realized how atypical I'd been feeling. I knew my life was fantastic, so I didn't understand why I'd let such opposite feelings overtake me. I cried out to the only one I knew understood and wouldn't judge me.
Jesus and I had a long talk that night. It was, perhaps, the most vividly I've ever heard God's voice.
He and I renewed our relationship. Instead of pursuing a cheap idealization of beauty, I pursued Him. I sought His Glory in everything. I prayed, I studied my Bible and I ate.
It took time to get over all of those feelings and emotions I'd been harboring, but they steadily became less and less frequent until they were gone completely. (They resurfaced in college.)
Is this far too honest for a potential audience of the entire world? Absolutely. But, I think it's necessary for a full realization of who I am today and the reasons for my passion.
The experience made me a stronger person, but I would never wish for young girls to mutilate their bodies or their minds in pursuit of an impossible standard.
You, dear reader, may share some of these feelings of self-worth, or maybe just a little latent thought that you'll be pretty in a 5-pound-lighter body. That's why I'm so honest. You and I can walk this road together.
That night that person talked about my "tire," I took a photo of my tummy. My overweight, stretchmark-laden, cellulitic tummy.
This tummy is on a size 18, 225 lb, 5'5, 22-year-old woman who is tired of hating it. As I said before, I know the importance of losing the tummy, but I need to feel beautiful regardless of it.
I'm actually a little proud of it. Yes, it's slightly disgusting, but I know that it proves I can be beautiful despite weight or dress size.
For the photo, I had written "Beautiful" backwards across my tummy so that every time I looked in the mirror, I would see that instead of the "grotesque" I usually envision. I thought that maybe, just maybe, seeing it would help me to believe it.
It kind of has.
But, I know I have a long way to go.
If you're in the same boat, grab an oar, and we'll go there together.
