I finished writing this piece almost six months ago as Wisconsin slowly introduced itself to warmer spring temperatures. I had begun to try on my summer clothing, and for the last few years, this appointment hasn’t wound me into anxious knots, but that definitely didn’t use to be the case. With lessening anxiety, I decided to write about this case. I decided to introduce the tank top-baring summer season sneaking around the corner to my wielding pencil and a few sentences in, I couldn’t stop. It took me less than six weeks to write about my battle, it took me more than six months to find the courage to publish it.
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Amid spring break season and a few weeks from baring my jean shorts and swimwear for the summer, I have found my anxiety rising. My fingers gingerly trace the seams of my summer clothing, and I fight to find the courage to try it all on. I hope everything still fits well. My anxiety has lessened significantly the last few years, but if my favorite pair of shorts feel snug, I admit I still give it too much thought. Even though I will ultimately toss out a few worn pieces, the idea that they may fit me from the depths of the plastic giveaway bin makes me feel better. The covers of some of my favorite magazines currently hang under their weighty headlines about how to attain the perfect bikini body. They scream at me that it only takes x number of seconds, hours, days, or weeks to tighten those arms and legs and carve out that highly sought after 6-pack. If laziness prevents me from testing out the laundry list of diets and exercises strewn across 106 of the 130-page magazine, then use these 26 cosmetics to fake it. Primer? Bronzer? Self-tanner infused with pearls and some spice only found in the most remote area of the world? I’m frustrated and would like to share a story.
At the ripe young age of 15, I stood timidly in a claustrophobic dressing room with six pairs of dark-wash jeans thrown into a misshapen pile beside me. My chubby hands tensely gripped the waistband of the seventh and last pair of jeans I dared to try on this afternoon. I should have stopped at the third pair, but maybe I had to endure this torture for the two scoops of Culver’s Mint Chip Ice Cream I allowed myself last night. The fluorescent lights beat down on my already flushed face, and I couldn’t escape the obtrusive full-length mirror standing before me. I wanted to avoid the mirror, the lights, and the dressing room, three nouns with which my anxiety loved to party.
The seventh pair of jeans did not fit. I had to yank them over my hips and thighs; I could barely sit on the bench without the seams ferociously digging into my flesh and crying for me to breathe. I sucked my breath in to spite my body instead, forcing it to eliminate the stubborn fat filling over the buttons for a split second. I ought to have tried on a larger pair of jeans; they hung neatly next to the jeans I selected on the rack, but I didn’t approve of the size and refused to give in.
My face darkened, and stubborn tears perched themselves precariously on my lashes, awaiting permission to meet my cheeks. I loathed my body and needed it to feel my rage for betraying me. I leaped off the bench of the dressing room and threw my taught fists in front of me; my knuckles showed white under the lights. I barely hesitated before I angrily punched the soft flesh of my belly numerous times. Each punch packed enough force to redden my skin, and when I thought it red enough, I dropped my hands in defeat.
I ripped the jeans off my legs and changed back into my loose gym shorts and sweatshirt. I let myself out of the dressing room only when my face lightened, and I could tell my mom the jeans just didn’t fit. All that remained of my emotional upheaval later that evening was a sullen girl eating her tiny salad, and the subtle bruises decorating her belly. I had barely turned 15 when I assaulted my body the first time, and unfortunately, it would happen again.
This hate didn’t start as hate; it masqueraded itself more subtly as a 7th-grade realization, thanks to the introduction of volleyball spandex and a fitted ballet leotard. I had to select a larger size in both this year while my friends remained comfortable in their extra smalls. I always wore clothing a size or two larger than my friends as my genes lent themselves to broad shoulders and hips and muscular legs. I failed to take notice of this until I found myself nervously changing in locker rooms and unable to share clothes with friends. I thought I’d look Hulk-like and shred their clothing down the center if I tried to fit into their shirts; meanwhile, they’d all drown in mine. I held my breath every time I peeled the black spandex over my legs; I convinced myself the tight fabric magnified my thighs in an unflattering way, and soon sat at the edge of creaky bleachers and chairs so they wouldn’t swell to fit the seat.
Stitched into the seams of my ballet leotard you’ll uncover a similar story. Around this time, my friends began to quit ballet in favor of school sports. I was never the best dancer, but I worked diligently to match the skill set of the better dancers. When I grew into my body and discovered I couldn’t stuff it into the classic ballerina mold, I felt devastated. I convinced myself my leotard fit a little too well. The fabric stretched thin against my skin, and I did not like the lack of comfortable slack left to the ribbons of my skirt. My self-esteem took a severe dive. As much as I didn’t care to be the best ballerina, I refused to be the chubby ballerina with my thick arms filling out over the thin elastic straps. I refused to be the ugly ballerina when my stage makeup could not hide my full face. All these erroneous thoughts eventually pushed me to quit ballet because my 15-year-old self failed to comprehend that filling out a larger leotard did not make me a failure.
I didn’t necessarily dislike the volleyball spandex or the leotard; I hated the size I required to wear them; the attention I paid to the sizes of my athletic wear soon extended to the attention paid to all my clothing. My size and anxiety held on tightly to one another, rising and falling together. Instead of swapping clothes with my friends, I set off to the side and frequently looked down at my belly and hips. I mentally calculated the few extra pounds accumulated there and asked myself what I needed to do to rid myself of them. I wanted my 15-year old belly to match the concave bellies of my friends, to measure perfectly perpendicular to the floor I sat on. To add to the particular torture I alluded to earlier, I grabbed a fistful of belly fat for tangible evidence of the issue.
I wish the small amount of belly fat I clenched in my fist that day mirrored the size of my battle with my body. Unfortunately, I battled my weighty demons for years. I continued to gain a few pounds every year in high school. I never carried more than 12 extra pounds, and I enjoyed healthy foods and exercise, but no equilibrium existed; I rode a terribly emotional roller coaster. Whether I experienced a peak or valley of the roller coaster depended on what the scale read that week, how well I calculated my daily calorie intake, and if I could fit into a smaller pair of pants. Every dressing room offered itself as a checking point where I’d analyze how well I handled the roller coaster.
This roller coaster did not end in a couple of minutes with a rush of adrenaline and a wind-swept smile across my face. Several times a month, I found myself curled up and crying in front of the full-length hallway mirror. I tried on 76 pieces of clothing and tossed aside each of the 76 when I convinced myself they all made me look fatter. Ultimately, I decided not to go out because I loathed how I looked. I recounted every calorie I consumed that day to determine where I strayed, crawled to the scale to see if it showed, and then binged my feelings away. Since I had already damaged my diet by indulging in an extra piece of bread or a handful of trail mix earlier that afternoon, what might a few more snacks do?
I went to bed uncomfortably full and distracted, but uncomfortable I probably deserved. I would lie there restless and unable to fathom why I kept opening the snack drawer that evening. I would lie there with a trembling hand on my bloated stomach, but too exhausted to take out my rage on it. I would lie there with a knot in my chest that barreled through to my shoulders, temples, and eyes. I would lie there and promise myself I would change my ways by the time the sun rose the next day.
Beside me on the nightstand lay a to-do list of things to remember. I listed the regular assignment due dates and emails to answer, but at the top of the list every night, I scrawled in all caps DIET AND EXERCISE or LOSE WEIGHT. On days I felt an extra-heavy dose of anxiety, I bullet-pointed a list of restrictions to apply to my diet: no dairy, no sugar, and so on. The following day, I rose with the list in mind and upon entering the bathroom, immediately lifted my t-shirt to expose my tummy in the mirror. I frantically searched for any evidence of last night’s binge before anything else. I performed this little trick every morning following a binge, then proceeded to down a ton of water and coffee to suppress my appetite and start the day off right.
Through high school graduation and a few years into college, I restricted my diet one day and binged the next. To punish myself for binging, I exhausted myself by running for an hour and a half on the treadmill or throwing myself on the carpet to do 100 sit-ups and push-ups. If I didn’t feel my muscles twitch under stress, I had not worked hard enough. When the treadmill timer rung loudly at 90 minutes, I pleaded with myself and God and every other grand being and spirit to at least look better than I felt.
I had obsessive, all-consuming thoughts that begun when I chose my breakfast at 7:00 am and lasted till I went to bed and analyzed every morsel of food that passed my lips. From the spoonful of vanilla coffee creamer to the dill pickle aside my sandwich to the single red MnM offered by the 6-year-old boy I babysat; nothing went unnoticed. My mind began to close in on itself; I felt suffocated and unable to catch my breath. Despite all of this, I could not imagine breaking the cycle because I would have to have an honest conversation with the woman in the mirror.
I would also have to have an honest conversation with my family and friends. Instead, I lamented about my body issues to them, but remained selective about what I shared. I complained, shed a few frustrated tears, and then abruptly stop talking so they would not feel tempted to pry. When they did ask a question, my mom once asked me if I had ever purged my food, I became defensive and demanded why they thought I had issues. I never purged my food. I never endured an anorexia or bulimia diagnosis, and I felt sympathetic to those that did, thanking God I didn’t have to add my name to the list.
My parents and siblings never made negative comments about my body. We all enjoyed healthy meals and exercise, and they never partook in my body-bashing sessions. They fought tirelessly to make me feel better by telling me how strong I looked, and how everyone’s bodies had a different build. They too had things they didn’t like about their bodies, but I rolled my eyes. They could not loathe their bodies more than I did mine. I envied my little sister because she could eat all the brownies she wanted and not gain an ounce, but if I smelled the brownie mix, the scale swung up 12 pounds. I hated that our bodies did not mirror each other despite sharing blood; even though she had no control over it. I felt God gifted her the pretty body and punished me by giving me the ugly body. Her refusal to indulge me with this argument only fueled my anger. I had no one to blame but myself.
I cannot pinpoint the moment when things began to get better, and I do not know what prompted the change, just that I welcomed it. It happened so slowly sometimes I didn’t think I’d ever feel better. I stumbled upon a hot yoga studio while a university student and on a whim decided to drop in for a class. I felt strange and awkward; I had never done yoga like this before and wondered why I wanted to sweat more by exercising in an 88-degree room. By the end of the class, I had fallen in love. The music coupled with the encouraging voice of the instructor. The relaxed vibe and primary focus on breathing.
Moreover, the fact that yoga, in many ways, brought me back to my childhood dance days all had an incredible effect on me. Only this time, I did not have to wear a leotard and no uncomfortable spotlight shown down. I could disappear into the middle of the group without an eye on or word spoken to me, and give myself over to the yoga mat. I became obsessed and attended a class almost every day. At first, I went so often because I thought I’d see results more quickly, but eventually, it turned into an essential part of my routine to work through my anxiety and maybe like myself a little more.
My anxiety slowly began to ebb, and my strength came back, I started to see muscles I did not even know I had. Again, the change did not occur overnight; I still dealt with bouts of self-loathing and a restricted diet, but these bouts became less frequent. Yoga is hard, and I felt out-of-place most days, but I cannot underscore the peace it gave back to me. With this peace of mind, I began eating and exercising more healthily. More importantly, I let myself enjoy that damn Mint Chip Ice Cream without regretting it. I lost a little weight and gained a little muscle and mental clarity. Who knew letting myself live a little and enjoy dessert would affect positive change? More than any hour I spent scrawling down my calories or running on a treadmill going nowhere.
This peace of mind also provided me the necessary mental distance I needed to see the damage I had done for just that and begin to move forward. I finally confronted that woman in the mirror. Denial was easy for me; the self-directed apology was not. I am my own worst critic, and I punished my body when it didn’t respond how I wanted it to. However, I have since worked to fire the critic and have steadily worked on an apology:
Dear body
I’m sorry for forcing you to wear jeans that didn’t fit because I thought I would like you more if you could fit into a smaller size.
I’m sorry for taking my fists to you and thinking I was justified because it was just me I hurt, and no one else.
I’m sorry for thinking my battle had only hurt me; it did not. I hurt all those that loved me whom I thought knew nothing of my struggle but knew it all.
I’m sorry for denying you the nutrients you needed so I could feed my ego.
I’m sorry for exhausting you on the treadmill for way too long as punishment for merely enjoying dessert.
I’m sorry for giving into the game of comparison and feeling you should look like all the perfectly curved and muscled bodies on the magazines.
And lastly, I’m sorry refusing to thank you for all that you allow me to do. From running and hiking mountains to finally getting into Crow pose in yoga. Hell, for simply housing a healthy heart and set of lungs, and for forgiving me when I enjoy too many scoops of ice cream.
I’m sorry for thinking you could not bounce back.
I’m sorry I hated you.
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So the summer season has now passed, and I’ve curled back into my favorite sweaters and jeans. But this time, not to mask a few extra pounds or my anxiety or this story.
Now back to regularly scheduled programming with more episodes free of tears, anxiety, and this many words.