Member-only story
Body Checking
~2014
I glanced at my reflection in my full-length bathroom mirror and quickly looked away, repulsed by what I saw. My arms were fat, I thought. And I hated more than anything how stubbornly my stomach resisted the concave shape I was trying so hard to attain. I adjusted my stance so my thighs wouldn’t touch and absent-mindedly caught a piece of stomach flesh between my thumb and middle finger. I was secretly grateful for the cold fall weather that made chunky sweaters and thick scarves reasonable wardrobe choices. I combed my hair and lightly painted my face with makeup: eye liner, mascara, blush, powder, lipstick. Before turning out the bathroom light, I gently lifted my sweater, checking to make sure my stomach hadn’t shifted shape in the last ten minutes.
What anyone else would have seen was a young, thin woman. Short brown hair, blue eyes, a sharp face, jutting collarbones. Visible ribs. Bony arms. Many would label her “beautiful,” “fit,” or “healthy.”
What I saw was something entirely different. Someone with weight to lose, someone with large arms and a fat face. Soft corners that required tightening and taming and constant measuring. What I saw needed fixing. Negative thoughts about my body, and myself, hung heavily around my neck, constantly. I found things wrong with my body and checked them incessantly, afraid that my body would grow, willing it to shrink…