I am 11 years old, sitting on the scratchy paper cover of the table in the doctor’s office. It’s some dumb-ass dinosaur print that would probably entertain a 3 year old, but I’m eleven, thank you very much.
It’s 3 weeks before 6th grade starts, and I’m here for my yearly physical. My mother sits to my right in the wooden chair with the awful faded fabric cushion that’s been there far too long. Across from me is my pediatrician.
I’ve never liked this woman, she annoys the shit out of me. She rarely speaks to me directly, instead talking to my mother like I don’t fucking speaking English or something (no, I don’t swear at 11 years old, but that’s besides the point). She breaths heavily, and usually closes her eyes when she talks. I hate that.
She waddles in whenever I come in for an appointment; she is at least 50 pounds overweight and sits on the rolling chair the whole time, wiggling her way around the room.
Today she pulls out the folder with my medical records, and puts a paper with a graph on the top.
She points to a dot that’s outside of a curve on this graph and says, “This is Emily.”
Then she points to the curve that is the “Normal Age to Weight” ratio, “This is where she should be.”
My eyes get big. I feel ashamed. Abnormal. Wrong. I feel fat.
So it begins. I start wondering what I did wrong. How I got to be not-normal. How everyone must know that I am a fat-girl.
And even though I play three sports in school, get the lead roles in the school plays, bike to the basketball court every weekend for pick-up games, and spend my summers swimming, running, jumping off rocks, obviously I am doing something wrong.
And obviously this body is not the size-shape-weight it should be.
Shortly before I was diagnosed with being “fat.” (Nice hat, Ma)
16 years I try to fight my way into that curve of “normalcy” by controlling food and choosing to exercise to “burn it off,” or get the ass the fitspo memes say are sexy.
I’m so tired.
Tired of over-analyzing every bite of food. Tired of staring at my body in the mirror, poking at bits of flesh thinking “if this would just disappear…” So-fucking-tired.
On my 27th birthday, I gave myself a present. I’m not dieting anymore.
Not only am I not dieting anymore, I am no longer allowed to hate the one, strong, unique, beautiful (yes, beautiful) body I’ve been given.
No, it’s not easy. In fact it’s down-right effing HARD. I’m fighting the Fat-Demons in my head every god-damned-day. But you know what’s worse? Another 16 years of the other shit.
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How about you sexy-pants? When was the first time you were told your body was “wrong”? Tell me about it in the comments below, and then go tell that over-weight, mouth-breather-pediatrician to stuff that stupid graph you-know-where.