Please don't tell me I look thin

I remember it very vividly. I’m in fifth grade when I notice the way my belly sticks out. I can’t say why I see it now and never before, but I can’t un-see it. And I hate it. Round, plump. Childlike. Determined to make it go away but still blessedly unfamiliar with the language of dieting, I try to simply suck in my breath, tucking my little extra belly into itself. I find that it’s a delicate balance to suck in enough to look flat, but not so much you get short of breath. Sometimes I forget and I notice the roundness protruding when I glance down. It requires constant vigilance.

I’m twelve when I start my first diet.

I’m thirteen, trying on bathing suits with my mother. I come out of the dressing room and she says “Yep, you have my thighs.”

At fourteen I lay in bed in tears, clawing at the circle of pudge around my belly, and vow not to eat for a week. The only thing that can make me hate myself more than I do in that moment is when I eat dinner a day and a half later.

Sixteen: I craft elaborate ‘zero net calorie’ diet and exercise plans with the help of a fun new weight loss app. I say, “I’m getting healthy,” instead of “I’m getting skinny.” I’m hungry all the time. I learn a lot of nutrition facts, like how many calories are in a stick of gum.

Nineteen: I’m at a friend’s graduation party. I can’t say no to the cake. And I try, I really do, but it’s like an out of body experience. I actually watch myself accept the cake, say thank you, and attack it like a ravenous hamster with a tiny burrito. As soon as I regain control I’m in the bathroom retching over the toilet. It’s the first time I’ve done that.

So yeah, I wouldn’t say I have An Eating Disorder, specifically, but my eating has pretty much always been disordered.

My experience is not important because it’s unique (it’s really, really not) or even especially dramatic (it’s not). It’s important because it is the context in which I view my body and it’s very painful. It shapes the lens through which my image passes every time I look in the mirror, or see a photo of myself. It is the filter through which every compliment or criticism passes. It’s the residual guilt I feel when eating carrot cake, and the unshakable compulsion I have – to this day – to walk around my own house with my breath half held in for maximal tummy flatness.

I’ve basically accepted that the factors that influenced the way I grew into my body as a young girl are not going anywhere. The fashion and entertainment industry is going to continue insisting their army of size zero, 5’10”, light-skinned women are a reasonable and healthy representative sample from which to shape our collective global understanding of The Ideal Female; fat shaming will continue unabated from all quarters; fad dieting will continue to find easy prey in women whose very insecurity makes them most vulnerable to the destruction these diets invariably cause.

What I find difficult to swallow is when shame and pain about my body is triggered by those closest to me.

Coming home for a family reunion and hearing from twelve different smiling relatives that, “Sweetie, you look so thin!”

Friends taking it upon themselves to tell me that they’ve noticed how good I’m looking recently – always just a little too quick to add, “like, not that she didn’t look good before… just, well, like, you know, maybe you've lost a little weight or whatever.” Having my lunch evaluated by every coworker who passes by as I’m eating – “wow, so healthy – good for you!” – their voices tinged with the kind of congratulatory admiration usually reserved for the recently sober.

I know that in many ways it probably seems logical that a woman with lots of image issues wants constant reassurance that she is achieving her aspirational body. And there is certainly a voice in my head that whoops gleefully every time I receive a weight loss related compliment. It is the same voice that still reminds me daily how disgusting my cellulite is and still suggests regularly that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to just, you know, stop eating for a while.

I often spend a significant part of my day arguing with that voice, trying to convince it that no one actually takes note of the subtle roundness that grows and melts away in my face and hips as I fluctuate ten pounds here, five there. But I never sound very convincing, even to myself, and the instant a well-meaning uncle asks approvingly if I’ve been working out lately, the voice becomes so smug and self-satisfied that it doesn’t even have to say I told you so.

What I wish more people (and men, especially) understood is that for many, many women a compliment is not simply a compliment. It is an unneeded reminder that our appearance is under constant surveillance. It is too often a reinforcement that the constricting beauty norms we have spent so long trying to eschew for kitschy benchmarks like “health” and “self-love” are in fact the first – and maybe only – thing that anyone really notices anyway.

And underlying this is a much darker fear: that our adherence to a very narrowly defined ideal of beauty is the one thing that will be allowed to define us as women, as individuals, as people. That our accomplishments will never matter as much as the amount of space between our thighs, or a letter on the tag of our underwear.

I cannot begin to communicate the horrifying helplessness of this fear.

If you want to compliment the women you love (and compliment them you should) I would challenge you to ask yourself, what is it really that makes these women beautiful? What makes them unique? Is it her eyes – the bright flecks of gold right at the edge of the brown? The way that the lines at the edge of her mouth make it seem like she’s been smiling all her life? The warmth of her laugh? The strength of her convictions?

All I can say for damn sure is it’s not a number on a scale or a tag or a calorie log or a BMI index. These numbers are the cage we’ve been told to live in all our lives.

She doesn't believe she's beautiful

She is uncomfortable with compliments, because she never believes them. She avoids having her picture taken, because she knows she’s going to hate the way she looks. And when someone actually sneaks a shot in, she untags the photos of herself, because she doesn’t think she looks as pretty as the people around her.

This girl is beautiful. But she doesn’t realize it. When she looks in the mirror, her eyes skim past her strengths to focus on her flaws. They zone in on her insecurities.

It’s not like she’s never been told that she’s beautiful before. She has been — by friends, by family members, by strangers that pass her on the street and offer their smiles.

Some of these people have asked her out. They’ve tried to get her into bed. They’ve looked her in the eyes and told her how gorgeous she is.

Boys like her. But not the boy. And his opinion is the only one that matters.

As long as she’s living life without him, she won’t feel good about herself. She’s looking for love in the wrong place. She’ll keep chasing the one boy that doesn’t want her instead of looking around and seeing that there are dozens of others that realize her worth.

For some unknown reason, her heart wants the boy that makes her feel ugly. The boy that refuses to give her the one thing she needs. Confidence.

But boys aren’t the only reason she feels unattractive. She won’t let her self-worth rest entirely in the hands of men.

She’s too hard on herself. She lets one little thing destroy her self-esteem. If she likes how she did her makeup, she’ll only be proud for a second, because as soon as she tries to take a selfie and it doesn’t come out well, she’ll be convinced that she’s ugly. That she doesn’t look as good as she thought. That the mirror was lying to her and she’s secretly a monster.

She doesn’t want to care about social media, to be sucked into an online charade, but she can’t help how she feels. If she uploads a selfie and no one likes it, she’ll scramble to take it down. To erase it from existence and hope that nobody realizes what she’s done.

She’ll actually be embarrassed of a photo that she originally loved, because it didn’t get enough approval. Because the likes were too low.

She knows that it’s crazy to care so deeply about social media or mirrors or dating, but she does. She wants to be pretty. She wants to turn heads. And most importantly, she wants to be comfortable with herself. She wants to stop waking up and wishing she was someone else.

And she tries. She tries so hard to see herself in a positive way. She can see the beauty in every other woman that walks by, but she’s blind to her own beauty. She doesn’t realize how stunning she is. She never has.

She can’t magically change her self-hatred to self-love and her self-criticism to self-acceptance. But every single day, she’s trying to silence that voice that tells her she isn’t good enough. That she isn’t pretty enough.

And slowly but surely, she’ll see what everyone else sees. A beautiful girl that deserves everything the universe has to offer her.

You are only human

You are only human.

So when you are hurting, tell yourself this. That you are only human. You are not made up of metal that refuses to break. You are not made up of concrete, that can withstand the strongest of storms. You are not made up of the harshest wind that can knock down even the strongest of foundations. You are allowed to take a break. You are allowed to feel.

And when you are feeling sick with heartache, tell yourself this. You are only human. You have one brain, one heart, two hands, and ten fingers. You ware made to produce salty tears when your heart feels to weak to keep on going. You are made to feel with every bone in your body. You are supposed to ache with loneliness. You are supposed to feel everything that is terrible and everything that is beautiful.

Because you are only human.

And when you feel like you can’t go on any longer, when you feel like you can’t live another day, please remember this. You are only human. You break, you bleed, you bend, and you crack open. And yes, you are not made up of bricks that refuse to fall even during the darkest of hurricanes.

But, please, know this. You are made up of water, of the sea, that can drown the most terrible of feelings. You are made up of currents that can cleanse your soul of your darkest thoughts.

We say we are only human, and that we are weak because we are breakable. But my dear, we all break sometimes, but we always can find a way to be reborn.

You have lungs that work day in and day out to give you inhales and exhales that you don’t even have to think about. You have bones, that protect your every muscle, enclosing your body in a safe haven. You have one heart that pumps blood throughout your body, and you have your brain, that makes you, you.

You are human. But you are so much more than that. Because you see, while your bones and heart can break, while your lungs can weaken and your muscles can grow weary of this life that you live, your heart still beats. Your cells will still be reborn. Your lungs will still move in and out, no matter how tired you have become. Your bones will heal on their own, slowly but surely. And your body will begin again.

So while you are just a human, you are stronger than any natural disaster, than any army of wolves, than any man made metal, and than any tornado. Your body will keep working, even when you don’t want it to. Your body will keep you awake, even when you just want to sleep forever. And your body will keep cheering you on, even when your heart has dropped to the ground in despair.

So when you feel like you can’t keep walking, when you feel like life isn’t worth living, and when you think that you aren’t worth another day on this earth, just remember that you are human. Remember that you are mighty. You are the vision of strength and endurance even when you feel like throwing in the towel. And remember that you are beautiful, you are beautiful with all of your flaws and insecurities, even if you can’t see it now.

Sweet human, you are a masterpiece of cells and bones and heartbeats. You are nothing short of a miracle, because you are here, breathing in this air and this life. You are nothing short of perfection, because you are your very own person.

You are stronger because you are human. You are stronger because you have strengths and weaknesses, and you have insecurities and marks etched into your skin. You are stronger because you can break, and still get up the next day. You are stronger because you can die, and be reborn again. And you are stronger because after all of the time, you wake up each day and continue to climb this slippery slope that is your life. And you must know, that you are worthy of waking up each day, and breathing in this beautiful and crazy world.

So please, don’t stop climbing. Don’t stop breathing. Don’t stop living. Keep on going. Keep on walking. Don’t stop trying. Don’t stop inhaling. You are worth today. You are worth tomorrow. You are worth, a beautiful, masterpiece of a life. And you are worth giving yourself a shot to do more, to be more, and live a better life. 

Change how you react

So much of life is dependent on how we choose to react to what happens to us.

Each day, we subconsciously choose how things will affect us. In positive moments, it’s so effortless for us to be happy. Yet, the moment something doesn’t work out the way we intended, we automatically shift back to the negative.

Change how you react to the things that didn’t work out the way you intended.

That job/internship/position you wanted and didn’t get? Realize that maybe this is your life steering you towards another direction where a new opportunity will arise.

That person who didn’t love you back? Recognize that they are not in a point in their lives where they are capable of giving you the love you deserve.

That bad day you had at work? Acknowledge that this is a case of mind over matter. Was it really that bad of a day? Or, did you let one little incident ruin the entire day?

Our society as a whole is so inclined to think negative. What if this happens? What if that happens? What if this isn’t good enough? So many times, I overhear people complaining about this, that, and the other thing. Yes, things happen in life, but negative thinking will only cultivate more negative occurrences.

It’s in your hands. You can choose to stay down, burying yourself in a deeper hole by telling yourself you’re not good enough or that only bad things happen to you.

Or, you can be upset about it for a little and then change your thinking. Acknowledge that you can move forward. Establish how you can make things better or what else you have going for you in the moment.

Your reaction is everything. It says more about your outlook on life than anything else. I’m not saying this is easy because it’s not. In fact, it’s a day-by-day process, but so much of our lives are impacted by our thinking.

When things don’t work out, don’t look at it in a negative light. Instead, look at it as a “shift” in your life. A “shift” to something or someone new.

A positive attitude will give you a positive life.

A negative attitude will give you a negative life.

It seems so simple yet, we make it so hard. Change how you react to situations and you will change your life. 

Living with Ana

There is a voice living inside my head and it’s making me knock on Death’s door.

It tortures me every waking day — pushing me to run on the treadmill for an hour just so I could burn those calories I have gained for eating that goddamn apple for lunch, making me ditch all my plans with anyone just because I still have to do a hundred push-ups, and filling me with a furious desire to lose more than just my weight. This little demonic voice that always finds its way to my head is called Ana.

She penetrated me without preamble. I have no idea how or why she was born and I’m not sure when she arrived, either. All I know is that she made her nest in me. She huddled inside my head — made roots in every part of me and now, my body is possessed.

Ana is everywhere. Her perfect silhouette followed me wherever I go — in the kitchen, looking at me with disgust as I stare intently on the freshly baked cookies in the oven.  Inside the bathroom, eyes fixed on me as I strip, mocking me for the body that I have, laughing at me for not making my bones stick out, and whispering that food is evil. Her voice was so low, yet so trident. She nourished herself from my dark thoughts, from my biggest fears.

The smell of burning ginger and cloves reminded me of my fate. Of how different I was from a normal teenager. Flashes of disgust can be seen right through my eyes and it’s becoming more visible day by day.  Ana flourished and I felt her inside me.

She blocked my veins with filthy words and I could hardly breathe. I lived with her. No, scratch that, I survived with her.

Ana was no friend, but a pretentious bitch companion. She fed me with lies and tricked me into believing that I deserve every filthy word there is. I drank her remarks and wept. Ana grew — like a flower watered with my tears.

The frustration brought by her presence was killing me and the pressure to be perfect was destroying me, in any way one could be destroyed.

I completely have no idea on how to cut her roots out of my body. I don’t know if there is a way I could drag her from my rotting form to the deepest, darkest depths of hell. Because every time I think I got rid of her, well, it turns out I’m wrong.