I hate my body. Historically, we’ve never really gotten along. But it’s bigger than it’s ever been, so things are not good.
This hate is not new.
It’s been lingering since high school. Sometimes waiting in the wings and sometimes playing the lead.
My eyes are too close together, and my boobs are too far apart (and saggy and uneven).
My hair is so thin and fine. I can’t figure out how to fix it. Someone please teach me how to make a messy bun.
My arms stay hidden as often as possible. Sleeves are safer.
My stomach has grown disproportionately to the rest of me. I’m able to mostly hide that. But I’ve never been that girl who knows how to ‘dress for my body.’ To make its largeness look good and stylish.
My thighs rub together uncomfortably when I wear skirts or dresses.
I bite my nails.
I’m not asking for much. Just to be average.
But I hate my body.
I have a daughter.
The body I hate grew her perfectly.
It would kill me if she hated her body.
I would never let her know how much I hate mine.
“Mommy, your tummy is big.” “Yes baby. It is!”
What if she loves candy and soda and fast food.
And what if she doesn’t know how to control that love.
And what if it owns her.
And what if she hates her body.
I hate that she might hate her body.
I hate that she might want to hide every flaw like I do.
I hate my body. And I don’t know how to stop.