#110 - A Letter to My Body
or: get in loser we're going healing
Content Warning: the following essay contains themes of suicidal ideation, fatphobia, eating disorders, and specific imagery related to bulimia. Please take care of yourselves!
Dear Body,
Hey babe.
I don’t really know how to start this.
I’ve never been that nice to you—but it was never your fault, I was just trying to fit in and everyone kept making fun of you so I joined in and I’m sorry.
You trusted me and I totally sold you out to seem cool, to seem like I got it.
They would hate me less if I made it known that I hated you enough, right?
I know that’s not a consolation, it’s almost somehow worse that we were both miserable the whole time in some ways I guess.
I’m sorry for starving you, and for wishing you’d go away. I’m sorry for feeding you and then taking it back.
I’m sorry I made you convulse every day. I’m sorry for being ashamed of myself after but somehow also blaming you for making me do it in the first place.
You never did anything wrong, okay? I know that now.
It wasn’t your fault.
And we all need food, it’s like a non-optional part of continuing to function through life.
It’s almost like I was gaslighting you, but I promise it wasn’t on purpose.
I was convinced of an untruth.
Everyone kept telling me the same thing. It was your fault, you were sneaky, you were somehow taking more than your share, and you must have been devious because how else would you explain the size discrepancy between you and everyone else?
I didn’t know how to love you, to thank you, because I thought life would be easier if you were fundamentally different, so it made being grateful impossible.
But you showed up every day anyway and carried me through the whole thing with grace.
And you always got me home.
Even if I crammed you into new shoes that rubbed and ripped your heels, or stuffed you into clothes that cut you and left you itchy or hot. The ones you warned me not to go out in and I ignored and then got frustrated by later—doubly so because I resented knowing that I should have listened to you in the first place.
And god, I used to get so mad at you for being hot. Sweaty and red and untannable.
I just wanted to fit in, and it felt like you were so determined to make me stand out. And then I would get flustered and you would think there was something wrong when really I just felt wrong and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for the shit I said when I did.
Thank you for the protection, thank you for the warmth, thank you for the function.
And I know you can do incredible things and move in beautiful ways and I just didn’t let you for years because one time someone else projected a bunch of their insecurities onto us and I took it out on you instead of standing up to them.
I’m sorry that your compliments were always caveated.
I’m sorry that you never got to just exist without comments about how life would be easier for me if there was less of you.
& when it wasn’t as easy as they promised, I blamed you.
I punished you, I grabbed you disdainfully and wished you would just magically vanish.
My future fantasies were ones where you had morphed unrecognizably. (That seems cruel to tell you now but you have to know I didn’t come up with it on my own.)
It made being excited to be myself impossible, because you were always there, and no one seemed to just let it go and let you be. There was always “advice” there was always “concern” and none of it was directed at themselves, and their behavior. They continually cast you as the bad guy, when all you’d ever done was exist in silence.
I guess your presence is just so loud it made it impossible for people to tamp down their urge to advise me on how to tame you.
There was never a suggestion of changing their own actions, of encouraging any kindness from others—no, it’s not the world that should become less cruel, it was you who they thought the cruelty would be too much to bear unchanged. That was the plan. They said it was for health and I believed them, but it was just a way to make themselves feel better.
And it never was all that efficient of a motivator for either of us, it turns out.
I mean, I tried the bad, I forced you to do the worst things in the hopes of dwindling your will. I committed to the extremes and I did them for years and I did them so well that no one ever seemed to really have a grasp at just how casual the forced convulsions had become. I don’t know what our recovery would have looked like if any of that terrible shit I was forcing you to do had worked. Like, I’m so sorry but I think it’s important to be honest—if we had been any better at hiding what was happening from the world, there’s a very real possibility you wouldn’t have survived. And I know the last few years have been weird because I loved you enough to stop but not enough to accept the reality of what recovery looked like, but I clung to that love as a lifeline because I knew it would keep me tethered to you.
I leaned into the good, and I applied all of their advice but couldn’t keep it going forever. And stopping felt like failure, and a lack of progress was the proof of a failing grade. So somehow it was your fault, even when I never really wanted to be doing that shit in the first place.
I just wanted to dance.
Why couldn’t they let us dance?
And when they didn’t, why did I punish you by taking it away? Why was I no better to you than the others?
Why couldn’t I just be bold, dance anyway, not worry about taking the space or “begging for attention by dancing bigger than the other girls”.
We were always going to dance bigger, and they hated that.
I’m sorry I caved, I’m sorry I left you alone to deal with it.
It was so weird that they resented you for being so good at the movements. Like the resentment was apparently just that you didn’t look the way they imagined. The reality somehow didn’t usurp the fantasy. And they didn’t like the worldview they had poured so much of themselves into challenged.
I used to say you were people’s worst nightmare, with no care for how it landed to refer to you as nightmarish.
I think I was just confused—but you knew they were being unfair, and I couldn’t acknowledge what you were saying because I had to make them think I was totally on their side.
It was fine when they relegated us to the back corner because I was just happy to be onstage. But you knew, and you drew the attention anyway, and then people said things that made no sense—like how they wanted to give us awards but there was discussion of “what message that would send”.
They said it so casually too—as if there wasn’t a very clear and more damaging message being sent to you.
But I guess that’s fine, that’s socially acceptable. We were the most talented ones, but to reward it would be to acknowledge that talent existed in a body they had deemed undesirable, and I hated you for it instead of getting mad at them.
It should have been us vs. the world, but instead, I made it so that it was the world vs. you.
They never said the grown cowboys were too heavy to ride horses, but somehow 11 year old you was a problem. To be dealt with in glances and hushed whispers. It didn’t matter how good our posture was or how delicate we tried to be, there was no changing a first impression.
I’m sorry it took me so long to understand that the most important relationship in my life was the one with you.
I’m sorry I kept you in proximity to people who wish you didn’t exist.
I’m sorry I thought that was the price of admission for love was cruelty.
I’m sorry I ever agreed with them. And like, I’m really sorry I tried to kill you to appease them.
I’m sorry that it always felt like I was developing skills in order to avoid the moments I could have stood up for you. But I just made you get better at taking photos rather than questioning why we weren’t invited to be in them.
And when you convinced me to be brave enough to ask for it, no one ever followed through. And that hurt you in a different way but I was just humiliated that I had even tried. And they never got what it meant, and I never pushed them to ask what it said about them.
I’m sorry I made you paranoid about consuming food in public. I’m sorry I made you order shit you didn’t want to eat in attempts to dissuade people from thinking they “got it”. I’m sorry your hunger cues were ruthlessly ignored for so long you hesitate to voice them now.
I’m sorry that you’ve always been a welcoming home full of admiration for the life I lead you through and I’ve just been so boiling with self-inflicted resentment I never stopped to appreciate all that you did and continue to do.
I’m sorry it took me so long to get here, but I promise I’ll spend every day doing better and trying my best because that’s what you deserve.
We’re going to do way more of the things you like to do because you’ve always guided me in the right direction when I shut up long enough to listen.
I’m going to keep buying you clothes that don’t squeeze, that don’t leave angry red impressions all over you at the end of the day. That you feel cool in, because you deserve to live in style and not just throw on baggy coverings.
I’m going to keep dry brushing you, and cleaning you, and making you foods you want to eat, and making choices that leave you feeling great, and I’m always going to make sure you have what you need to move through the world.
Thank you for taking care of me.
It’s my turn to take care of you.
Thank you for protecting me.
I promise to do the same.
I promise to take you dancing, and out to breakfast since that’s your actual favorite meal, I promise to protect your feelings instead of theirs. I promise to prioritize you.
I promise to never harm you on purpose again.
Sorry it took me so long to get here, but I appreciate the patience while I did.
Love.
Love love love,
Me.
p.s. we’re going to go dancing like soon soon. okay? pinky swear.
From the vault:
One year ago: #51 - If you give a girl a drill...
Two years ago: #9 - It's So Hot. Milk Was A Bad Choice.
Other musings on the body I live in: