Monica’s struggles with body image
I get sad sometimes when I remember the fact that I am only given one life and with that one life, I have only been given one body. It makes me even sadder sometimes to think that I have to live this whole one life, with this body.
I have hated this body since I can remember.
I was eleven years old when I began my “diet”. I put it in quotes because I was never really much good at it. I began to run, which I hate to do, around my neighborhood for no other reason than to lose weight. Middle school was a time for me to realize I hate my body. High school is when I made bigger strides to fix this issue. I would eat carrots and broccoli all day and brag to my friends about how my hands would shake in class. I used to run back to my bag during lunch so my friends wouldn’t see mee take diet pills. Anything to look smaller.
I was 15 when I decided to get rid of the birthmark I had on my face. It was small, red, and rested right above my lip, shifted slightly to the left if you were looking right at me. I spent years hating it, blaming it entirely on the fact that I had to get a boyfriend. One day of having enough of it I went on google, looked it up, and somehow actually did it. I grabbed a needle, put it on the stove until it got hot and stabbed my little red mole. Burnt it right off. Then soaked it in Apple Cider vinegar. I don’t feel any prettier about it.
I can still remember the look on my friend’s face when I told her I was going to the bathroom to throw up. I couldn’t even do it when I go to the bathroom. I felt like everybody knew. I felt disgusting. I felt shame. Like some child who sticks her hand in her mouth and her face in the toilet. What am I talking about? Children don’t do that. Which only makes it abundantly clear as to how confused I am about how I feel, or why I do that.
A small red little mark began to form on my middle knuckle, eventually turning into a scab. It would flare red and every time I would throw up I would always have to walk to a more isolated bathroom so my coworkers wouldn’t hear me. I always have a system for it when I was at work. And the majority of the time it never failed me, all except that little red scab. Yelling out to everyone “Hey guys! This chick is truly fucked! She doesn’t even finish her meals if you know what I mean! *wink *wink.”
But the truth is no one ever noticed. I mean nobody ever noticed the cuts on your arms, why would they notice this? Do you want them to? And do I? Why go to a far bathroom, Why go through measures to hide it if I wanted someone to know? Did I want someone to grab me and tell me it was okay? To tell me I was alright, that I’m not disgusting? That I’m not ugly? That I’m not a bad person?
Maybe. And you’re probably thinking, “Well why don’t you do it? Why don’t you look in the mirror? You know what you want to hear!” And yeah I guess, but the thing is, that girl, over there, in the mirror, I don’t know her. And I’m not trying to be Tyler Durden on you, but she looks different.
She is a creation, a victim to all my anguish, guilt shame and fear. I have picked, prodded, stabbed, burned, and cut, and this time what I see looking back at me is not happier than I was in the beginning. I don’t think about how much I’ve hurt her. How much I’ve taken away from her. Each passing day becoming just a tad unrecognizable.
I guess I should try to get to know her.