My Body (A Poem About Dieting, Self-Hate, & Self-Acceptance)
TW/CW: A poem about being put on a diet at a young age and the impact of being fat shamed by the adults in my life.
Seven. My first diet.
Shakes and pills I can still remember the taste of.
The way it felt to not eat real food until dinner.
Shakes and pills for breakfast. Shakes and pills for lunch.
But not for dinner. Just regular food. But less of it.
Seven. And I was hungry.
Not because there wasn't enough.
Because you said I needed to lose weight.
You said I had to hide my body.
"You need to do something now, while you're young."
But being young didn't change a thing.
We laid on the floor side by side.
"Suck in your stomach, like this."
I watched and did it, too.
It almost felt like a game just for us.
Too fat to have a stomach that showed.
But inside, only hate.
Hate. Hate my body. Hate food.
Maybe hate you. Just a little.
"Pull up your pants. Tuck in that belly."
I did that, too. I knew. Fat was bad.
Fat on the arms, especially if it jiggled.
The stomach. The thighs. The face. Everywhere.
Fat was bad. Fat was ugly.
I was bad. I was ugly.
"Look at that fat woman. I hope I never get that big."
You don't remember saying it. Of course you wouldn't.
But it's been burned into my mind.
A fire I can never fully extinguish.
Every comment. Every time you overate and I watched.
But credit where credit is due.
You're not the only one who broke me.
He did, too.
"You're a glutton," he said like it was nothing.
Because I wanted seconds on Thanksgiving.
Shame over every bit of food that passed my lips.
Every fat cell in my thighs.
Terrified over every calorie, every gram, every pound.
That's you, but it won't be me.
You're on a new diet and can't have your favorite coffee creamer.
It's all self-imposed bullshit.
Because no one ever told you how beautiful you are.
As you are.
How perfectly perfect your body is because it works.
It holds your soul. And you have a good one.
And my body is strong and holds mine.
My body is the same one that held my husband on our wedding night.
The strength of my body holds every tear, every eyelash.
Every scar that reminds me where I came from.
I'm getting older.
I have more wrinkles today than I did yesterday.
More cellulite.
More hair in odd places.
But it still holds me tight and keeps me warm at night.
It's not perfect, but it's mine.
It has had to suffer through every diet.
Every heartache over a partner who said goodbye.
All the self-loathing that created a desperation for love.
So strong that it might have killed me someday.
I have cut into the flesh, pushed through hunger to lose one more pound.
But my body stays. Constant. Always with me.
And the memories I make today are possible because my body is with me.
Seven. My first diet. I was too young.
But there never is a right age for that.