Body Dysmorphia is a Bitch

The almost daily dispatch is coming to you from my cluttered desk, in my cozy home perched on the edge of the world. The very peek-a-boo view of the vast Pacific Ocean on this beautiful Easter Sunday is glittering on the horizon as the sun starts to set. My belly is full; we just had dessert. Warmed angel food cake with sugared berries and fresh whipped cream. My honey makes the best homemade whipped cream.

On the corner of this cluttered desk sits a photo from a lifetime ago. I keep it there not as a map to get back to that size, but as a reminder of how long I’ve been traveling.

The physical print is damaged—speckled with old chemical burns that have started to rust the memory—but I don’t hide it. For a long time, that’s how I saw my own history: as something marked by things I couldn’t control.

Defective.

Broken.

Four years ago, I was only just beginning to make peace with the food inside my belly. 2022 was the year the ceasefire truly began. It was the year I turned 50. As the New Year’s Eve fireworks subsided, I made a promise to myself: this was the year.

This was the year I was going to make myself a priority.

This was the year I was going to get radically honest with myself.

This was the year I was going to allow myself to be vulnerable.

This was the year I was going to ask for help and accept it.

This was the year I would look back on and recognize as a moment of profound change. Little did I know just how significant this year would become.

My earliest recollection of losing control over food was during my mid-teen years. During a brief afternoon at home alone, I binged on anything and everything I could get my hands on, desperate to numb the pain. I can still feel the humiliation that resides in the deepest part of my vault. I was in junior high, rushing to class, wearing a pair of corduroy pants. The ribs of the fabric made that all-too-familiar sound as my thighs rubbed together—and he teased me relentlessly for it. When I was finally so full that his laughter no longer mattered, I forced myself to throw up. Binging and purging did not come easy to me, and I suppose that was a blessing in disguise.

Somehow, I had dodged becoming embroiled in abusing illicit substances or drinking myself into alcoholism. I bought one pack of cigarettes at 19 years old during finals week at the local community college. Virginia Slims—I thought I was so cool. But once that pack was gone, I never lit up again.

But food? Food was my best friend and my worst enemy.

From the moment my pants made that zip-zip sound in the junior high halls, I was acutely aware of my weight and my body shape. As I mentioned, my DNA runs straight through Germany and Norway, and my hips reflect my ancestral line. The women in my family are all fairly short and thick—built like a Brick House; “she’s mighty-mighty, just lettin’ it all hang out” (The Commodores, 1977).

A high school boyfriend, a few years older and one of the “cool kids,” made sure to remind me often that I had a “big ass.” At the time, I couldn’t fathom how I had hooked someone like him. I allowed him to dictate my outfits and my appearance. I learned to apologize for the size of my body and for the simple act of taking up space.

The mid-1980s into the early 1990s were particularly unkind to women. I “Sweated to the Oldies” with Richard Simmons and obsessively avoided fats. By the time Susan Powter showed up screaming at me to “Stop the Insanity!” I was already deep in the cycle. “Fats make you fat” was the going diet lore, and I followed it religiously. When I had the opportunity, I bought laxatives and used those as a means of a caloric purge, as I never got the hang of making myself throw up. I attended Jazzercize classes and counted calories—all before the age of 18.

At approximately 5 feet 3 inches and weighing around 160 pounds, I was never “skinny” by society’s standards. I worked in a men’s clothing store in the mall during my late teen years, and a customer once said to me, “Damn, girl, you are thick.”

As a member of the mayonnaise coalition, I had no clue that was a compliment. I just knew I was taking up more space than the world said I was allowed.

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This is Part One of a three-part series. Join me this Friday for Part Two: The Heavy Years—navigating a decade of expansion, reaching nearly 300 pounds, and fighting for my life while grieving my husband’s death.