Just a warning… this isn’t a positive message about my body. Don’t read it if you don’t want. Just FYI.
I miss the way my stomach felt taut under my hands when I ran them up lightly across the skin. It felt pure and simple, just the necessities. None of the soft fleshiness I feel now, the rounded corners and the creases and curves. It sounds so stupid, so cliché, so ED, but there was something so very comforting about being pared down to the essence of a body shape, skin and muscle over bone. Now I feel this extra, this unnecessary, these parts that move and shift and don’t cling tight and taut.
Sometimes when I run my hands over my stomach now and there is much to grab and ply. I wrap my legs around each other and soft, plush parts press and rub, expand and spread. I miss the way my body seemed and felt aerodynamic, how every movement felt defined and clean. Now I wobble, I rub, parts bounce and flop.
There is no way to get back to there in the way I want it to. My brain flies to that summer away, the way those round parts melted slowly into a person-shaped person. But I can’t go back to that, and I shouldn’t go back to that. Aching for it breaks my heart, and just makes each moment worse. I am trying to love myself, trying to allow the shifts in shape and the roundness in my flesh, but I yearn for that lithe body. I yearn for that feeling of purity, self-sufficiency, solidity. There was something about feeling like that, looking like that, that let me off the hook. No one thought “oh, she should be thinner to fit her type,” “why is she eating all that?” or “that girl is not thin.” I could eat, and be, and cut myself some slack because I was in a perfect form—no excess, no mistakes.
Now, I feel like every failing, every error, every slight, every part I don’t get, every calorie I put into my mouth, every bad feeling that washes over me is digested and sticks, gummy, to my thighs, to my stomach, to my arms, my hips. I am covered in the thick, viscous fat of sadness, of self-hatred, of loneliness, of anger. I want to shave it off, even if it’s bloody and foul, and strip myself of those feelings that feed on me and grow fat and full of fluid.
It’s not what I should want, it’s not what I want to want, but I do. I want to be a body without extra, without bits that bulge out, the fat that drips with “I am flawed and imperfect and unrestrained and emotional.” I want a body that is nothing more than the physical pieces it takes to stand, to move, to sleep.