hunger

If I were to happily divulge truth in its entirety, I would hear myself speak these coming words. I will never be happy with my body, in the condition it assumes, at any time I find myself in. The situation is irrelevant. In retrospect, I may admire the former figure—slap myself around for belittling or holding grudge to it, but I will never feel comfortable with it, never make friends by basis of its current appearance. It shames me, the recognition and yet acceptance of what I say. But it is what I have felt for years and where it once spiraled out of my control, I am and have made progress that surprises even me. And for that I look at myself in approval. This is a topic that can be and has been exhausted; a topic that on the surface bores me and I have no interest in paying attention to, whether under the umbrella of fashion, beauty or feminist esteem. Unless we engage in the historical, psychological or theoretical inspection of beauty, I have no concern or patience for its fuss or attraction. I have long since exhausted the issue and have had its infatuation projected on me in multiple mediums that the only way to remove my identification with it was to try and dismiss its seriousness altogether. Still, I struggle through it in contradiction. Advocating how imperfections are what make an individual perfect in their own right—and yet, hypocritically, shy away from my body for the imperfections that I subscribe to it. If I could throw other people under the bus, blame them instead of me, I’d admit that the stops on the street and compliments that should, supposedly, make a young woman’s day, leave me feeling more ill-fit and regretful of how my body actually measures out. It usually feels like pressure, instead of a breath of fresh air. Sure I could become a slave to my physique once again, but I have already done that (multiple times) and it is just a more “health-conscious” way of excusing an addiction. And, as we should all be able to collectively agree, addictions aren’t healthy, normal or interesting—nor can they live on safely through the span of your life. At times when I need an extra boost of motivation (if you will), I use myself. Because it has not even been a year since my weight of a little above 80, I will fall upon pictures that don’t seem plausible. How could it have been? How could I not have died? How could I have done that to myself and still remained strong and alive in so many other ways? And so, I am left to question reality and rely on energy that comes from within areas you do not even recognize you retain. This is, of course, as I said a much longer essay, reaction, reflection or confession but soaking yourself in the past for too long is not usually the most productive activity nor is this, in and of itself, the most comfortable read or review. But I will quickly and carefully say that watching others disappear, lose half of their size and thus themselves, right in front of my eyes will always make me want to reach out and shake them, tell them not a single moment is worth the extra thought, that these are the years to live your life. I have had to readjust my entire life to the self I am actively trying to be today—a self that acts against the control food once had, a self that is trying to make up for the youthful years lost. I always said that even if I could find someone to hate, I would never wish a weight issue upon s/he. I have lost energy, time, focus and happiness to something that should never have and never should define someone. Yet, it has defined me and because of that I will always consciously and unconsciously convince myself that it has helped me live deeper within myself and as a result, use something there, which would have gone missing. I am accepting the changes as they come (sometimes slowly and sometimes by the morning of a new day) and I hope everyone will let their changes come to them, rather them seeking or wishing them upon themselves.