Skip to main content

Purging

I’ve been so unhappy with my body recently. I can’t really figure it out. I’m eating fairly well, I haven’t gained any weight, my clothes still fit me…but for some reason every time I look in the mirror I look thick. And I don’t mean sexy black girl thick. I mean linebacker thick. Or just fat girl thick.
And it’s not even just that I feel fat. Today I forwent my usual padded push-up bra for my favorite lace underwire, which, although it doesn’t make my breasts look particularly large, makes them feel huge and fantastic. But today they just looked tiny, and flat, and then the rest of my torso as a result looked flabby and large. I’m still wearing the bra, but I feel awful.
And it’s not just my upper body. I mean, my hips and thighs have always been the biggest part of me, but usually I think they’re curvaceous and lately I think they’re just gargantuan. Somehow the subtle flow of their form, which used to be feminine and sexy, is now just heavy and cumbersome.
There's really no point to this post other than venting the icky feelings I've been experiencing lately. Rather than make myself vomit or take a razorblade to my thighs, I choose words as my release. Not that those other things don't appeal in the really bad times. Anyway, thanks for helping me purge the badness in a healthier way.

P.S. I feel obliged to mention that I’m never more inspired than when I feel shitty about myself, so I must apologize now for the fact that most of these posts are likely to err on the side of depressing/self-deprecating. You just have to trust me that I’m not always like this. In fact, I go through plenty of periods where I think I’m almost foxy. Well, almost.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

This book stuff is harder than it seems...

So as I think I may have mentioned, I have to write a book for my MA in Creative Nonfiction, and I decided to write a memoir about this whole GB experience, including childhood stuff and family dynamics in addition to the process of surgery and the mental and physical results of the change.  I thought it would be so easy.  I mean, I spend 90% of my time thinking about my body anyway, how hard could it be to put those thoughts down in the form of an interesting, structured narrative? NOT, that's how easy.  I haven't written one single word of the book, and I'm having a really hard time starting.  And the longer I put it off, the more afraid I am of failing at my goal to write a funny, frank narrative; I'm terrified it'll end up as a 'poor me' memoir, and I'll have proven my dad right in saying that this project is self-indulgent and useless.  And that's not the only surprise stumbling block... When I tell people what I'm writing about, they al...

Nothing tastes as good as thin feels?

That old Upper East Side adage has been running through my mind all week. Ever since I got my visa to go back to London and started counting down the days I had left of fresh, delicious California cuisine. I recently got to within a couple pounds of my goal (well, not my goal weight, but my goal of getting below a certain hated number), and now I’m struggling with a very difficult decision: to eat or not to eat? I have an opportunity here. I could be below the dreaded number by the time I leave for London, if I’m willing to give up all badness and only eat healthy, low-calorie foods like vegetables sans olive oil and salads with no cheese or nuts. But then I would be sacrificing my last week of yumtastic treats like Trader Joes Mini Peanut Butter Cups and delicious grilled asparagus with olive oil and steak, glorious steak! Maybe the choice would be easier if I had a point of reference, but I’ve never been thin, so I have no idea how it feels. What I do know is that a lot of thing...

I'm telling.

It’s weird. My scars haven’t even faded yet, except in miraculously transparent patches, and I’m already forgetting they exist. Now, when I raise my arms to tie up my hair (something I would never have done in public just a year ago) and the man at the next table looks at me a little too long, I feel an urge to make sure I’ve shaved my armpits. It’s only when I not-so-slyly slide my fingers into my shirt that I feel the abnormally smooth stripe of skin and realize what the man was staring at. And I’m so much less strict about hiding them. Last week at work I wore a sleeveless dress and one of the nurses asked about my scars, and I realized I hadn’t told anyone there about my weight loss and all my surgeries. Even the other receptionist, to whom I feel fairly close. And so I told the nurse, because I’ve always maintained that if I hide my history with surgery then I don’t deserve the benefits of the procedures. I promised myself that I wouldn’t be ashamed of my plastic surgery, a...