reconstructing my body

(cw: this post discusses body image & weight)

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‘Don’t waste your life’s purpose worrying about your body. This is your vessel, it’s your house, it’s where you live.’ - Emma Thompson

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I’ve been thinking about this quote a lot recently, imagining that if my body were a house - what would it look like? Would I stand alone, surrounded by a lush garden, or be slotted between a row of others, held in place by stone. Does sunlight spill in, filling the rooms with its warmth, or must I rely on cold, overhead lighting to occupy the space? Do I require construction work, am I in need of an extension? The details are still a little blurry but one thing is for certain: there’s no leaving, I am stuck in this house forever.

The foundations of my corporeal home started to crack when I was 10 years old. On holiday with my parents, I found a set of scales in the hotel bathroom - something I had never seen before. For the remainder of that holiday, I weighed myself every morning and evening. I set goals for myself, feeling proud whenever the number shown was just one kilogram lighter, feeling ashamed and dejected when the numbers dared to increase. I can still remember the exact numbers in my head, even now. I don’t think a day has passed since then where I haven’t thought about my weight.

There are reminders everywhere. In the cafe where I work: women allowing themselves a small treat as a reward for ‘being good’ - the good in this case being depriving themselves of a basic human need: food. How upsetting that something which is so integral to our very survival, has become the source of our unhappiness. I watch them study the cakes on display, while an internal war wages within. I see a similar war rage within my mother, who for as long as I can remember has been trying to alter the appearance of her body’s house.

I do not wish to speak as if I am any different, as if somehow I am above these individuals whom I often observe. On the contrary, I too feel a sense of pride when I consume something that’s considered healthy, or when I avoid eating a sweet treat. I will never allow myself to starve, I will not let the walls of my house begin to crumble. Although, as time passes, won’t the stone naturally become weathered and gaunt?

Another quote comes to mind: ‘nothing tastes as good as skinny feels’. Iconic though it is, its sentiment leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I hate to admit that part of me agrees with such a horrible statement. Moss’ quote might as well be graffitied over my home’s exterior, tattooed onto my skin. I can’t help but admire and idolise the beautiful women you see in magazines, wishing that my home could be remodelled to look like theirs. Perhaps I lack the motivation needed to reconstruct my form or, in the words of Blair Waldorf, maybe some people are simply better than others. I’m not searching for answers, what I need is a solution: a means of maintaining my home in other, healthier ways.

I don’t weigh myself anymore. I refuse to fall back into that pattern. Even now, the sight of weighing scales makes me uncomfortable; it’s pitiful that such a small, insignificant object has the power to turn my beautiful house into rubble. When weighed at the doctors, I ask for the magical number to remain a secret because in this case, ignorance truly is bliss. I limit my exposure to mirrors, by not bringing my flaws under a magnifying glass, I can almost pretend they don’t exist. 

I refuse to abandon my house, to allow the structure to become desolate. Instead, I will care for it, I will water the garden and lovingly repaint the walls to keep them fresh. The foundations, though cracked, still hold strong. Perhaps one day, I won’t hide behind the curtains, I’ll allow myself to open the windows and let the world shine through. I must follow Thompson’s advice, I shall protect the vessel in which my soul resides. I will not waste my life’s purpose worrying about my body.