I'm Worth It

In talking with my therapist about my recent break-through realizing I allowed other’s to devalue me because I hate my own body, she asked pointed questions about my mom and how she handled things about weight and body image when I was a child. Somehow, as a child, I internalized my imperfect body as an indictment on me and thus the twisted body issues and self-hatred took root and now today I have to try to unravel a life-time of poor self-esteem and despising my body. I remember distinctly, the first time I cursed my body for not being like “other” girls. I was in third grade. My mom had recently bought me a bra, not an undershirt like I had been wearing, but an actual cup-size bra. I was sitting on the floor in our neighbor classroom for a joint class session and a group of boys were sitting behind me. They noticed the bra strap, so they reached forward and snapped it on my back. I yelped in surprise and discomfort and was chastised by the teacher for being disruptive. My cheeks burned red in shame. I was the only girl wearing a stupid bra, thus the only girl who could have said bra snapped across her back. How I wished I didn’t need to wear a bra to hide my obscene, growing breasts! From that point on, the added proof that my body was less-than rained down on me.

 

• As a teenager, my mom and I were out shopping with our best friends, another mother and daughter. They jokingly called my bras “over the shoulder boulder holders” after I complained I couldn’t find any pretty bras in my size
• I was in 6^th grade and carrying what I thought was a cool purple lunch cooler. That is until an older boy assigned to sit in front of me on the bus made fun of how large my lunch cooler was and how it must be for the extra food I needed to be so fat.
• My mom told me I would never be thin like my sister, I would always be bigger because I had a bigger frame. I was big boned.
• My mom complained about how often she had to take me bra shopping because I so quickly out-grew my bras.
• I was called “The Tank” when we played Red Rover in gym class.
• I was showing sheep at a local fair. I was wearing a tank-top, just like the other girls. I guess when I bent over to sheer my lamb, you could see down my tank-top. My mom told me I embarrassed her because I didn’t dress appropriately and girls “my size” shouldn’t wear things like that. I cried the whole drive home.
• I cannot recall how many times I have been told I have such a pretty face, it’s a shame I’m so heavy.
• I’ve been called a whale, a beached whale, Shamu, Flubber, a fat bitch, double-wide, Porky, and so many more I try to forget

 

By the time infertility entered the picture, I was already on bad terms with my body and my weight. I had many years of practice hating my body. It actually didn’t surprise me that my body would let me down again. Why wouldn’t it? And, of course, losing weight was touted as the means to the elusive pregnancy I so desired. But, you might as well have told me to fly to the moon at that point. My self-worth was tied to how hideous my body was and my mind worked that out to mean I was not worth it. I know my parents tried to tell me I was beautiful on the inside and that’s what counts, but that never seemed to penetrate the negative. My body, and therefore, my very self, were unworthy, undesirable, ugly. And, for the most part, that is how I saw myself. I tried to be a good person, but it always seemed to come back to how I looked.

 

Now, well into adulthood, I am starting to come to terms with all of this. For one thing, I do not want to pass along this body issue thing to my children. Primero already struggles with disliking his body because he is very thin. When we talked about it a few months ago, I cried and begged him to work on it now so he wouldn’t spend his entire life hating himself. I apologized for not having any answers for him. Chica Marie has made some comments about being fat and I made her say 10 nice things about herself instead.

 

For me, I’ve made a choice to love myself warts and all. Whenever I think poorly about myself or my body, I mentally recite the mantra I made up, “I’m fierce, I’m fabulous, and I’m fucking worth it.” Sometimes I just mutter to myself, “I love me just the way I am.” It might sound silly, but I don’t know what else to do to drown out the bigger, louder voices screaming at me that I’m fat and worthless. I don’t want to give them headspace anymore and these simple phrases help me remember I need to change my inner dialogue in order to change my mind. It isn’t an easy thing.