Sometimes I so dislike this body I’m in, or wish I could change parts of it, or resent its entire heavy awkwardness. But then sometimes, also, I am glad for all that it allows me to do…
When I am anywhere but alone at home, I feel like the proverbial elephant in the room. I am all-too-aware of my body, the solid presence in a space, my Being There.
I have never put up photos of myself where the largeness of my thighs, the thickness of my calves and the chunky roll of belly fat are so nakedly evident.
There were days where the only thing I achieved while awake was breathing, one breath in front of another.
I wondered at the kind of world we live in now where it is perfectly okay — in fact, encouraged — for young people to police and impose their judgements, no matter how seemingly harmless or childish or jokey, on each other’s bodies.
I looked my physical best. I fit into everything beautifully. My hair was a perfect bob. But absolutely no other part of me was well.
When I do this, I almost manage to achieve a kind of ‘beauty’ that I spent so much of my youth thinking would finally make me happy.