Interior Monologue

It’s 1995, I’m standing in a small, starkly lit room with my mother, and my doctor asks the 13-year-old version of myself to turn around slowly. Then he asks me how much I weigh.

“135 pounds…?” Meant to be declarative, it was much more a question than anything else. Before that moment—that exact moment—I had never given my weight or body type more than a second thought. I had always believed myself to be more or less normal, larger than my older sisters, surely, but also taller, and so wasn’t that to be expected? No one else seemed concerned, and neither was I, until that day, in that moment.

“135?” He repeated it back to me, and then sat quietly for a bit longer than was comfortable for me or my mother. He frowned, brow furrowed, apparently in deep concentration. “That’s good,” he said, and my mother and I simultaneously released the breaths we did not realize we had been holding. Confidence momentarily restored, I was instantly relieved to have passed this mysterious and unexpected test.

“Do not gain any more weight.”

He said it deliberately, lingering over each word as though this were a Very Serious Warning that must be heeded at all costs. He gave it the same gravity I imagine he gave to warnings against smoking, or binge drinking, or failing to apply sunscreen. I have since replayed it countless times in my mind: “Do not. Gain. Any. More. Weight.”

One year and five pounds later, I was 14-years-old and 140 pounds. Now 25+ years later, my weight has fluctuated ever since. I’ve ventured confidently and unwittingly into overweight territory, flirted with obesity, and clawed my way back to a mere 10 pounds short of my youthful self… only to float ever so slowly and gently back up to near-obesity.

At this point, I should have vertigo.

Self-esteem notwithstanding, my relationship with my body has always been one of begrudging acceptance rather than joyful embrace. I have wrestled with unrealistic expectations and done my best to squash low-level body dysmorphia. It seems, though, that every time I gain some ground and build up a little confidence, I am quick to squander the lead, reverting easily to immediate gratification and wanton disregard for nutritional value.

Underneath the fear and worry about body weight and size, there lives a basically happy and confident woman, unconcerned with a few extra pounds. The problem is that this woman will gaily eat and drink herself into obesity in about six months flat. And once she does, the other (fearful) one emerges, ready to destroy the peace, and remind the first one about all the ways in which she is not enough. She reminds the first one about all the times she has failed, and fallen short, and made mistakes and poor choices, and she confounds the first one with the flawed belief that many of these transgressions are forgivable just so long as they happen when you are skinny, and beautiful, and therefore worthy of love and forgiveness.

She is, of course, insane. The first one knows that none of this is true, she knows it in her heart, and that the weight she has put on will come off when she gravitates back to better eating and more exercise, which she always does, particularly when her clothes start to pinch and stop fitting properly. Or, if not, the first one knows that she can always buy new clothes.

The other one preys on the first one’s kindness, and her self-awareness. But because the first one is able to look inward and find fault, and make changes, she is easy prey to cruel self-criticism. The other one knows this, and punishes her for it. The other one punishes her for anything she can think of, because she is afraid and because she is angry, but mostly for allowing this other one to grow, and thrive, and even to exist at all. 

I know that I have this other one, and I know that I don’t really need her, but I can’t for the life of me figure out how to lose her. I don’t even know if I can. I’ve climbed away from her, and fallen back into her, and climbed away, and fallen back—so many times now that it’s difficult to keep track.

At this point, I really should have vertigo.