Disclaimer: I am not in any way a mental health/nutrition specialist and this post is nothing more than a reflection of my past struggles with body dysmorphia.
Dear Body,
When I was 13 years old, still obsessing over viral vines and Harry Potter, I overheard one of my family members make a call:
“We need to get Maria some weight loss smoothies, she’s getting too fat”.
This was the first time I ever questioned my weight and body image, but oh man, it surely was not going to be the only time.
The years that followed this phone call were filled with me obsessing over my weight and people calling me fat. Teachers would see me and joke about how I had “eaten all of Christmas dinner”. Boys joked about how carrying me would break their backs. I desperately yearned to be seen as more than the size of my pants. The only future I imagined was one where I had finally lost weight and was complemented for my body. This obsession with weight loss was so much more than looking good. Losing weight would mean that I would finally be accepted and loved. It would mean that the nasty comments would stop, and perhaps, I’d be seen for the person I was. These thoughts seeped through my mind even as I tried to focus on school or work: being a size 0 was the ultimate goal.
To my body: I am so sorry. I am so sorry I have not appreciated all that you do for me. I’m sorry to my legs, which I have hated so much. Thank you for allowing me to dance and walk the streets of the world. To my arms, I am so sorry for only focusing on your flabby parts. Thank you for allowing me to hug my family and friends. To my belly, thank you for holding my organs and allowing yourself to be filled with good food.
Dear body, I wish I could take back time and love you more. I wish that I had been softer on you. Dear body, I am so sorry that when you needed me, that’s when I hated you the most.
Dear body, I promise to love you and cherish you. You deserve it. I deserve it.