Shortly after ending my first Psychology 250 class of this semester, I decided that it would be my favorite. Although it was long (2 hours and 40 minutes), the professor was interesting, I had a friend to sit next to during the lecture, and I thoroughly enjoyed the company of my TA from our discussion group. It had the basic formula for a positive, enjoyable semester.
Our professor had assigned two papers, each four pages in length (half summary, half personal response), about a branch of psychology that interested us, which we would later have to read out to our discussion group. I was assigned to read mine first, of course, by the cruel universe. I did my paper on the history of feminist psychology and the seriousness of the “objectification theory”, because truly, that’s just the type of student I am. I was nervous reading it out loud, to a bunch of students who I didn’t know. Luckily, nobody tried to argue that I was a horrible bitch who was making things up.
Two weeks later, my nightmare situation became too true. A guy in my class decided to do his psychology paper on obesity. Instead of linking it to an actual psychological discussion, he spoke about how obesity had very little to do with genetics and everything to do with the nurturing of parents. He repeated several times that it was parents who gave their children soda and McDonald’s faults’ just so they wouldn’t complain. He even mistakenly used the word ‘fat’ instead of overweight, quickly correcting himself so he could be considered politically correct.
I sat there silently during the discussion, listen to people politely tread around the fact that he was not only wrong, but offensive. I felt the pressure to say something, my now clammy hands balled into fists, as the only person who truly could apply their life to the moment. Finally, with a gust of courage, I raised my hand and said my peace. I told the group about how I’d never been thin, like ever, and how I was genetically predispositioned to be overweight. I told the guy who’d written the paper that my life wasn’t defined by the size of my body — even if he thought it was.
So here’s my response to this guy: you are not better than me because you work out at the gym 3 times a week and keep a special sleek physique. Even as a high school sophomore, when I was on my high school water polo team, and working out 5 days a week, sometimes twice a day, I was overweight. I spent most of my childhood being bullied by kids who didn’t care that I was a person with real feelings. I spent a lot of time in high school avoiding any attention that I could even slightly receive from boys because I thought to myself, well, if I don’t like my body, nobody else will!
It wasn’t until my junior year in high school that I found feminism, and really, I think it saved me. Finally, there were people out there saying that I wasn’t alone and there were millions of other girls and women who felt the same way I did. I finally could look at myself in the mirror and not react with disgust, worrying that I would never be loved by a guy. It didn’t matter because I knew that I could love myself.
The thing that’s most important to me about body positivity is the fact that I value myself enough to not be treated as an object. Before, I felt that nobody valued me because of the shape of my body, whereas now, I’m trying to see the worth behind my creativity and intellect rather than what I look like.
So, in conclusion, it doesn’t matter what other people think of you because as cliche as it sounds, it’s only important for you to love yourself. Learning to stop caring what other people thought of me was one of the most freeing lessons of my life. I finally figured out how to walk down the street without a million insecurities running through my head. I highly recommend not giving a shit to anyone and everyone who will possibly listen, it’s awesome. I live a life that I’m proud of living and that is what’s really important