When I hate my body the most, when I can’t stand the way my hips look in a tight skirt, or the way my thighs smush together when I sit at my desk, I try to take care of it. When it’s doing this thing that’s so foreign to me, ballooning and bulging and bloating, I give it as much love and attention as it can stand. I make healthy decisions. I go to yoga every day. I do sit ups and lunges and I run through the park. I eat salads—the pre-packaged, 300 calorie kind, from Trader Joe’s—and I go to bed early. I drink water before I fall asleep and when I wake up the next day. I always remember to take out my contacts and remove my make-up. I brush my hair, cut my nails, put lotion on my legs in the morning before work. I look at myself in the mirror and think, “Gross,” despite the fact that I've been exfoliating, and limiting my intake of fried foods and carbohydrates. I count steps and I count calories, trying to make them even each other out. I take the subway everywhere so that I can afford better food. I say no to that third beer, that fourth helping of nachos at the bar with my friends. I wake up with a clear head and an open heart and I hate my stupid legs, my chubby lower back, my jiggly upper arms.
But when I’m trying to remember how to love myself, that’s when I stop trying. I let myself have that third dollar slice of pizza with extra parmesan cheese. I consider it a miracle that my stomach is willing to accept food, what with pieces of my heart missing and all. I’m small, but I drink lots of whiskey. I go shot for shot with the guy next to me at the bar, with the bartender, with the girl who should have gone home hours ago. I smoke at least three cigarettes for breakfast, two for lunch, and the rest of the pack instead of dinner most days. I buy cheap food so I can afford to take taxis. I duck my head and pull down my hoodie whenever I pass my neglected yoga studio. I supplement Vicodin for Advil when my migraines won’t go away. I haven’t trimmed my nails in weeks; I keep scratching myself in my sleep. I don’t shave my legs because I just don’t care.
I’m putting all of my extra energy into remembering what kind of person I am. I’m spending all those nights alone so that I can really get to know myself again. And you can’t get to know a stranger without a drink or three to break the ice, right? You can always think more clearly when you’re punishing your lungs for reminding you to breathe. You can sleep late when you don’t care what your hair looks like, or whether your skin is smooth. You can go to bed early when you forget to make dinner. I look in the mirror, and my body looks okay, compared to my heart. At least it isn’t battered and bruised. At least it looks full, whole, and complete. I think to myself, “There are worse things in the world than that extra layer of marshmallow coating my abdomen. There are worse things than smeared mascara and a weak jawline. There are worse things than ratty hair and bad breath.”
I think to myself, “I don’t need to be pretty. I need to be okay.”
