I stand in front of the mirror looking at my too round tummy
and thighs that touch disgusted with the reflection that I see. I scan my
imperfect body mentally noting everything I hate about myself all the way up to
my face. I catch a glimpse of the absolute disdain on my face before I
clear my thoughts, sigh, and pull my oversized t-shirt over my head. I am
fat. I know this because I own a mirror, but I also know this because
people at school feel the need to remind me of it on a daily basis.
Sometimes it’s not in what they say, but how they look at me (or don’t for that
matter) and how they treat me. The funny thing is it’s not always the
kids. Teachers, although with best intentions, encourage me by telling me
what a “pretty face” I have. After this constant reminder I return home
from school to the only solace I know of the turbulent childhood; my living
room floor with my favorite junk food. I turn on the TV and watch shows
with clear lines of right and wrong, simple plots where the lesson is always
learned, and in the end good prevails. I love this television
world. I laugh and get lost in a world that is not my own. I enjoy
the escape of reality through the one of the main avenues which plunges me
deeper into the sadness I can’t escape when the Doritos bag is empty and the
television blinks off; overeating.
When did I learn to hate myself? I’m not sure.
My mother hated her body. I am pretty sure she blamed my Dad’s numerous
extramarital affairs on the fluctuation of her weight on the bathroom scales.
She would eat and simultaneously talk about how she wished she had more
self-control when it came to food. Then she wouldn’t eat for months and she
would drop weight in her new yo-yo diet experiment. I can see her
standing over the stove talking into the phone; the spiral phone cord wrapped
around her female frame. I remember looking at her body thinking how
pretty she was. “Yes girl! I am loving this new diet. They send you the
packets in the mail. You basically drink two shakes a day; one for
breakfast and one for lunch. The soup packet is for supper. It
actually tastes really good”. I watch her dissolve the packet into the
boiling water. The thin broth bubbling and the mini ‘noodles’ dancing
around the sauce pan. She continues, “I drink a lot of water! It
helps me to not be so hungry. No salt or pepper for sure. Yes
girl…I’m going to be ready for the lake this year! I have that bikini you
know. Getting into it is my goal. I’m trying it on everyday so I
can see how fat I am, and then maybe I will stick with it this time.” I
look down at my peanut butter sandwich and think maybe I should eat some
soup instead. Surely if I partake in this magical plan I can be
skinny too. Maybe I will be pretty. But isn’t Mom pretty
now? What is pretty? Is pretty just skinny?
Looking back now I know that my mother’s actions were in no
way intended to cause permanent damage to my personal body image, but I’m sure
that it did. The older I got and the harder it became for me to control
my weight the more my mother tried to intervene the best she could.
I walked into the kitchen one night after a long day with my disparaging
6th grade peer group. My mom had a checkbook register
out. My name was scribbled at the top. She looked up with a smile
and started to speak with artificial enthusiasm, “Jodie I am so excited! We are
going to do weight watchers together. All your food has points and you
just write them down here and don’t go over them. You don’t need more
than 20 grams of fat a day. Ok?” She looks at me to gauge my
understanding. “Ok”, I replied not sure what in the world was going
on. Dinner was cooking and it smelled good. My mom made my
plate. She took boiled deboned chicken and placed it on a small plastic
kitchen scale. She meticulously removed small bits of the bland meat from
the scale until it landed on the number that was correct for my future fit
frame. She generously scooped my unseasoned green beans onto my
plate. “You can have all the green beans you want”, she said happily.
I sat down and ate my tasteless meal and wondered why God made me fat. Why did
God choose to make me ugly? These “diets” would only last until my mom fell off
the food addict wagon. Within a weeks’ time I walked into the house and
there was a bucket of KFC and all the trimmings awaiting us for dinner.
The little Debbie cakes would be placed back under the microwave in the
cabinet. I was silently thankful. Eating was one of the few things
that really made me happy between my parent’s turbulent marriage, the ongoing
abuse, and the cruelty of school. I looked forward to my bubble. I
wanted to sit down, eat, and watch the world as it should be inside the
TV. The confusion grew. The self-hatred and disappointment brewed
within.
I had made it to through my 10th grade
year. Over the years I had learned how to be quiet. I had learned
how to fade into the background and go unnoticed for the most part. It
seemed as though most of my peers had started to mature and the name calling
and jokes eased up since starting at the Senior High. I really wanted a
boyfriend, but I was well aware that I was too ugly and too fat to deserve
one. So, I just dreamt about it. One night I was lying in bed
almost asleep, thinking about life, and I suddenly decided I was done with
being fat. I made a pledge to not eat anything else that was “bad” (in
that moment that was anything that was food) and I would exercise until my body
would become what I had always wanted it to be…skinny and pretty. I woke
up the following morning with as much or possibly more determination than I had
the night before. Just to make a point I skipped breakfast. I
grabbed an overripe banana off the counter (fruit was never in great supply at
our house). That banana was the only thing I ate that day. I drank
water until I felt as though I would burst. I had saved money from
babysitting and found a used treadmill in the paper. My dad took me to
pick it up and placed it in my room. I walked on it every morning and
every evening until my legs cramped. I avoided food and mentally scolded
myself if I even thought of being hungry. I continued on this plan until
I woke up one morning and the scale said 195. I had lost right at 50
pounds. I couldn’t remember the last time I was less than 200 pounds!
I was a size 12 for the first time in my teenage existence. I stood in
front of the mirror, towel wrapped around my damp 6 foot frame, eyes
closed. I dropped the towel and opened my eyes. I started at my
legs and scanned upward. I couldn’t believe my eyes! I was… still fat and
still ugly. How could this be? I knew the problem
immediately. I was so fat that I hadn’t lost enough weight.
If I lose more weight then I will be skinny. Then I will be pretty. I
grabbed a chunk of meat on my hip and cursed to myself in the mirror. I
snatched the towel back up, wrapped it around myself, and continued my mission.
I sat across from him at the diner. I was on a date,
our first date (my very first date ever). I forked the piece of lettuce
in front of me and put it in my mouth; very aware this gorgeous man who had
agreed to actually take me on a date was having to watch this cow stuff her
face. I looked up and caught a glimpse of something in his eyes. Was that
approval? Attraction? Okay he’s a nut case! That explains it all. That is
why he agreed to go on a date with me. Wonderful! He is going to kill me and
put me in a dumpster. I mean who would actually go out with me AND smile
at me like that…like he thinks I am pretty? I swallowed my lettuce and
sipped my water cautiously. Turns out he was a nut, but did not kill
me. He married me instead. My body image probably didn’t help our
marriage. Every time this beautiful man would tell me how pretty he
thought I was I would immediately try to convince him that he was wrong. I
would swat his hand away from my pudgy belly to spare him from being grossed
out by my disgusting body. But he didn’t give up. He would grab me,
squeeze me tight, and remind that he could tell me I was pretty anytime he
wanted. Fifteen years later and an immense battle within me…something
wonderful happened…I started to believe him.
During that time I also gave birth to our perfect little
girl. The birth of my daughter definitely complicated matters in the
arena of self-loathing vs. self- acceptance. I have found that with all
things, including body image, it is hard to break away from what has been
ingrained in our heads. I continued my battle with food and weight in
epic proportions through her early life. Still very immature I continued
the subconscious battle with myself right in front of her. I was getting
ready to go out to dinner one night swearing at the sight of my oversized gut
under the sweater I decided to wear. Everyone knows fat girls should not wear
sweaters I mused to myself. I walked into the living room where James was
playing with our toddler. She was running from him with her tiny blonde
pig tails dancing on top of her head. She let out a huge laugh and her
perfect little white baby teeth gleamed beneath her pink lips. “James do
I look fat in this?” He looked up at me and before he could speak Hannah
repeated my new word, “Fat!” she said matter-of-factly. As she did with
all new words she repeated it again. I watched her tiny lips carefully form into
the syllables of this foreign word. A word I hoped she would never
encounter; suddenly well aware that I had been the very one to introduce it to
her. James smiled a knowing smile at me, scooped Hannah up, walked to me,
kissed me and said, “Momma looks pretty. Both of my girls are
pretty.” He shook her little body drawing out a loud giggle that in turn
made me smile. He kissed me and held Hannah out where she could plant a sweet
little kiss on my cheek too. I would like to say that was the last time I
slipped up in front of her, but that would be a lie. It is the language
of women… fat, ugly, muffin top, thigh gap, cellulitis, dimples, wrinkles, dark
spots… the vocabulary to dissect and disrespect the bodies God blessed us with
is endless really. It is a lesson that we receive early in life and quickly
pass down to our daughters; whether we intend to or not.
My daughter continues to grow and mature. Her body
seems to change daily. I watch her get ready in the mornings dissatisfied
with what she sees in the mirror. Of course I see amazing beauty
reflecting back at us. I see my eyes and her father’s lips. Her
Maw’s cheeks and jaw line. I see beautiful freckles that dot her forehead
and nose. I see all the people who I love and love her in that face. She
is going to be tall, a trait I hated about myself of course, but I suddenly see
the beauty in our lofty frames. I feel the empowerment it can bring if
only we allow it. I try to point that out to her. I have been
careful to never speak of being fat or skinny in relation to her body. I
consciously try to encourage healthy eating and exercise that makes her strong.
But there are days when my poor eating habits directly influence her
eating. I know this. I know that I am not perfect, as much as I
want to be perfect for her. I’m hopeful that she can use my inadequacies
to learn from and grow from. But I am also very aware she will have to
embrace her own and learn from them as well. I guess my overall objective is to
be honest and up front with her about all of this and try to change her
perspective to a healthier one. I want her to understand that skinny is not
necessarily healthy. I want her to love her body because it is an
unbelievable thing that God gave her. I want her to see the beauty in the
things she is able to accomplish with it. I want so many things about her
to be more important to her than the number that scale spits out at her when
she stands on it.
I’m sure many mothers want this. But in order for me
to make this dream of a new way for my daughter a reality I have to fully
redefine all of this in my head. I must wash out generations of learned
behaviors and the overwhelming propaganda of society in order to establish a
new vision of skinny and pretty. So what does it mean to me, Jodie
Howell, to be skinny and pretty?
Well I guess I must drop the towel and look back at the
mirror once more. I see a strong 6 foot frame. My height gives me
the ability to see over everyone else at school plays and wave to my anxious
daughter who is scanning the crowd to find me. I see my grandmother’s blue eyes
and high cheekbones. I see full lips and a long neck that my husband loves to
kiss. I see broad shoulders that were able to boost my daughter high in the air
at various events ensuring she didn’t miss anything life was ready to show her.
I see uneven breast that fed my tiny little baby for the first part of
her life helping her to grow strong and intelligent. I see unmanicured hands
that cook nurturing food, bandage up scrapes, and sooth away almost any
discomfort for my daughter and husband. I see long arms that can easily
fold around my husband’s wide shoulders when he needs a hug after a long day. I
see the life-changing scar on my lower abdomen that is a reminder of the day my
body brought my precious daughter into this world. I see meaty thighs
that are the most comfortable for my daughter to sit on. I see strong calves
that help to carry me the distance it takes to be a woman who works full time
while being a mother, wife, sister, aunt, friend, Girl Scout leader, and
confidant to those who need me the most in this life. I am rather stunning to
be honest. And so are you. The next time you stand in front of the
mirror to assess yourself rip the glasses of hate off of your face and see the
beauty that others see in you. Look at the reflection in the mirror as
you do your daughters.
