Friday, January 24, 2014

What it Feels Like to be Skinny and Pretty: Your Legacy


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. 






No comments:

Post a Comment