The weight of beauty: a journey through anorexia and self-love
At six years old, I first heard the words 'lose weight.' By eight, I'd mastered the art of sucking in my stomach. And at 15, I began starving myself.
A desperate pursuit of perfection
Growing up, I believed success lay in controlling and manipulating my body, which, as a mixed Black girl, was seen as a problem. Grandparents would comment on what I ate, friends' moms would tell me I'd be prettier if I lost a little weight. When my mom searched women's departments for clothes that would fit my nine-year-old frame, I shrank from the disapproving looks of strangers.
I strove for perfection, upset if I received anything less than an A on a test, constantly on a mission to be perceived as good, immaculate. The only thing I couldn't seem to control was my body.
The feeling simmered for years, until, deep in high school's awkward trenches, I decided I was finally ready to wage the ultimate fight in 2017. Instagram was at its peak, Beauty was the overlined lips and BBLs of white women masquerading as Black. At my arts high school in Oakland, the aesthetic was weirder, more eclectic, and yet the girls who received admiration were thin but curvy, often ethnically ambiguous — reminding us that even in one of the most progressive cities, ideals of Beauty remained as narrow as what was depicted on our screens.
Most of us, myself included, didn't naturally possess this 'ideal' body. As a mixed Black girl, I received countless compliments for my green eyes, while attributes unmistakably Black, particularly the size and shape of my body, were harshly judged. My body was not the trend; it was the object the trend had cinched, commodified, and whitewashed.
I wanted to be seamless, perfect, invincible, and to achieve this, I believed I needed to be skinny. I went on a diet and ran miles after school. At home, I carefully measured the declining circumference of my waist. I ate two meals a day, then one, then limited my diet to eggs one week, apples another. My hair began to thin and fall out until my hairstylist refused to cut or color it, fearing it would disintegrate in her hands.
But my body, genetically adept at survival, fought to keep me alive. Later, when diagnosed with anorexia, there was always an addendum: atypical. Essentially, I was not underweight; I was simply starving. I lost half my weight between 15 and 17. Sometimes I picture severing myself down the middle and holding one half next to the other: This is how much I diminished myself in pursuit of a body I believed would allow me to belong.
In those years, I desperately wanted someone to show real concern. Instead, I found people were warmer toward me. I graduated high school and went to college, where I made friends easily and began dating my now-wife, who never knew what my body had been before I battled it into place. I felt as though my body was no longer in the way of my life. But at the same time, I was miserable and alone.
No one seemed to see a problem with the body that tormented me. My eating disorder left me with a body that could no longer maintain its own temperature, blood pressure so low I saw white every time I stood, and organs slowly shutting down. One day, after two weeks of eating only Granny Smith apples, I found I could not see. My vision had gone blurry behind my glasses, and I could hear my heart pulsing in my chest, the sound distorted and wrong. Terrified, I went to urgent care alone.
The doctor called my therapist, who called my parents, as I had now surpassed the bounds of confidentiality: I was a danger to myself. My parents allowed me to remain enrolled in college on the condition that I went to an intensive outpatient program. For months, I took an hour-long bus ride at 6am to eat breakfast with strangers and attend group therapy before returning for a full day of classes.
In that program, I met women who had fought their bodies for so long that they, too, had forgotten what they were fighting for. It certainly couldn't be this: hearts palpitating in our ears, vision blurring, fingers slender and cold to the touch. I spent my late teens teaching myself how to release control. There were tearful meals, where I mumbled behavioral therapy phrases that felt ridiculous, like 'food is not my enemy,' between bites. Alarms set for mealtimes. Confrontations with my 'fear foods.'
On the day I ate pasta for the first time in three years, I laid in bed afterward, convincing myself I did not have to make up for it with exercise. Months later, I looked up from a bowl of spaghetti, surprised I had not spent the previous hour panicking.
I am lucky to have lived in enough versions of my body to know that power and Beauty are not found in strict control over it. By the time I turned 20 and my first novel was published, I had gained back the weight I'd been celebrated for shedding. I did nothing special to fit into my wedding dress two years later. My heart beats softly behind my ribs, and I take comfort in the knowledge that I am not perfect, but I am loved, successful, and, finally, at peace.