Day 18: Reflection

On Day 6 I wrote that it would be impossible for me to have a food blog without mention of how my beliefs toward food and my body interweave with my relationships with men.

Well, today I had a big "ah-ha" moment. I can thank being in a counseling grad program where all we do is explore our past for this one. JHU may not be crazy-hard academically, but it is pretty good at kicking my ass emotionally.

When I was 7, I was at the beach with my grandparents and other family members. I was sitting on the sand in my bikini, maybe eating a snack but I don't remember, and my grandfather casually remarked that I had "two stomachs." What he was talking about were my little 7 year old belly rolls. To him, it was no big deal.

I will never forget this because it was the beginning. Of hatred towards my stomach, of understanding that what I put in my mouth affects how I look, and of never feeling skinny enough.

I remember the bikini I was wearing: black with orange and yellow neon letters on the top half that spelled out BEACH. I remember not eating chex mix that afternoon because I was afraid. I also remember that I stopped talking to my grandpa, and he didn't understand why until I told my aunt and she relayed it to him. And he felt so bad that he started crying and apologized for hurting my feelings, but I still didn't want to talk to him until later that evening at home. When I did, we ate some watermelon together, and didn't talk about it ever again.

I loved my grandpa and he was not a mean person. And maybe there were other underlying disordered eating factors already in place, but for whatever reason this really sticks in my mind as the beginning. I get teary when I think about this moment; when I close my eyes and see myself sitting on the beach hearing those words, I feel so sad.

But what I'm learning is that exploring memories like this doesn't mean being controlled by them. It makes sense that I've spent a lot of time worrying about what men think about my body. But I'm moving away from that, and instead moving toward loving myself. I'm sure if I wanted to, I could be angry, cast blame, and continue to torture myself about my body. But I don't see how that will help.

Because I'd rather be free.