Conversation with My Body 2

An attempt at reconciliation after years of disconnection.

You are heavier now. Heavier than you’ve ever been. Everyone around me is too kind to admit it, even when I bring it up, but you and I know the truth.

And yet, even though I’ve realized that gaining and losing weight has been an ongoing issue for most of my life, I know it’s not the root cause of our disconnection.

For a short time, I was 54 kilos. I remember being hungry all the time, but I was drunk on the compliments. I couldn’t stop looking at myself in the mirror. For the first time in my life, I looked petite, like the women I wanted to become. My stomach was almost flat. But there were still flaws, my upper legs. So, I was never one hundred percent happy with you.

Photo by Inge Poelman on Unsplash

I was doing my part: feeding you less and less. But you weren’t doing yours. Even after losing six or seven kilos, my legs still didn’t look thinner. People said: You need to work out if you want to look better.

Before I could make up my mind about exercising, you began gaining weight again. I ate like an animal that had gone hungry too long and suddenly found food. I hid snacks in my room. I waited until I was alone at home so I wouldn’t have to share, or worse, answer questions.

The worst came when I was an exchange student in Warsaw, Poland. I had missed all the orientation days, so I couldn’t meet anyone. I had no friends for a long time. My daily life looked like this: go to class (if I could gather the energy), stop by the shops on my way home, and spend a hundred złoty on food for one person.

Waiting for the next meal was the only thing I looked forward to.

I cooked enough for two. I ordered fast food for two. I remember keeping a kilo of ice cream in the freezer and finishing it in two days.
There was also the bottle of whiskey I kept in my room to help me fall asleep. (I still catch myself doing that. Whenever things get too heavy, I grab a glass or two of wine.)

I hid everything except fresh food in my room so my housemates wouldn’t see me as strange.
I put on my best act whenever I FaceTimed my parents. But my father saw through it. Later, I found out he said: Something’s off. She doesn’t look happy.

The truth is I was miserable.

I couldn’t even acknowledge that I might be depressed. I thought everyone felt that way because the world was a shitty place. It didn’t occur to me that some people might actually be happy.

Back home, sadness was everywhere. It was almost a family trait. One of my aunts coped with her difficult life through eating too.
And my father, though never diagnosed, has struggled with depression for years. Sometimes I look at him and see myself.

But wait. Why am I telling you all this?
You were there. You know what we went through. If anything, you probably remember better than I do, because bodies remember.

Maybe it’s a mercy that I don’t recall everything. If I did, I’d probably go insane.

This past week has been hard. Old memories keep surfacing since I started writing to you. I’m just trying to find a way to connect with you.

I don’t expect us to become friends overnight. But maybe if I keep writing, I can begin to fill in the gaps and start to accept you as mine.

Because I worry that I don’t feel as deeply as others do. I want to feel more. I want the positive emotions alongside the negative when it comes to you.

I want to feel you there when we’re sitting alone in the living room, staring at the black TV screen. I want to feel that you’re not just an idea, but real. Present. With me.

Because no matter how many people are around me, it seems I need your presence more than anyone else’s.