I can’t remember a time when I liked my body. Even when I was a kid, way before puberty, we would visit my dad’s father who lived in the California mountains every summer. Grandpa would stick an empty water jug between my legs because I was knock-kneed. He thought that would straighten them out. Well, it didn’t. It just made me more self-conscious of my knees. Every time I saw a doctor, my dad would ask if I was overweight. The doctor would always shake his head no. Then puberty hit, and my body didn’t grow like how it was suppose to. I didn’t have cleavage like the girls on 90210 or the same size thighs as I saw on Dawson’s Creek. My stomach was round and Buffy’s was flat. No one looked like me.
Then I moved to Los Angeles, where there are hundreds and hundreds of models. I would go to auditions and actually see these women up close. They were definitely real. A lot of them strangely drove the same car, a newer version of the VW Beetle. Didn’t know what that was about.
In my early to mid 20s, I had an acting teacher tell me to lose that ass. That’s a hard note to hit acting wise, but I guess a doable note to hit physically. Again, I wasn’t overweight by doctor standards at all, but to these men, apparently I was too chubby to be seen in public. I lost the weight, but still felt fat. There was always more weight to lose and less food to eat and a new, expensive cleanse that worked for somebody else. I’d pay money to starve myself, it seemed more legit that way and less shameful. But deep down, I was miserable. I hated my imperfect body, and I was CONSUMED!
With all the time and energy I’ve spent hating my body, I could have won 3 Pulitzers, learned to speak fluent Chinese, and taught myself Morse code. I could’ve done something useful with my headspace instead of constantly feeling like shit and never feeling like I’m doing enough. Now I’m thirty-thrive, and I just want to be done. I’m tired of hating my thighs, the jiggle of my arms, and that goddamn big roll that is my belly. Not only am I tired of it all, I’m annoyed and angry that I’ve been made to feel this way my entire life.
Ideally I’d love to give “the man” the big middle finger and say…
“Lick my thick thighs, you motherfuckers. I ain’t losing shit. I’m not going to whittle down for your visual pleasure as I waste away my life counting carbs and grimace as I see my reflection. Fuck that. I’m a goddamn sex goddess. And fuck you, dipshits, for making me feel anything less than that.”
But for some reason, I can’t commit to that middle finger. I don’t want to let go of calling myself a fatty. I mean, I can’t stand it when my friends make self-deprecating jokes about their bodies because I know subconsciously they believe some of that about themselves, and IT'S JUST SO WRONG! But for me…well, it's different.
Ugh. I know there’s something deeper I’m resisting. Annnnnnnnnd of course, it boils down to my father. My dad was a sex addict. One of the things he would do is take pictures of topless women and show them to me. Sometimes it would be my stepmother or my friend’s mother who he was having an affair or some other woman who owned horses. I learned from an early age, that in order to get my dad’s attention, you had to have big breasts. Well, honestly, you just had to be a sexual object and all women were merely sex objects to my dad. In hindsight, I’m grateful that my father didn’t want to have sex with me, but that also meant I never got his attention. Perhaps that’s why I don’t want to let go of only seeing myself as a flawed body. I don’t want to stop fighting to get my dad to love me, to see me, to want me.
Awkward. Whoa. Wait. Let me explain myself. I’m not saying I want to fuck my dad. I’m saying, I want to be seen, loved, and wanted without the sex stuff. Like how normal dads are suppose to love their kids.
My dad took out his insecurities and hatred towards himself onto the more vulnerable…which were children and often weak women. He made himself feel better by picking on kids, humiliating them, and destroying their innocence. He also did the same to numerous women.
I’m not a kid anymore and I’m not weak either. Am I sad that I never got the proper kind of love from a father? Yes, very much so. I haven’t spoken to him in over 5 years, and it’s not easy. Hating my thighs is a way to still be connected to him. Thinking that the only thing I can offer the world or to a man is what I look like visually, is an homage to him.
I’m done. Well, I want to be done. I’m trying to be done. It’s just so hard to un-do.
But, fuck. I want to do things with my life. I want to a write book. I want the book to become a tv show. I want to continue to act. I want to be in a healthy relationship. I want to have a family. AHHHHHHHHHH! I want all of my dreams to become true!
I need the entirety of my headspace now. I wasted too much time loathing my body. I need to fill it up with love… to accept my body and be grateful for all it’s done. It has healed me through a rocky life without me even telling it what to do. My body should be appreciated, not hated. My body is mine. All mine. You can’t tell me how it should look or feel. That ain’t your job.