Another day of worrying about my eating habits.
Of gripping the sides of the chair seat to physically keep me in it after I binge on something fried just because it’s there.
Of seeing pictures of beautiful thin women, with clothes dripping off of their bodies, light as a feather.
Getting thrown around by men because they are light enough to be carried.
Light enough to be carried.
Always an unreachable goal that doesn’t quite make sense.
Whenever I feel shame about my weight I always think the ridiculous thought “I just want to be light enough to be carried easily. To climb to the highest branches of trees without breaking them. For gravity to lessen and lessen until my heavy thunderous footsteps seem light as a ballerina’s pointe shoes.”
Ah, there it is.
Ballet for 15 years ingrained in me that the most desirable trait for a dancer to have, other than passion and determination, was to be light enough to be lifted by a partner, and silent when her feet hit the floor.
This seems like a reasonable, non-sexist reason to want to be thin.
But then I think, why am I still using this as a defense? It seems delusional.
And here’s the fun part: I would never let any man I ever dated actually pick me up. The last one wanted to, some proof of strength or masculinity or something of the like. But I would never let him.
Now that I think about it, he really easily could have, and maybe I let him once or twice to appease, but mostly it was constant protesting from me.
I’m seeing things more clearly than I have in awhile, and I realize I didn’t want to know if I could be lifted.
I just wanted to want to be lifted.
I just wanted to have to work harder to be thin.
I just wanted to worry every time I saw there were no fresh greens on the table, and it was too rainy to ride my bike to work.
I’m stuck in a loop of anxious worrying, never happy with my weight and the back of my arms where they meet my shoulder.
An anxious loop of societal pressures masqueraded by the only acceptable reason I could possibly think of to want to be thin, even though it makes absolutely no sense anymore in my life:
The desire to be carried.