I’m Skinny, and So What?

What if I told you that I have cried more over my own arms than over any guy who has ever left me? What if I told you that some days I’m grateful for this illness because at least people now have a reason for why I look like this? What if I told you that some days I refuse to eat— not because I don’t want to but because eating means being watched, and being watched means being judged, and being judged means being reminded that my body Is wrong And wrongAnd wrong? What if I told you that I used to hate my eyes? Hated the myopic left eye that couldn’t see past its own blur. Hated the right eye—myopic and astigmatic— like it was double-cursed. I wanted 20/20 vision. But now? I am grateful. Grateful to look in the mirror and see a blur instead of an outline. Because the blur is kinder than the truth. And the truth? I’m not ready for that yet. They don’t see me forcing myself to eat so much that the food starts to lose taste. They don’t see me chewing and swallowing long after my body is screaming stop! They don’t see me shoving spoonful after spoonful down my throat, willing myself to keep going, because maybe this meal will be the one that sticks. They don’t see the nausea creeping in as I run to the bathroom and throw it all up. Everything I just fought to keep down. And I sit there on the cold floor, exhausted, ashamed and cry myself to sleep. They don’t see any of it. They just see “skinny” and they think that gives them permission to speak. You call me anorexic. Me? You do not know what I have been through but think you have the right to label me. Don’t even get me started on the double standard. “Plus sized” girls are free to make snide comments about me but the moment I say anything to defend myself? Suddenly I’m body shaming. So skinny girls can’t be body shamed? And to think I used to believe body positivity was for everyone. And then there are the “friends.” The ones who feel entitled to my body like it’s public property, the ones who measure my wrists as if I exist for their approval— as if my body is a suggestion box and they have the right to submit their approval, you’ve made your point and your mark. Trust that I’d never forget you. I’m tired. Soul tired. Tired of being a living question. Tired of being judged by my image as if that’s the only thing about me.I have a name. I have a heart. I have a mind that stays up late wondering if anyone will ever touch me without counting what’s missing. And it hurts. I’d never lie to myself by saying it doesn’t. But here’s what I’m learning:My body is not a project. It’s not a before picture waiting for an after. It has never once failed me. I’m the one that has failed it by treating it like something that needs fixing just because it doesn’t take up as much space as “humanly possible.” Treating it with someone else’s idea of what is “healthy.” I’m skinny and so what? Maybe I’ll never love this body.Maybe I’ll never willingly put on my glasses to look at myself in the mirror.We don’t always get happy endings. But my body is not an apology.And I refuse to live like it is.

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