A couple of nights ago I decided to show my boyfriend pictures from my previous years: we’re in that stage of our relationship when we want to know everything about each others’ pasts, and it’s surprising how many things we’ve discovered after seemingly a lifetime of dating. Well, it’s been a year, anyway, and for my still-teenage mind it’s incomprehensible that I have been able to maintain a stable, more or less mature relationship for such a long time, considering… Everything. Having his support has been amazing, I definitely wouldn’t have been able to do even half of what I’ve achieved this year without him – in fact, I don’t think I would be sitting in my Madrid apartment writing this post, rather I’d be back in my childhood home being nursed out of my nervousness by a bunch of disinterested doctors. Anyway, off-topic.
So we looked at a gazillion photographs I had stocked up on my external hard drive and I couldn’t help but notice how much I had changed throughout the years. See, I used to categorise my life into pre-weight loss and post-weight loss (a.k.a. disordered), but I realise that girl that I have idealised in my mind, the one I was before, is somewhat… vague. The problem with trying to compare yourself with a teenager is just that: we are so fluid in that stage of our life that every day seems like a different life.
But there is something I couldn’t help but notice. That, say, at the age of fifteen I looked more adult than I do now. That I looked more like a woman with curves and yes, teenage pimples, than now. And for a moment there, I felt like crying again. Because I wanted to be that girl again. The fact that I was more physically attractive and oh God, comfortable in my own skin, and more carefree during that crazy, fluid stage of my life says a lot. That the routine now, the being an ‘adult,’ whatever that means, I am lamenting the loss of innocence in a way – as well as the loss of those hallowed pounds.
I have never been skinny. In fact, I was svelte, I suppose, but I had curves. And I loved them. I took after my mother with my C-cup, and my boobs were legendary in high school and during the first semester of college.
I gave all of that up because I got scared of being too much of a woman.
Well, no más! Perhaps it will take time, months, years, decades; but I have resolved to love my curves and embrace them again – together with loving food and just enjoying life, however stable or not it may be at this point.
There. Another resolution to add to the list. Stop looking like a twelve-year-old and become all woman again.