Never Ask a Woman Her Weight

My Lifelong Inability to Love My Body

CW: discussions of disordered eating, body image, weight, and sexual situations

I’m going in for surgery in a few days, so understandably, I was asked to complete some pre-screening paperwork for the hospital. And among the questionnaire was the godawful: Please list your weight (in lbs.).

I made a rule for myself a few years ago that I am not allowed to know that number. I tend to do destructive things with that information. So to skirt around this barrier, I had my mother write down the number on the scale while I stared at the wall. Whew. Disaster averted…or so I thought.

The hospital called me a few days later to verify my information. And as if we were just two gals chatting over coffee and scones, this woman says, Your weight is [redacted], correct?

I winced—physically recoiled as if slapped while I forced myself to say yes.

Now, here’s a disclaimer: I think it is perfectly fine for my doctor to know how much I weigh. And in the case of surgery, I think it’s an excellent way for them to give me the proper dose of anesthesia, so I don’t wake up halfway through the procedure, screaming like a Saw victim. And yet…I also know that the hospital will have to weigh me right before surgery anyway, so what the hell is the point of all these mental gymnastics?

Before we get too far into this void, I want to remind all my readers to seriously consider the content warning at the beginning of this post. I will be sharing real, visceral thoughts I have held about my body and weight (and, in some instances, still do). If you struggle with disordered eating and body dysmorphia, please know that I won’t be offended if you at any point click away from this article. Your mental health comes first.

Betrayed By Puberty

The Veiled Virgin or The Veiled Virgin in Pain (unknown)

When I was twelve, I weighed [redacted]. I was walking down my middle school hallway, and for some reason, my friends and I were comparing our jeans sizes. I was a US size [redacted] at the time and considered this a badge of honor. Until one friend proudly said she was a US size 0. Now, the only thought in my head was, Is it bad that I’m not a zero, too?

There was a girl in my class who, for the purpose of the story, I will call Veronica. Veronica was a skinny girl whose breasts had developed faster than the other girls in my grade. She also often dressed like an extra on Jersey Shore (leopard print was a favorite of hers). I used to hear the other twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys lusting after her. They would talk about how they wanted to grab her breasts and agreed that she was “objectively way hotter than any other girl in the school.” My face turned beet red and I stared at my shoes. I was a child, after all, and had never before heard someone—especially my age—speak so candidly about their sexual feelings. This caused two thoughts to jockey for attention in my brain: I hate these boys and I hate Veronica.

That winter, I was consumed by a horrible stomach bug that left me moaning in agony for a week and a half. Incidentally, I could barely eat anything without it coming back up at a moment’s notice. By the end of the horrible ordeal, my weight had whittled down to [redacted]. I lifted my shirt in front of the bathroom mirror, and with a mixture of horror and delight, saw that my stomach curled inward instead of outward from lack of weight. I rested my thin, white hand on my abdomen and secretly wished that my stomach would stay this flat forever.

When I was thirteen, I weighed [redacted]. I started wearing skinny jeans for the first time and became obsessed with how thin my calves looked. I hated my thighs; they were ugly and fat and riddled with stretch marks as my hips grew in. But as long as I could keep my calves thin and perfect, I knew everything would be okay. I was a US size [redacted], but at least I wasn’t a size [redacted], right?

It was around this time that I learned of the Thin Wrist Test. This is a popular form of psychological torture that teenage girls inflict upon themselves and others. With your other hand, form a circle around your wrist and see how many fingers can meet your thumb without squeezing. On average, only one or two girls in the circle will be able to touch the pinkie and thumb together. They are given the skinny crown, and the rest of us are forced to discover that it’s not just our body as a whole that must be thin, but every individual piece of it, as well. This goes hand-in-hand with the Thigh Gap, another feminine horror that was introduced to me at fifteen. (I nearly cried when it disappeared by the time I was twenty-one.)

I was thirteen the first time I Googled: how to tell if you have an eating disorder. A friend of mine was taken to rehab that year for compulsive exercising, also known as exercise bulimia. Suddenly, disordered eating grew fangs and stared at me in the corner every time I tried to go to sleep. I was afraid that I was on the cusp of it, but I didn’t know how to stop myself from falling completely.

When I was fourteen, I gained more weight in one year than I ever had before. The reason I know this is because, unfortunately, I was constantly haunting the pediatrician’s office with cold symptoms, flu, or ear trouble. As is the custom, I was weighed at every single one of these visits, and the number rose higher and higher with unforgiving alacrity: [redacted] to [redacted] to [redacted]. At the final visit, the nurse frowned at the reading as she moved heavier and heavier counterweights along the bar. Eventually, she shook her head and mumbled to herself as she scribbled the number on my chart. I felt like I might burst into tears right there in the hallway.

I was a US size [redacted], but at least I wasn’t a size [redacted]. Puberty dictated that my body was a classic pear or triangle shape, meaning most of my weight lay in my stomach and hips. I was greeted with a new sensation every time I sat down: rolls of stomach fat nesting over the lip of my jeans and under my bra wire. I learned what Love Handles were, and took to pinching my sides, monitoring how much fat settled between my fingers.

Growing up, my family used to call me twig because of my petite stature and long, spindly limbs. By the time I was fifteen, I realized that no one had jokingly called me twig or skinny for at least a year. I went to the bathroom, held up my shirt, and laid a hand over my abdomen. It wasn’t flat anymore. I grabbed my stomach, pinching, pulling, and scratching it with my fingers until it was crisscrossed with angry red stripes.

I feel fat, I thought.

I am fat, I thought.

It was the first time I had ever admitted that secret feeling.

Appearance is Everything

Sculpture of a veiled woman (c. 1668-1752)

Every girl here is skinnier than me.

This echoed in my head throughout my first day of acting school. I was consumed by it, obsessed with it. I knew I would never be a successful actress if I didn’t shed a few pounds. I weighed [redacted] but became obsessed with returning to my thirteen-year-old weight of [redacted]. (You know, a weight that I was before the majority of puberty hit—a perfectly normal and reasonable weight for my adult self.)

My plan was simple, elegant even: I would starve myself. For a whole weekend, I survived on two bowls of oatmeal, supplementing with water and an occasional glass of milk when I thought I might pass out. I woke up Sunday morning so weak, I could barely stand up from my bed. My hands shook. I was terrified of what I was doing to myself and promised to never do it again.

(And secretly, I hated myself for failing.)

When I was nineteen, I was standing in my underwear in front of four relative strangers measuring and pinning me for a costume.

Your breasts are SO SMALL, I can’t even find them in this fabric.

There is not enough fabric to fit over her waist and hips. I CAN’T EVEN PIN IT AROUND ALL OF THIS.

I pressed my lips together to keep from screaming. I was poked and prodded like a mannequin, made to hear comments about how problematic my body was to dress. When they finished, I bundled in my coat and walked to the bus stop. Indigo Girls played in my headphones, trying to comfort me, but I still felt the costumers’ hands on my naked skin trying to stretch the muslin across a body that was wider than they expected.

Every girl here is skinnier than me.

Eventually, I lost my virginity and my obsession with my body skyrocketed in a way I never thought possible. My ex was addicted to sex, and soon, I transformed into his blowup doll. Any action, no matter how mundane, was cast in a sexual light: eating, stretching, bending to tie my shoes. His hand was always on me, even when I didn’t want it to be. I pushed him away, I told him, Don’t touch me that way in public. He pretended not to hear me.

I ate. I ate and couldn’t seem to stop. I didn’t live in my body anymore—I only floated off to the side, watching it get bigger. It wasn’t an especially terrible increase. But it was there. I had to buy new jeans because mine wouldn’t button anymore. I hated to be naked.

I only posted two of my graduation pictures. I looked fat in the rest.

When we broke up, I learned about his infidelity. I was sick for two weeks after. I secretly hoped I would lose weight from my lack of appetite.

What Now?

Undine Rising From the Fountain (c. 1880-1882)

I weigh [redacted]. I know because that stupid woman on the phone told me this like it didn’t even matter. Like it wouldn’t lead me to sit in front of my laptop that night to write this long, messy piece about how hearing my weight ruins my day for the next three years.

I used to hate my face. It’s funny to remember that now. I used to think my nose was too big, my eyes too muddy, and my acne incessant. When I was fourteen, I forced myself to spend an entire summer without any makeup. Of course, you can lead a horse to drink, but you can’t shove his head into the water and then act surprised when he drowns in front of you. (This is a long-winded way of saying that this little experiment failed utterly.)

And yet, I did learn to love my face…with time. It happened so gradually, that I didn’t notice the change in myself until it had already settled comfortably into my bones. I became beautiful. Others had always seen me this way, as loved ones often do, but I shut myself away from it because I had learned to hate so deeply. But it’s possible to love ourselves. It’s possible to strip away the anger and rediscover the bliss we knew in childhood. I used to wander the house in princess dresses with glitter on my lips and eyelids. I used to feel magnificent in a pair of embroidered blue jeans. Where have I gone? Is it too late to call me back?

One day my body will become beautiful again. It won’t happen the way I wish—a sudden lightning strike of perfection. Instead, it will happen slowly.

For me, it started in an art museum. I looked at nude studies of the female body (sculptures and paintings). There is such exquisite beauty in the natural folds and curves of skin. I’ve started looking at myself naked more often. I see similarities in my own figure to the ones cast in marble and oil. Imperfections become beautiful when seen through the artist’s eye. Maybe we should all borrow one for a time.

Author’s Note: An early edition of this piece had no redacted statements. It’s sad to realize that I remember my clothing size and weight across a twelve-year gap like it was just as important as my favorite color or the names of my friends. I inserted the redactions because I wanted my readers (and myself) to focus on what actually matters: the emotion. The number on the scale matters less than what the information does to the receiver. And if you see yourself reflected in this piece—know you’re not alone.