Body of a Woman

We are ever-changing moons who gloriously defy impossible standards of beauty

I began my journey into eating disorders when I was only 12 years old. That year, I was mercilessly bullied, harassed, and assaulted by the boys at my school so severely that by the end of the year, I struggled to even make it through a day without overwhelming anxiety. I felt that what had happened was my body’s fault (no one but my parents blamed the actual perpetrators), which was the first time in my life that I started to dissociate from it.

I think it’s accurate to say that my soul felt like it had come halfway out of my body, unable now to settle into its container. It didn’t feel safe there.

At the time, I had also become deeply enmeshed in Diet Culture, as many young women do. As much as I disliked my body for being beautiful and sexy in a way that attracted unwanted attention and violence, I also desperately still wanted to be beautiful and sexy. I was already a size 8 at that time, with B cup breasts, and I weighed 130 pounds. I knew that was on the “heavy” side, according to all the teen magazines I read.

I started counting calories that year. I can remember crunching those numbers with my friend Maria one day at lunch and how we looked at each other with grimaces after we were done. We couldn’t “afford” to eat our lunches that day. If we wanted to eat dinner and stay under 1,000 calories, we’d have to skip pizza in the cafeteria.

As much as I disliked my body for being beautiful and sexy in a way that attracted unwanted attention and violence, I also desperately still wanted to be beautiful and sexy.

I remember sitting in my dad’s car on my way home from school that day, and that I reached down and poked at my calf. Suddenly, it seemed so fleshy. Had it always been so fleshy?

My dad was asking me about my day, but I hardly heard him. I was filled with terror in that moment about how ugly I was becoming — how overwhelmingly fat. Maybe I’d have to skip dinner, too.

I learned early on from teen magazines, TV shows, and movies, that there were certain truths about women’s bodies.

Thin was the definition of beauty. And the thinner you were, the more beautiful you were. Except for the breasts — big breasts on a tiny body were preferable.

Thin and ripped was even better. My friends and I lusted after Linda Hamilton’s bulging biceps in Terminator 2, Madonna’s impeccable deltoids during her Blonde Ambition tour, or Demi Moore’s ripped abs in Striptease.

Absolutely nothing but the breasts should be soft or fleshy. Nothing should bounce. There should be no extra flesh on any part of the body.

And last but not least: a truly healthy, beautiful woman looks the same every day of the month, every minute of the day.

I learned early on that chasing these standards was not going to be easy. I was naturally fleshy, naturally larger than my skinny girlfriends. My breasts soon became C cups and then DDs. I settled in at a respectable height of 5'7" — not tall, but certainly not short. I wasn’t a small woman by any means, nor had I ever been.

The real fight for me, though, was dealing with the trauma I had endured at the age of 12. I might have had a chance if it hadn’t continued, but no matter how many times my parents sent me to a new school where I could make a fresh start, the bullying never ended.

All I wanted was to disappear.

Throughout it all, people (except for my parents) blamed me for what happened or simply failed to acknowledge that the bullying was wrong. High school culture in the early 90s was very different than what it is today. There were no anti-bullying policies. There was no protection for young women who were constantly harassed and assaulted. You just had to deal with it.

Because I had no way to control what was happening to me and could not expect anything to change, I decided to change myself. I began compulsively overeating, eventually gaining at least 50 pounds during my sophomore year.

At that point, my confusion over my body — wanting to be ugly, but wanting to be beautiful — was more than I could emotionally handle. Everything in my life began to revolve around my eating and exercising habits. Everything.

All I wanted was to disappear.

I remember making vision boards with my mom. This was a big thing back in the 90s — to cover your refrigerator with photographs of thin women or make a collage of models and actresses and hang it in your kitchen. This was supposed to “inspire” you to forgo that afternoon snack. Or dessert. Or a piece of string cheese. Or a square of chocolate.

Never mind that this is fucking masochistic bullshit. Never mind that we all have different bodies and one particular kind isn’t supposed to be the gold standard.

This was considered normal behavior. This was gold-star Diet Culture aspiration in action. My mom and I were supposed to be proud of ourselves for doing this. Good for us for feeling like fat, ugly cows because we didn’t look like a 19-year-old swimsuit model. How else were we going to finally change? To finally lose that weight?

That was, perhaps, the biggest mindfuck in my almost 20 years of struggles with eating disorders: That we were supposed to not only look perfect, but to look perfect all the time.

I understood early on that I’d only have really succeeded if I stopped eating large portions of food when I was especially hungry. Otherwise, I’d have a belly pooch for hours afterward and that was not acceptable.

I understood that I should cut out salt and sweets around my period because otherwise, I’d have that bloaty, roundness to my belly that many of us get when we’re menstruating.

I understood that I should eventually stop eating all sweets so I no longer got “cookie gut” from the occasional dessert binge.

I was striving to look perfect all the time, like all the models and actresses did. Then, and only then, would I know that I had succeeded in overcoming my weight issues.

Here’s the big secret that took me decades to learn: I didn’t have weight issues.

What I did have:

• Unacknowledged trauma that had caused me long-term emotional and psychological damage.
• A deeply distorted view of myself, my body, and my bodily rights.
• Constant brainwashing by a culture that teaches women to hate themselves so we can buy the products that will make us beautiful and lovable.

My weight was actually of little consequence, as it turned out.

It took me many years to even begin to unravel my eating disorders and the associated issues I have around them. And I still struggle daily, in little ways.

The poison that I most want to remove from my body is the lie that women are supposed to look the same all the time — that our bodies should not change with time, with the consumption of food, or with the cycle of our periods.

That is a disgusting lie that causes so much pain for so many women. God forbid we want to indulge in a piece of cake or an extra pat of butter. God forbid we change with age. And god forbid our beautiful, miraculous, amazing bodies grow plumper and rounder when we menstruate.

In my circle, this time of the month has always been treated with such shame and derision. So many women have been so successfully brainwashed that we now dread getting “period belly.”

In my forties now, experiencing the last years of my period, I am learning to love and appreciate every moment of it. It’s not always easy to see the extra fullness on me, but I constantly look to find ways to love myself through this time.

Yes, my belly gets bigger and I feel heavier and thicker. So what? That is beautiful in its own way.

My breasts get larger and rounder and harder — even perkier, if that’s possible for someone with DDs. I used to feel so self-conscious of this, but now I try to enjoy it, even when they are achy and sensitive.

I look at myself like an earth goddess at this time of the month. I remind myself that I do not have to look like actresses and models. I cannot look like them. Because I am me.

I remind myself that believing in the lies of Diet Culture is just another way to keep women distracted with inconsequential bullshit when we have real work to do.

I look at myself like an earth goddess at this time of the month.

As a woman, my body is biologically designed to cycle through changes every month. Why fight a losing battle?

More importantly, why consider that a battle? How about we say “Fuck you,” to Diet Culture and embrace our monthly changes as the blessing that they are?

The strength that I want is no longer the ripped muscles of my 90s celebrity sheroes.

I want the strength to see beauty in my own body no matter our culture’s beauty standards.

I want the strength to have completely uninhibited sex with a lover without a second wasted on worries about how I look.

I want the strength to wear a bathing suit — a bikini — in public for the very first time since I was 12.

I want the strength to dance on Instagram and let my ass shake.

I am determined to reclaim that 12 year old girl — to rebuild her and strengthen her, to set her free from trauma, from violence, from obsessions and compulsions around her body.

I am determined to be free.

© Yael Wolfe 2020

Author’s note: If you’d like to see this article with the original image, a self-portrait, you can find it here.