I Only Feel Pretty When I’m Hungry.

An exploration into sexism and the beginning of eating disorders.

The first time I remember noticing my weight was when I was four. It was the first day of school, and me being me, I was eager to make new friends: I’d been playing with another new boy in my class. About halfway through our play session, he asked me — in all sincerity — “Are you pregnant?”

Looking back, it’s laughable. But at the time it stunned me, and not because he was trying to be mean — because he wasn’t. But it struck me that he hadn’t asked any of the other girls playing with us that same question.

Why? I was fatter than them, plain and simple.

It was the first time I’d ever compared myself to another girl, and it wouldn't be the last.

For most of my life, I’ve been a little overweight: nothing particularly drastic, but I’ve always had a muffin-top, slightly chubby arms, and thunder thighs. My first diet was when I was thirteen, and in truth, I’ve never stopped battling my weight since. I don’t suppose that a decade later that’s likely to change.

These days, I only feel pretty when I’m hungry.

In 2019, I was out clubbing in a figure-hugging mini-skirt that stuck to my stomach — I thought it made my legs look nice despite my muffin top, so I wore it. Big mistake. Once I’d eaten some chips and drunk a bit too much, I decided I looked too bloated to go onto a sweaty dance floor and dance; I thought I couldn’t go with all my thin friends into a dark, sweaty nightclub looking two sizes bigger than I was — who would flirt with me then? — so I went into the pub toilets and tried to puke the chips up.

I couldn’t do it. To this day, I’m not sure if I was so drunk that my gag-reflex wasn’t quite responsive, or that I wasn’t really trying hard enough because I knew that puking might put me onto the path of an eating disorder. I found myself thinking, if I do this once and it works, I’m never going to stop, and it scared me.

But it didn’t work, and I spent the rest of the night feeling guilty for having eaten so much. I danced in a way that wouldn’t make me jiggle on the dance floor, and even when Mr. Brightside by The Killers came on, I couldn't bring myself to do anything except bop around.

I believe there are two reasons I only feel pretty when my stomach’s empty: one answer is clear and easy to swallow (pardon the pun), but one is a bit more complicated.

The Patriarchy or something personal?

“If I told you that tomorrow you could look two sizes smaller, but the number on the scales wouldn’t change, would be happy?”

My mother asked me this question a few months ago: I got into a new relationship and was worried about my body. In short, yes, I would be happy to look thinner even if the number on the scales stays the same. As long I’m deceiving everyone that the number lower than it really is, who cares? As long as I look thin, I don't care about how much I actually weigh.

I’m willing to bet it’s the same for most women out there. Weight as we know it, then — in fitness culture and on Instagram — has nothing to do with your body mass or fitness: it’s a purely visual thing.

Reflecting on my lifelong battle with weight, I’ve come to a stark realisation as to why I’ve always felt the way I do, and it’s all thanks to one thing. This idea is the harder pill to swallow, but that makes it no less true.

If I look back on my life, it’s quite easy to see.

• First, a boy told me I looked pregnant on my first day of school.
• Then I went clubbing, where felt too fat to be flirted with.
• When I got into a new relationship, my main concern was how I looked.

The reoccurring theme in all three moments of my life is that they involve men.

Now, this isn’t to say men are solely responsible for the fact I’m insecure. But I’d hedge a bet and say that they (or, rather, the culture they have helped to create) are responsible for making me feel rejected by society and not worthy of feeling sexy in a circle of my friends.

Every article; every TV ad; every weight loss program — they all feature thin women with toned tummies, holding a bowl of salad just below their cleavage. If you don’t believe me, go and look. Almost every fitness advertisement featuring a woman shows her cleavage in a push-up sports bra or leggings to tight that nothing is left to the imagination.

There is a reason for this. One, it draws straight-male eyes to the screen, but two, it makes women like me wish “damn, I wish I had a body like hers”. If you take a closer look at this and dive deep into the patriarchal society we live in, the reason I want to look like the woman on screen is that she draws more male attention.

I hate that idea. I hate it to my bones, but I fear it’s true on some level. The idea of looking ‘pretty’ or ‘acceptable’ for a man was first perpetuated in me at age 4, and it’s been inherent in me ever since.

There are of course other perfectly valid reasons to lose weight, and men certainly aren’t solely responsible for the fact women’s body standards are so high. Indeed, women also seem to have high standards for men that simply aren't achievable; and eating disorders are rife amongst all sexualities, not just those who are attracted to men.

But either way, I think fat on men is excusable to society, whereas with women it is not. Your Dad can be laughed at for having a “beer belly”, but your mother is just plain, ugly “fat”.

There is a double standard there.

The other side of the ‘fat’ coin

There is, of course, a kind of online movement recently towards being body positive. Increasingly I see #fatshaming being used on Instagram, and models like Ashley Graham preach that just because you’re overweight, doesn't mean you can't be fit and healthy either. The recent debate over Lizzo’s decision to detox shows just how much the ‘fat’ debate is still alive, and honestly, it’s both terrifying and refreshing to see.

Either way, I think that if I lived in a fairer society, I would feel less pressure to be considered ‘thin’. If men suddenly started wanted their women to be size-14, Victoria Secret models would gain a few pounds, and dieting companies would go into liquidation — at least, that’s my opinion. Some may disagree with this, and I can understand why: your weight is your business, and it would be nice to think it had nothing to do with looking attractive. Weight loss should always be about improving health, but unfortunately, it rarely is.

Girls do not wake up one day and suddenly hate their bodies. They are taught it over a long time; drip-fed it like poison. Perhaps it starts from birth when they’re pushed out of their mother’s womb and put straight on the weighing scales, and expected to weigh less than the average baby boy. Maybe that’s the moment that we start to teach them their body must fit a very specific mold, otherwise, they’ll spend their lives unhappy, alone, and rejected. Maybe we need to start teaching women that their bodies are there's to do what they like with, and anyone who suggests otherwise needs to take a hard look in the mirror.