SUMMER BODY, PART 1:

I don’t remember the first time someone called me fat. In fact, I don’t remember feeling “fat” until my small mind knew I was. I don’t remember if someone was cruel and told me I was bigger than other children. I don’t remember if I watched the women around me cow themselves into diets and exercise regimens with self-loathing, learning through their mirror avoidance or obsession that I was meant to share their burden.

I don’t remember when I began eating in secret and hating myself for my choices. I don’t remember when I began needing belly fullness to feel loved. I don’t remember when eggs and butter became bad for me, or when the ‘fat free’ revolution swept my childhood. I don’t remember when I first compared myself to my thinner older sister or when I got chased home for the first time, just so some of the more angry, much more athletic children could see how fast I could run.

I do remember the blood running down my legs from scraped knees when I fell and the other children left me crying on the pavement because the chase was over; I was no longer fun. I remember walking the rest of the way alone, stopping in my favorite bakery to buy a raspberry jelly donut (or two). I remember the smell of that place like a lucid dream even now. I remember the lady behind the counter was my friend. I remember taking the donut to a secret place, diving into the tastes of yeasty pastry, white sweet icing breaking under the weight of my teeth, the squeeze of delicious raspberry goo soothing my sobs. I remember feeling less alone, home and healed, even accepted.

Food somehow became this for me. A haven in chaos. It didn’t start that day, but grew over time. This is just a story. My story. The story of My Summer Body.

Big Love, Y’all -

Brett Jenae, The Anxious Girl