The Elephant in the Room

I'm fat.

I'm not, actually, or at least, not anymore, but that's still something I think to myself at least 20, 30, 50 times a day. What others may see is a pretty standard young woman in her early twenties. What I see is a variation of that; I look at my flat stomach and only see the extra inch of flab hanging over my waistband. I look at my face and where others see contours, I see only rounded chubbiness. But most of all, I look at my thighs, and all I see are stocky, jiggly, stretch-marked trunks, huge and unappealing.

Elephant legs.

That remark first came out of my mother's mouth when I was six-six! To be teased, in front of my mother's good friends, and their sons, about my thick legs, by my own mother; it was more than enough to leave a permanent scar on my self image. From then, I tried, I worked, so hard to lose that weight. I would buy pants, much too small for me, and squeeze myself into them, willing that perhaps my thighs would condense from the pressure. I desired for that elusive thigh gap, and cried from joy when I first saw it first appear. I obsessed over legs, to a point where my gaze would immediately drop to someone's thighs upon meeting, something I still do to this day. I wanted more than anything to be thin, to be small, to stop being, in my mind and my mother's, the elephant in the room.

It was difficult. I was fat, obese at one point, in high school, and a boy in my grade took it upon himself to ridicule me for that. He'd make fun of my size, to a point where I got used to it, and would joke along with him-I didn't even realize, until years later, that that was a form of bullying.

I was so used to being called fat, by others and myself, that I'd accepted it as if it were a reality I deserved.

Since then, a lot has changed. Immediately after high school, I bounced to the other side of the equation, working out like a madwoman and starving myself, until I lost almost 40 pounds. I got to a point where I couldn't think straight, I had no energy, where I thought I'd pass out from any slight physical exertion. But I was finally beginning to like myself. No matter the means, I was finally being noticed, for reasons other than my pancake face and my barrel belly and my tree trunk thighs. People cared more about what I had to say, treated me with more respect, and actually began to lust after my body. MY body! It was such a strange experience, and I was addicted to it.

But it didn't last. It couldn't last, because it wasn't in anyway rational or reasonable, and I gained a few of those pounds back, and since then, I've slowly yoyo'd around, gaining and losing the same 10 pounds. It's what some might call normal. I feel like I could qualify for normal.

Now, I just want to learn to be happy with myself.

I want to love what I see in the mirror. I want to appreciate my cheekbones, my toned arms, my flat stomach, my muscular legs. I want to stop looking at other people's thighs and comparing them to mine. I want to stop looking at my reflection and thinking "ew." I want to stop hating the little imperfections. I want to stop being insecure about these stupid, trivial aspects.

Because they are stupid, they are trivial. And I am not an elephant.
I am not an elephant.
I'm not.