Since the age of 12, I had been taught to burrito myself in a beach towel at all swimsuit-wearing times or wear an oversized T-shirt to protect the delicate fat-phobic sensitivities of those around me.
Slowly, I began to feel uncomfortable eating junk around Nick. He would be slamming down protein shakes, growing bigger and stronger, while I remained small and soft and unsure of what to do with this vast difference in body type.
According to my doctor, a person with a broken bone needs as many calories as a “very active” person during the healing process -– and, at least in my case, my body has responded with a deep and abiding hunger. Smart move, body.
“He touched me! Tell my mother to stop going to him! Tell her! He touched me!” I yelled to my father. And he sat there by my bed, hopeless and clueless, not wanting to believe anything had really happened, that my mother could really keep seeing a man that had harmed me in the most gruesome, unfathomable way.
Weeks ago, the folks at Unique Vintage sent me this year's plus-size bikini. I had planned to wear it this weekend, imagining, in my crash diet mentality, that I would have dropped most of the 20 pounds I've gained since last year's bikini by then.
"Look!" she says, innocently enough, "Your legs are like, twice as big as mine!" I never prop my legs up again, and from that one comment, I feel myself turning inward, trying to become smaller than I am.