Anyone who knows me knows I love a good self-diagnosis.
My mother would say it’s my missed calling in medicine. She loves me.
Others roll their eyes and entertain my new theory.
They also love me.

Here goes.

I’ve always been petite. Not just short, but petite. And while that may be the accepted standard of beauty for white folks, it didn’t quite fly in my culture.

I’ve been told that I look like I need a burger. That it hurts to look at me because it must hurt to be so petite. That my wrists look like they’d break at any moment. I’ve been told I need to gain weight.

When I’ve never been underweight.

But that’s where it began. I was in middle school the first time I wanted to be thicker. I was sick of being mistaken for someone at least 5 years my junior. I’d look at the girls in my school who had dimpled thighs, and think that, what I know now to be cellulite, was what I needed to be mature. To me, I still had a little girl’s body.

Did I mention I was only in middle school? I understand now that Black girls are expected to mature faster, our bodies shaped like a woman’s when we are still playing with our baby dolls. Our childhood is limited. (There’s a thesis in there, and it will be mine so…)

Anyway, that’s how I felt. And while I did feel my (lack of) body protected me from preying eyes, I couldn’t help but also wish I had a bigger chest (I wouldn’t become a D cup until my mid-20s), thicker thighs, and a rounder, more profound, ass.

That was, after all, what the guys wanted.

I went to high school with these issues. I was the smallest of my friend-group. Although I wanted that experience, especially since I didn’t have sisters, there wasn’t anyone I could swap clothes with. I had to have my homecoming dresses and uniform skirts taken in. Tailors would joke about having to cut half the dress for it to fit me. My mother would joke about how it cost more to tailor the dress or skirt than it did to buy it.

While I’m not 100% sure, I think my choice to be sexually active was, to me, how I could validate my maturity. You know, since my body wouldn’t do it. But that’s a topic for another day, and several therapy sessions.

Okay, so back to the self-diagnosis. I believe that I’ve always had, to one extent or another, a form of body dismorphia. This would lead to me checking an eating disorder later in life before it got out of control, but we’ll get there.

Weight was always an issue in my family. We all grew up petite, with a little but of a butt, but, after kids and age, put on a little weight. And, to many of the women in my family, gaining weight was one of the worst things that could happen. So I tried to fight against that. I told myself that any weight I’d gain would be welcome, even writing a Tumblr post to celebrate my acceptance.

But whenever I went home, it seeped through. Even being teased about how, although smaller than the size I am now, I was gaining weight because I had the nerve to enjoy Panda Express after work one day. I screamed at my granny, “People starve themselves to be my size, and you call me fat?!”

Not realizing that I was taking in what was being served.

I’d be the heaviest I’ve been the day I got married. After a summer of pizza and Chinese food, after being in a relationship with someone who loved to cook (I love to eat) and would expect me to eat his serving size (although he was at least twice my size), I was 140 lbs. To many, that’s not a lot. However, to someone who was 94 lbs all through high school, and didn’t go beyond 110 until after college, it was massive. I thought I was bigger than I was.

However, I knew I wasn’t healthy and wanted to be healthier. I also didn’t have the money to replace clothes at the drop of the hat. I was already doing that for someone else. So I had to gain control.

I began eating healthier, cleaner. I learned how good food was supposed to give me energy, not deplete me of it, and how to properly feed my body. As a result, I began losing weight.

That time was the healthiest I’ve been.

In the time since, I’ve moved cities, started a new job, gone through a divorce…so much was out of my control that I found myself unhealthy again. My scale was tipping back toward 125. And once it hit 125, it would undoubtedly hit 130, and it would all be downhill from there.

So I kicked the healthy eating into overdrive. I noticed how when I had something with cheese or wheat or a sodium content higher than 10% I’d bloat.

I looked in the mirror and saw the puffy chipmunk cheeks. I noticed how I could no longer feel my bones touching at night when I was curled up in my bed, and I used those as indicators on how often, and what, I should eat. Not to mention, the scale. The scale is a stern mistress.

But no, I didn’t have an eating disorder. Dear God, no. I loved to cook, and eat. Besides, I couldn’t make myself throw up if I wanted to. Also, it wasn’t like I was eating salads or something. I was finding things that “worked” with my body.

“Perhaps I have a gluten sensitivity.”
“Maybe I should stop eating so much sodium.” *

I managed to get back down to 114.

But, that little butt i had, all but went away.

He asked me to “fat” with him a couple of months ago at Sbarro’s. I was so scared. Because I knew that, although I wanted to, that one slice of pizza after a day of Chinese food and brunch meant 3-5 lbs on the scale. It meant that, although happy, I would look like the person in the pictures from earlier that year with her chipmunk cheeks.

I secretly agonized over whether to choose the cheese (which I really wanted) or veggie slice. Because he encouraged me to get pizza, not one of the veggie appetizers. I think he knew it too, because when the sbarro workers seemingly forgot my order, (cue my relief) there he was to remind them.

And it hit me.

Honestly, mothers, at least mine, are always right. They know when something is wrong.

I had been starving myself. Just so I could keep a certain number. My recipes have sucked as of late because of the fear of the unhealthy. And I learned a name for it:

Orthorexia

So now, although I do think everyone is entitled to their happy weight/size range, you shouldn’t have to go overboard to maintain it. My happy range is 115-117. Even before I really started gaining weight, it’s where I feel the most energetic, the most fit. This is where I am.

I remind myself, daily, to check in with how I’m feeling more so than the number on the scale. It isn’t easy to not fight through the feelings of hunger knowing that if dared eat lunch then I won’t be hungry for dinner, and the timing of dinner vs when I go to sleep matters. This is hard.

There will be days when I slip. Times when I go to Giant and struggle to buy cheese, or choose to eat ramen noodles instead of the juicy impossible burger I’m actually craving.

I’m still learning. And getting better.

And no, momma, this isn’t grounds for you to call me at lunchtime everyday to make sure I’m eating (although I know you will lol).

I’m regaining my love for cooking. And not simply for the sake of health and a particular body size.

Bloat happens. And I don’t need to pop gas-x multiple times a day to keep it at bay.

Be kind to your bodies, and I promise I’ll be kind to mine.

*As your body ages, your system changes. Tomatoes, although one of my favorites, give me crazy heartburn although they didn’t just two years ago. Cheese will stop me up like no one’s business. You must learn to change with your developing body, but don’t deprive yourself of the things you crave. At the end of the day, moderation is key.