January 22, 2018
My family is one of those families who has a gym membership but never uses it. That is, until this week as I decided to get in shape. I am a competitive dancer, and have been for 13 years, but my body still isn’t where I want it to be. I hate how the bottom of my stomach is not as flat as the rest, and I’ve always really really really wanted abs. So I began squeezing the gym in during the two hours I have between school and dance practice.
Thankfully, I was able to get my mom to go with me. She always complains about how much weight she has gained in the last five years (although it has been probably double that), so it wasn’t hard to convince her. She is on the treadmill across from me, layered in leggings, a tank top and her black zip up sweatshirt which she only takes off when it needs to be washed. I am in a sports bra and feeling self conscious. I remind myself to wear a shirt next time.
I’ve also gotten into counting my calories. Instagram and Pinterest bloggers tell me that this is the best way to lose weight. If I really want to be skinny, I need to eat 1200 calories a day. So far I’ve eaten a banana and a cauliflower rice with a poached egg on top of it. My stomach is making a ruckus, and I feel the same crash that I did when I was younger after eating too much sugar, but I read that it should go away eventually. I just want to look like Alexis Ren, my Instagram crush.
Mom and I are planning on being on the treadmill for another half hour, so we distract ourselves with chit chat about what else we can do to take some weight off. We’re headed to Riviera Maya for my spring break in a few short months, so we need a quick fix. My friend and her mom are doing paleo right now, which cuts out processed foods and drinks, sugar, grains, most dairy products, legumes, artificial sweeteners, vegetable oils, margarine and trans fats. We decided to try it.
I can’t wait to finally lose ten pounds. I think then I will finally feel pretty and will be happy with myself.
April, 2018
I got back from Mexico last week. I was able to lose 12 pounds before the plane took off.
Today, I sit in a tattoo shop getting my first tattoo – “i am.” (my initials) in typewriter font on my wrist. Initially, I was going to wait for my birthday to get this, but as soon as I told my mom about my idea to start an Instagram blog where the tattoo is in every photo I post, she encouraged me to do it sooner. I was so excited that I didn’t even care.
I know that how I picture something is not usually how it actually turns out, so I don’t have a very strict plan of what I expect to do with this blog, but I do know that I want to use it to set my high school reputation straight. I am, and have always been, seen as a girl who parties, drinks, does drugs and sleeps around. Rumors started by people who have never met me. Rumors which couldn’t be farther from the truth. I spend what few times I have off of dance doing puzzles with my best friends or at the gym or playing in my backyard with my brothers. Frankly, I’ve never even been invited to a party. I guess I just want to tell everyone I went to school with how wrong they are about me and that hearing false rumors about myself HURTS.
My mom and I spend the rest of the afternoon taking pictures. I twist my wrist in awkward positions to get it in every photo. Out of a few thousand, I like less than ten. I look fat in some, the angle is weird in others, a few are blurry. I pick my favorites and edit them, making my waist smaller, eyes deeper, leg muscles more defined, skin more clear.
I go to bed excited about the images I am going to put online. I am beginning to resemble the models online who I aspire to be. As a matter of fact, they resemble them more than they do me.
June, 2018
My mom usually is the one who picks the spots for our “photoshoots.” Yet, it is more often than not when we are casually walking around town and she makes me stop to pose in a dirty alleyway (what can I say, she likes the more “interesting” locations – as she puts it). This time though, I got to choose the location. I forced my mom to drive 30 minutes out of town to arrive at a coffee shop known for 3D printing whatever the customer wanted onto the foam of a latte. Something I had only seen on the Instagram feeds of Instagram influencers in LA. $20 later, the barista dropped off a piece of avocado toast and a latte with the times new roman “i am.” on top. My logo.
I got dressed up to come here and take these photos in a red bandeau top, a denim skirt and a skinny gold belt. I even put on lipstick and eyeliner. We spent two hours taking photos. So long that the foam began to melt into the lukewarm coffee. The barista brought us a new one without asking. I was hangry and took it out on my mom for taking hundreds of pictures that weren’t good enough. When I got home, I spent the next hour editing a dozen pictures, trying to fix my skin and make my legs look longer than they really are. Just to impress the few thousand strangers who follow me. I questioned if this is what the life of an Instagram model is like. And that’s what I want in life, right?
In the end, the photo turned out great. But as I write this post, I notice that no matter how perfect the picture turns out, it will still be flawed. Flawed in the sense that it isn’t reality. That I am always trying to make myself look better online.
September, 2018
I’m sitting in my dorm room on the greyish greenish corduroy couch. It’s late in the evening. I just got home from my second yoga class of the day. Before I made my way up to the sixth floor of Bursley, I stopped to get my mail. Waiting for me was this month’s copy of Cosmopolitan. The headline reading “Do this one move for flat, sexy abs!”
I haven’t eaten since this morning, so I throw a sweet potato in the microwave for fifteen minutes and grab a kombucha. My fridge is filled with these fizzy probiotic drinks, alongside my roommates sugar filled Starbucks frappuccinos. I have dining dollars on my Mcard which could only be spent at the cafes on campus, so I use them to get kombucha or fancy matcha lattes from the league. I am sure to get a picture on the white marble tables for my Instagram every time.
To pass some time I decided to scroll through Pinterest, searching “meals under 200 calories.”
Finally the annoying beep of the microwave and I leap up to stop it. On the two step journey across the room I catch a glance of my body from the side in my cheap full length mirror. All I see are flaws and fat. I grab the sweet potato and throw it away. My stomach isn’t feeling all that great anyway. Actually, it never feels good anymore. Every time I eat it twists and turns and kotts up. My mom keeps telling me it’s because I’m a vegan now. I told her that veganism is supposed to make you feel great and help you lose weight.
Barely able to keep my eyes open, I do that one move that Cosmopolitan promises will give me flat abs before I climb up my ladder into bed.
January, 2019
I started crying in yoga last week. Yes, crying. not tears of sadness, but of joy.
Although the movement is all over social media right now, I’ve never written anything about body positivity. I kept telling myself that this is because I didn’t want to sound cliche or basic, but deep down I knew that that wasn’t it. It was because I’m not familiar with positive feelings about my body.
Not too long ago, I wrote down everything I was thinking without stopping. After I was finished, I was left with a sheet of paper that read “I hate my body. I feel as though there is always something wrong with me. I don’t like to come home. I feel alone. I feel like I’m not ‘alive.’ I don’t laugh anymore. I don’t dance anymore. I don’t create anymore. Why do I desire to drink? Why do I rely on food for happiness? I want a best friend. Is helping others hurting me?”
These things were almost always on my mind.
I tend to put on this persona that I’m always happy. And don’t get me wrong, I often am. But there the thoughts running through my head tell me I’m not enough. On my shoulder sits a devil, telling me to try starving myself. Telling me that I should be ashamed for eating a big dinner. Or taking a day off of yoga.
But today as I flowed along to the beat of Better Now, I felt strong. Powerful. My poses and transitions had purpose. I was fighting for what I craved more than anything. To be free. I became a warrior against that devil on my shoulder telling me I’m not enough.
Laying on my mat, palms facing the ceiling, eyes closed, breathing through my nose, I set the intention to accept where I am now. To just be free. To win the battle.
As I rose to a seated position, I pressed the palms of my hands together and was overcome with a feeling I had long forgotten. In that moment I was finally able to understand the idea of self love.
