When I was younger, I struggled with my weight. I played outside a lot like any young kid would, but my weight was the same. My mother would make us delicious home-cooked meals, and I ate my plate, and another. I was around 14 years old weighing close to 160 pounds. But I was happy and didn’t have a care in the world about my body image.
Of course, that was the typical “baby fat” phase, and I slowly got taller while the weight balanced out in all the right places. Thicker thighs with stretch marks, but not a ginormous gut anymore. I played sports throughout middle school, and lost weight here and there, but I was still big.
With my time in high school, I would always see the pretty, popular, and skinny girls my age, and strangely, I didn’t want that lifestyle. I was fine being myself and whoever hung around me was going to be my crew for the next four years, and I was fine with that.
But it wasn’t until my freshman year of college that my weight began to drop. The stress of being 2 hours away from my family, being in a toxic relationship that caused me to lose close friends and family, and being forced to be independent with my money, time, and work caused me to lose 35 pounds, but not the healthy way. I ate maybe 6-7 crackers a day, and didn’t drink..
I was miserable, and all I could do was reinforce my family that I was healthy and happy.. I was 19, 5’8”, and weighed 140 pounds. Everytime I saw my mom or grandmother, they begged me to eat, but I couldn’t keep much in my stomach without getting sick.
The next year, I knew what the problem was, and so I dropped the toxic weight who was dragging me down for almost two years.
A few months later, I met someone new. Someone who made me happy. Someone who I could be myself around, and bring home to my momma and daddy. Someone who I was proud to hold hands with in public. And I began to eat. And eat. And eat... I went from 140 to 160 pounds in just about 5 months.
I had large appetites with almost every meal we shared together, but I was happy. Three wild months into the relationship, and he made me even more happy: with a proposal on January 2nd, 2018. We got married October 6th that year, making me the happiest I’ve ever been. My diet didn’t change, though. I ate whatever he ate: pizza, McDonalds, Taco Bell, greasy burgers, salty fries, and more. I am now 21, 5’8”, and weighing in at around 200 pounds. I gained 40 pounds in around 7 months. But I am happy with my body, loving my new stretch marks, and am blessed that my husband still reminds me how beautiful I am, every morning and every night. But that doesn’t mean I should increase my eating. So I maintained my diet, just ate fewer meals like breakfast and maybe a lunch here and there. My weight hasn’t gone down.
It wasn’t until last night that I had an ex-friend of mine actually go out of her way to ask me “how the baby is doing.” Confused and caught off-guard, I asked her what she meant. She said “Well, you’ve been gaining weight, and a lot of us assumed you were pregnant.” OK? Well, I am married now, and that’s sort of what married people do after getting married....? “A lot of us” (assuming those we graduated with) are getting married, still getting drunk almost every night, living off/with their parents, or still working at their old high school jobs. I have actually done a lot in my lifetime, and am proud of the hiccups I had in life that somehow landed me with the best friend I could ever ask for. It’s sad, because I can tell my ex-friend was never showered with love and confidence the way my husband does for me, and this was her way to rain on my parade. Unphased, I told her that I was happy with my weight and proud that my husband still finds all my new stretch marks attractive.
I will always have a photo taken of me and my first response will be, “Ew, I look fat, retake it”, but at the end of the day, I know I am beautiful, and don’t have to look like some of my friends and family. It doesn’t matter what race you are, if you have a physical disability, if you’re struggling with your weight, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL. And your stretch marks tell stories. If you’re like me, those stretch marks tell stories of happiness. From playing in the yard as a kid, to being a housewife, my stretch marks remind me that I am happy. And that’s all I could ask for: happiness.
No comments:
Post a Comment