I am a writer and I've always known it. Even when my feeble self-esteem conspired against my urge to pick up a pen. I carried it around like you carry relics my pens. Remained tethered to them. I write now. Perhaps because I am not a talker.
I lumber sluggishly, dragging the weight of my body. Every pound is tethered to me, I can’t escape the heaviness.
I am stuffed into clothes, encased in figure-hugging fabric that looks better on the hanger than my rounded, fleshy torso.
The scale is an unlucky lottery ticket displaying a number that I will carry around shamefully like a scarlet letter.
I count calories like beads on a rosary, making sure I shrink to conformity critical of every extra curve because to love my size is a societal sin.
Airbrushed beauty queens and slender starlets wear their size 0 like a badge of honor in the battlefront of glossy magazine covers.
I’m crushed with the weight of the world I inhabit a place that teaches girls to be self-conscious of each pound that sticks to their body instead of teaching them to be confident in their own skin.
I’m tired of micromanaging each nutrient that touches my lips, to achieve a slender frame that resists my big-***** body self love is not a one-size-fits-all and I will radically adore every ounce that is tethered to me.