Digital Article: “Work In Progress”

When I was in middle school, my friends and I often took trips to the mall. We thought we were so cool with our Starbucks Frappuccino’s, PINK shopping bags, and lack of parental supervision. It was common to go to Macy’s and try on all of the big, beautiful prom dresses. Hands full of tulle and glitter, we rushed into the dressing rooms to do our own little fashion show. My friends would all squeeze into one fitting room while I opted for my own. I knew the dress would not zip; I knew I did not get the right size. While all my friends were a size double zero, I did not have the courage to tell them my size was a different double digit, and I did not want them to see my body.

I cannot remember a time when I was not constantly thinking about my weight and the way I look. Since diabetes runs in my family, there has always been pressure to eat right and exercise. My mother would buy her eight year-old daughter hundred calorie snacks, and whenever my eating got particularly indulgent, my father would remind me of the diabetic gene. I do not blame them for my body image issues, though. Sometimes the best intentions have the worst delivery.

My first diet was in the fifth grade. I had the biggest crush on a boy in my class, and I thought he would never like me back unless I lost all my baby fat. I decided to cut out sweets and start eating more fruit and vegetables. Of course, the first day of my diet coincided with a classmate’s birthday. He brought in the most delicious treat I had ever seen: bars with a layer of brownies, an Oreo, and then chocolate chip cookie. I was so proud of myself when I told him I did not want one. I was on the fast track to being the skinniest ten year old.

I did not want them to see my body

It did not help that I was a dancer: hours spent every day in front of a mirror in a tight leotard surrounded by other girls with perfect bodies. I hated the way my face looked when my hair was up in a ballerina bun; I hated the way my stomach looked in my leotard; I hated when my teacher told me to look at my form in the mirror. Once a year, they would measure us for costumes. I never could stop myself from comparing my measurements to everyone else. I was not the biggest one in my classes, but I was a far cry from the smallest.

There were three of us in the “Large” size range. We often were compared to one another, and when the costumes did arrive, we would trade with each other to find the right fit. I would complain that the large was too big for me, and my instructor would give me a pitying look and say, “You would rather it be too big than too small.”

Our recital was at the end of June every year. By mid-July, we would get a video copy of the recital. I would obsess over the DVD for days. When I would rewatch my dances, I never watched the actual dance but made comments about the way I look. Do I really look that way? Am I that big? Am I as big as so-and-so? My mother would reassure me that I was beautiful and suggest we all start eating healthier if that would make me happy. My father suggested that I start running, and by dance auditions in the fall, I would look better than them all. On Monday, I started running and eating my fruits and vegetables; by Friday, I was back to my old ways. This pattern repeated every summer.

I never have had a common eating disorder. I was too afraid of puking to be bulimic, and I could never lose my appetite enough to be anorexic. The closest I had ever gotten to one was when I went to Italy the summer before junior year. I am an extremely picky eater, and what will you eat? was the constant question my mother asked before I went. Without my family, me and two dozen other teens went to Lettomanoppello, a small village near the coast of Italy, for two weeks.

My mother packed me boxes of granola bars and Cheez-Its. The first night at dinner, I cried on the phone with her because I was so hungry, and there was nothing to eat. While my chaperones tried to find food I would like, my daily meal would end up being a granola bar, a cup of gelato, and a banana that I bought from a street vendor. After hearing that the cute Italian boys called another girl in our group fat, I refused to go out with them at night. Two weeks of my gelato diet and tens of thousands of steps of walking, I was excited to weigh myself when I got home. I was down fifteen pounds and was determined to keep it off.

I was on the fast track to being the skinniest ten year old

Later that year, I stumbled upon body dysmorphic disorder, an obsessive disorder where one obsesses over perceived flaws about their body. There is an obsession to change this flaw and fear that everyone around you sees the same perception that you do. This disorder often goes undiagnosed because those with it may keep their tendencies a secret and do not want to be told that their perceived flaw is non-existent. It typically stems from a mixture of sources, such as parental pressure, societal expectations, and peer pressure.

While I can relate almost every symptom of BDD to my own life, I often wonder if my body image issues are diagnosable or “normal”. My issues with my body image are not something I openly talk about. Even my closest friends and family do not know about this daily struggle. Endless questions filled my head:

If there was more awareness about this topic, would I feel less alone in my struggle?

Would I seek professional help rather than self-diagnosing myself through YouTube videos and WebMD?

Where did this obsession stem from?

Was it when a boy called me fat in the first grade?

Was it when my four foot eleven, ninety pound pediatrician told me I would never have a thin body?

Was it social media, photoshop, and the societal pressure that is placed on women to be thin?

Do I really look that way?

When it was time for me to actually find my prom dress, I felt like that middle school girl again. I refused to go find my dress with my friends. My mother and I would go out every weekend to find the dress, and I would pray that I would not run into anyone I knew. We went to a store in Boston to find the dress. My consultant was a bigger woman, and when I told her my dress size, she gave me a weird look. “There is no way that is your dress size. You look way smaller than that,” she said. I knew that from my weeks of dress shopping that she was wrong, and I figured she said that to get a good tip.

That day, I settled on a red ball gown that had a tulle skirt, fitted bodice, and tiny stitched flowers on it. The dress was beautiful and expensive. When I imagined my prom dress as a middle schooler, I thought I would be one of those double zero girls in a skin tight dress. Months leading to the prom, I struggled with the dress. I could not return it, and my mother would kill me if I did not wear the $600 dress, even though I paid for it. All of my friends wore skin tight dresses and had dates. Dateless, I put on the red dress, went to prom, and was home by nine. My best friend let me third wheel with her and her boyfriend so I would not have to sit at the singles table. She made sure I was included in everything they did, even though she had no idea I was struggling so much. I never told her what her kindness meant to me that night, but it is one I will never forget.

Since that night, I have lost thirty-five pounds. The dress that caused so much anxiety falls off when I try it on. I exercise regularly and eat very healthy. My father says he is proud of me for doing everything he suggested all those years ago and sticking with it. My mother worries that I push myself too hard. I am still struggling with my body; I am not sure that obsession will ever go away. I realized that I was never big in the way I thought I was, and it was mostly in my head. I am trying to stop comparing myself to others, fearing that people are looking at my “fat,” and talking negatively about myself. These things are just as challenging as losing the weight. I hope that one day comes when I go the whole day without thinking about my weight and the way I look. Right now, I am just a work in progress.

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