I hate my body. I hate the way it smolders and sweats in the summer, saturating my skin with filth, making me sticky. I hate the way it bloats — my face, my fingers, my feet, my knees — if the temperatures rises above 80 degrees.
I hate how no bra in the world fits my gigantic, bulbous breasts. I hate how they hang from my chest down to my stomach like an old woman’s, sagging like two sacks of flour from my shoulders. I hate that they force me into a hunch, making me look more grotesque than I already am. I hate that I have to wear a bra or my shoulders and back hurt.
I hate the way I jiggle with every step I take. Every molecule of fat in my body resonates with the shockwaves of my feet hitting the ground. Maybe it’s all this extra motion that’s really heating me up in the summer.
I hate my hair. How it breaks off and I have little pieces sticking up everywhere like I’m some child who got curious with a pair of scissors. I hate how the humidity frazzles it and blows it up like a goddamn A-bomb. I loathe how it curls up at the ends no matter how long it is or what the fuck I do with it.
I hate my thighs. Somewhere during college my they decided it would be cool to sweat and chafe painfully in the summer, making it virtually impossible to comfortably wear a skirt or a dress — which, ironically, would help me stay cooler.
I hate my face, how it can’t seem to decide whether it wants to be oval or heart-shaped, how my chin doubles up and sweat when I’m lying on my back.
I hate how my body never seems to respond the way I want it to. I can’t walk a couple of miles without feeling sweaty and miserable. I want it to get through a Muay Thai class — fuck, I would settle for getting through a warmup — without having to stop and catch my breath or without feeling like I’m going to hurl. I hate when I want to have sex but my body is “not in the mood.” Everything I do — or my fiance does — is wrong and mybody gives me a giant middle finger. I roll over and try to convince myself that Anthony isn’t disappointed — or that I’m not.
I hate the fact that I can’t eat whatever the fuck I want and not have to worry about getting fat and having the associated health concerns. I hate that by slipping up on healthy eating for only six months I bloated up eight pounds and gained an inch and a half on my waist. That’s not fucking fair. I can’t be perfect — why can’t my body cut me some fucking slack?
I hate that my pants don’t fit. I hate that most of my clothing looks terrible on me. I feel misshapen, lopsided. I hate seeing outfits and thinking “that’d look so great on me if I was smaller.” I hate not being able to wear pants on my hips. I hate that I can’t wear a summer dress and look good in it without having to put on heavy-duty underwear (read: bra or spanx), which, by the way completely defeats the point.
I miss having friends. Real friends, not people I watch drink whenever they feel inclined to invite me. Someone who might have gone shopping with me last week. Laughed with me, kept my mind off of how hot and miserable I was. I hate how all my attempts to reach out to people and make friends have ultimately failed.
I hate how I used to hate coming home alone at night and how now that’s all I really want to do. I hate how sometimes it seems like no matter what I do, even when I affectively make change, I will still be miserable. I hate that I’m afraid that if my fiance comes up to Philly, I’ll drag him down with me.
I hate that I spent my mile-and-a-half journey this afternoon thinking about what I would say at Dad’s funeral if he committed suicide. I hate that I did the most desperate thing I could to try and make him fix things with me, and he still doesn’t want to meet me half way.
It always seems to come back to that, doesn’t it?