I was seven years old, sitting on my knees on a barstool in my grandmother's kitchen, leaning across the butcher block countertop and eating green grapes from a bowl, my prepubescent stomach uncovered by my t-shirt because I was stretching to reach the fruit. My aunt came up behind me and put her hands around my waist.
“How are you doing, skinny minnie?” She asked me, innocently and fondly.
I do not remember what I said to her but I remember feeling confused. I did not feel skinny. I felt my childish, round belly was evidence of weight I needed to lose. I was not on a diet, I did not know how to go on a diet, or really what a diet was. I knew that women were supposed to be skinny, that I was supposed to be skinny and that I somehow was not skinny enough. I felt lied to and misled, I did not like the idea that she would call me a nickname that did not suit me. (Looking back at photos, I was a skinny child. Even when we’re young, it’s difficult to see ourselves as we appear to others. I know that I am now, and have been for most of my life, a conventionally attractive, reasonably thin person. I can write only of my experience and my relationship with myself. I know, intellectually, that I am fairly fortunate in the looks department.)
This is one of my earliest, fully formed memories. The first time I was aware my body took up space. I have very few memories of my childhood and many of the ones I have are about food or my body. Hyper-awareness of my physical form has lived in the forefront of my consciousness for at least twenty-six years.
Some other moments that live with me as I walk and stretch and eat and sleep:
I was eighteen years old, new to Manhattan. Dressed in a fringed maroon mini skirt and some sort of a tank top. Standing near the velvet rope line outside of Butter, the now defunct nightclub near Astor Place. The doorman repeatedly came out the front doors, pointed to people standing around the ropes and escorted them in. After a half dozen or so passes without eye contact with me or my friends the bouncer, meaning to be kind said, “all of you ladies are my type but this is the city and,” pointing to me, “she’s country thick.” My face was swollen because of my chronic bulimia, I was already insecure and even passing comments devistated me. I was hospitalized for conditions related to my bulmia about a month later.
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I was considerably older than eighteen, past the eating disorders and the treatment centers that plagued me in the following few years. In a relationship, fighting with the man I was dating about the level of affection in our relationship. “I think you need to consider, Hannah, based on your age, weight, and appearance how much anyone is ever going to want to fuck you.” And as an additional jab, “I guess some men will just fuck anything.” It’s difficult, maybe impossible, for me not to internalize comments like that.
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“Why do you have two scales?” An almost boyfriend asked me several months ago, while I sat at my vanity lining my eyes.
“Because I had an eating disorder and I cannot give up the scales.” I told him, annoyed.
“Don’t they say the same thing?”
“Scales can vary in their precision and accuracy.”
“I think I should be on a diet.”
“There is nothing more unattractive to me than a man on a diet.”
“That’s a double standard.”
“I know.”
“You would look great if you lost another ten pounds.”
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I stopped drinking in April and the way I look changed quickly and significantly. I lost weight without trying, my skin improved, my inflammation went down, redness I had not noticed existed disappeared from my cheeks and arms. I took photos of my face and made side by side comparisons of the changes to my appearance. I brought it up in every conversation with my friends. My girls, I could not shut up about myself. “Sobriety is great, look at my skin.” “I’ve lost two inches off my waist, I haven’t even lost any weight.” A few weeks into my constant vain narration of the minutiae of my appearance I was at dinner with my sister, blabbing on about how hot I was going to be if I kept off the sauce.
“You know, Hannah.” She said, looking serious. “I do not care how hot you are. To me, the way you look is the least interesting thing about you.” I knew she was right and it made me want to cry—out of a mix of frustration (Of course, I don’t think it’s interesting either, but all of my life experiences have told me it’s an important—perhaps the most important—thing about me) and embarrassment (I don’t want to be this superficial and self obsessed). Instead of being vulnerable or honest, I was defiant. I fed her some bullshit about how motivation was important and she should not say anything that negatively impacts my sobriety. I believe I called her selfish and then apologized on our walk home.
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