Everybody has always had a say on my body. When I was younger, my mom would harp on about how I was too thin and claimed that I must have been secretly dieting – when I wasn’t. But uncles and aunties – and even my boyfriend at the time – were quick to jump on the bandwagon and repeated that I was too thin. So, just eat. Eat more. More. 

But not too much, my mom would add. Because nobody likes the other side of that coin either. 

Alas, I guess I was out of luck because, as I grew older, the number on the scale grew with me. 

“Is that Marsha? She looks bigger now,” a classmate from the past commented on a picture of me and our other friends on Path back in 2015. At that point, I still weighed only about 47kg, but I was already a few kilograms heavier – than my high-school self, and than my high-school friends, who had remained petite as they grew older. 

Even without her pointing it out, I was already self-conscious, especially about just how big my arms were. (Which was crazy, because now that I am even heavier, I can’t believe how small I was when I look back at photos from this period.) But even after Path became obsolete and was replaced by Instagram, her comment would still reverberate in my mind. 

Fast forward a few years, even when I thought I’d come so far where self-love and acceptance is concerned, I would still dread meeting certain friends and family members and getting offhand comments about my weight. It was not without reason. A year ago, for instance, at a gathering with some old friends, I was met with “You’re rounder!” for a greeting. And when I did not reply, that same friend repeated the comment after a while, clearly expecting a response. I tried to smile it away, then changed seats and counted each unbearable second until it was socially acceptable to call it a night. And even though I’ve kept my distance since then, I still hear her in my head from time to time.

With each echo, I would decide to adopt another workout routine. Or pay hundreds of dollars for a new fat-loss treatment. Or, the worst part, skip a meal or two that day, and for every day that followed… at least until my gastritis was triggered and I spent all day throwing up what little food I’d eaten. Then I would decide that it was not worth the pain and try to make peace, again, with how I looked. And on and on the carousel went. 

It’s not that I don’t know about body dysmorphia and eating disorders. I’ve read articles and social media posts about how culture and capitalism fuel them. A friend and content creator, Cath Halim, for instance, chronicled her own battle with these monsters on her page. 

But I never thought, or couldn’t believe, that I might struggle with the same thing because I didn’t think I’ve had it ‘as bad’. I am still able to look in the mirror and think to myself, hey, I look great today. I’ve never gone on all the fad diets and fastings. I still indulge in the occasional bubble tea and peanut butter waffle. And while I sometimes cut meals, I’ve never purposely tried to throw up my food – when I do vomit, it’s from my gastritis, I’d argue.  

But for the past few months or so, what used to be just an annoying little fly – buzzing in and out of my attention every now and then – has grown to be a huge, looming shadow. I am the most active I’ve ever been, with multiple dance classes a week, gym sessions, and daily walks. Heck, I can even deadlift a 35kg barbell, a feat I could never manage before. Yet, I can feel myself slowly but consistently outgrowing my clothes. The result? Near constant fear, bubbling deep under my consciousness, of not knowing why I’ve continued to gain weight and when it will stabilize. Will it ever stabilize? 

I’ve tried my best to find healthy ways to address it. I talked to my therapist. I saw a nutritionist and rejigged my diet, adding as much protein and fiber as I could. But when I saw no change, I despaired and resorted to the “easy” way: skipping meals and cutting portions, while maintaining the same level of physical activity. Only to find myself – unsurprisingly – falling sick every so often, without losing an inch of waist. 

As I spiraled, I did not dare share about my battle with any of my friends. I didn’t even want to admit to myself that I was struggling with something “as superficial as body weight”. As if there’s nothing more important going on in the world? Surely, I’m smarter and more secure than that. Yet, whether or not I wanted to admit it, the shadow loomed, and still does. 

Apart from cutting calories, the shadow has mostly manifested itself in seemingly harmless ways. Such as not feeling comfortable being photographed, unless I know for sure that I’ve dressed in such a way that will mask the extra pounds I put on. Or, avoiding meeting certain friends that I know are going to comment on my weight. 

But recently, I grew more and more concerned for not just how I look but also my health, and went to see a doctor specializing in weight control. He confirmed all of my worst fears. Not only did he tell me that I have lower-than-average muscle mass and a really high body fat percentage, but he also poked and pinched my arms commenting how big they are. He pointed at my legs, even though they were covered in loose-fitting slacks, and speculated that they are probably “just as big”. 

I could feel myself break then and there. It felt like, with just a few words, he erased all the hard work I’ve put in – all the exercises I did, all the “clean” meals I ate, and all the calories I cut. Before I knew it, I shelled out tens of millions of rupiah to get the procedure he recommended, which I’m scheduled to go through in December. 

After I came out of the stupor, I realized to my horror that I just gave away a big chunk of my savings for something that I convinced myself to believe “as superficial”, yet subconsciously allowed to run my life. I knew then that the issue ran deeper than I’d thought. That I need a support system. 

When I finally confided in my boyfriend (let’s call him The Tree Grower), he asked me why I feel the need to be thin. To my surprise, I didn’t even have to think; the answer came out readily from my lips. “I want to be perfect. In how I look, in everything that I do. I thought I was over my perfectionism, but I guess I’m not.”

“And why do you want to be perfect?”

“Because,” I said, my words caught in my throat. “That way people won’t have any reason to leave me. They always do.”

And in a funny turn of events, four days later, The Tree Grower did uproot himself and leave. But not because of my weight. (More on this later; way later when I have processed what happened. Perhaps.)

So, this is not a happy ending. No lessons learnt or cathartic conclusion yet. But at least I’ve made the first step towards the hope of recovery.

Here’s to giving ourselves even more grace than we think we need or deserve.

Credits:

Photographs from Pixabay and Stocksnap