Exposure Therapy: Part 1

My path to accepting my body

I hate summer.

I joke that it’s because I work full time, so it’s not like my life changes all that much, except that in addition to working full time, during the summer I also get to pay for full-time childcare and all the extra lunches and snacks that the girls don’t get at school. But really, I hate summer because of the weather. Every year when the weather starts to get warmer, I feel myself start to internally freak out. Every year when the weather gets warmer, I know that soon I will have to wear different clothes—clothes that show more of my body than I show in the cooler months. I love fall and winter and the cozy, all-encompassing clothes that come with the crisp temperatures. I love feeling swallowed up by a sweater or wrapping myself in an oversized cardigan or burrowing my hands deep into the pockets of a hoodie.

Turtlenecks? Love ‘em!

Flannel shirts? Yes, please!

Long dressings layered with leggings? Sign me up!

Swimsuits? Ye…wait…what? Nope.

Nope.

NOPE.

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I don’t remember when I first decided that my body wasn’t good, but it was a very long time ago. Definitely before I hit age ten. Even at a young age it didn’t take me long to notice that I was shaped differently than my peers. Or maybe someone else pointed it out for me. What came first—the teasing or the crippling insecurity? My memory is fuzzy, but regardless, at some point in my young existence, the voice in my head turned on me.

Your belly is a lot rounder than hers. You are so ugly.

Look at how bouncy her curls are! Too bad your hair is hideous.

Are you really going on stage in that dance leotard? Don’t you know what people will think?

I became hyper-fixated on the appearance of every girl around me. Was she smaller than me? Did she have prettier eyes? A smaller nose? Skinny legs? Did people like her better?

(I don’t think I need to tell you that the answer to all these questions was always yes.)

I started scanning rooms as I entered them, my eyes hunting for someone who was bigger than I was. Every now and then, I’d spot someone, and I’d breathe a little easier, as if to say, “Okay, I’m not the only one.”

I began to hate feeling my skin pressed up against my clothing. I didn’t want pants that were too snug or shirts that were too fitted. The baggier the better. I couldn’t wear the clothes all the cool girls wore anyway, so what did it matter?

You will never fit in.

You will never look good in anything.

You will never measure up. Why even try?

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For years after college, shorts were anathema, as were sleeveless shirts or dresses. Even though I have lived in Tennessee my whole life—where it is infernally hot for far too many months of the year—I did all I could not to wear shorts or skirts that hit above my knees, even if it meant being sweaty and uncomfortable. I told myself it was the price I paid not to feel exposed, not to feel judged, not to feel self-conscious or rejected or unwanted. If I did happen to wear a sleeveless dress, I made sure to cover up my flabby arms and stretch marks with a cardigan so as not to repulse an unsuspecting person. My aim was to make everyone else as comfortable with my appearance as possible, and to me that meant hiding all of the parts I deemed unacceptable and unappealing. The only problem was, that list kept growing.

When I finally managed to lose 90 pounds over the course of 2 years late in my twenties, I thought my problems were over. But I didn’t shed my insecurity or self-hatred with the extra pounds. I looked in the mirror and still found fault with almost everything I saw looking back at me. I wore shorts, but only bermuda ones, so my thighs wouldn’t show. The few times I had to don a bathing suit found me with knotted-up insides, and it was hard to enjoy being in the water with friends or family when all I could think about was how fat I still must look.

You need to lose more weight. Then you would feel better.

You have to work out extra hard this week. You have to earn that dessert on vacation!

You just need to be a couple sizes smaller. It’s worth all the sacrifices to feel amazing in your body!

“You know I will love you no matter what size you are, right?” my husband would ask/tell me, over and over, as many times as he thinks I need to hear it. I would nod, trying to remind myself that his love for me is deep and lasting, not dependent upon the number on the scale or the size of my jeans. I told myself I am one of the lucky ones; he married me when I was very heavy, so he knew what he was getting, right?

What I didn’t tell him is that I don’t know if I can love me no matter what size I am, that I don’t know if God does either.

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In November 2020, I took a hammer to our home scale. I smashed and smashed, startled at how sturdy this cheap piece of equipment was, at how many times I had to wield my weapon. Finally, its display was shattered and it lay broken and useless on the ground. I felt, for the first time in ages, a little bit of freedom.

In therapy I wept as I talked about little Erin in that dance leotard and how sad and inadequate she felt. I talked about how I tried to hide behind my grades and my smile (“You have the best smile,” said everyone ever). I talked about how I wanted to apologize just for taking up space in a room. I thought I was taking up more than my fair share.

It had never occurred to me that I didn’t need to apologize for existing.