STORY OF A BODY (TW: eating disorder, self-harm)

I am a somewhat rounded woman (yes, I'm fine with that, round).

I've been round before in my life, as I've been skinny, very skinny, fat, standard.

To whom I was each of these things is relative.

But no one has ever stopped from pointing this out.

As a woman I often have the impression that my body does not belong to me. Like it was public property, everyone has the right to have a judgment on what my body is and what it should represent.

I tell you this with all the respect in the world ..but what about minding your own business?

It is fascinating.

At what point is your life uninteresting that you feel the need to criticize, make judgments, give advice about MY body?

What if I told you I'm fine like this? That I don't need you to tell me "look you're okay it's pregnancy hormones just a little sport or eat healthy ..." but sorry, who asked you anything?

I say I am round. Or fat.

I know what I experienced, how my body was built, marked, enlarged or diminished.

Chiara Vercesi Illustrator

I know my story.

I know what it means to spend your life measuring yourself, weighing yourself, controlling yourself, pinching yourself, cutting yourself. Destroying yourself.

This body that you see and that you allow yourself to judge and point out and analyze; this body is a survivor.

For years, food has been a weapon for me. An enemy.

A friend, a shadow, a terror.

 I grew up in a body that always seemed to take up too much space in comparison to others.

It wasn't a weight problem at first.

 I remember being at the table with the whole family.

My parents who jokingly used to tell me that I am "a vacuum cleaner"; "a whale"; my mother smiled at me telling me about the beautiful dress that she wanted to buy me but couldn't because it certainly wouldn't fit. 

I remember a little mini-me who wakes up in the middle of the night in a sudden anguish, in a corner of my brain a small voice that keeps whispering "go eat, go eat that thing there in the fridge waiting for you." I got up , I opened the fridge, tried not to make noise and grabbed that thing there that I had seen during the day and that maybe I knew that I should eat the next day with my family or that it was destined for my father's lunch but I had to eat it now, immediately

Alone.

In the dark.

In secret.

And when I was done, I walked in the corridors of the house feeling heavy.

In the belly, in the head.

 And so I went to make a prayer, a special prayer, dirty, sweaty, strained.

 I used to go to pray in the bathroom.

And when I had finished exhausted, trembling, empty, it all started all over again.

Over time my body has shrunk, taken up less space, hid, became more discreet.

Over time, food no longer became a problem because I simply stopped feeding.

And then I got thin and everyone was happy for me. Everyone except me.

Over time I started teasing my body, playing with objects forbidden to children with sharp points, to be sure I still felt something or perhaps to feel something real, tangible, visible, understandable.

Something other than that dull pain that oppressed my heart.

Over time my mind tried to kill me. My body has rebelled against itself.

Over time my body has learned to love and respect itself; to take up space, as much as it needs, as much as it wants, as much as it deserves

My body gave me the most magical gift.

My body gave me my daughter.

So yes, now I'm a round woman, fat even.

The problem is yours if you perceive it so much as an insult that you need to comfort me saying that it's okay and then maybe it passes.

But I KNOW it's okay.

And even if it doesn't pass, that's okay.

Don't stick your complexes on me.

I've had enough all my life.

Try to stop and think, either way you will never know what is behind a body, so leave women and their bodies alone.

Go eat yourself a pizza.

Stop. Oh.