Tag Archives: skinny

Words Of Wisdom From A Stick Insect

I shop at a very expensive yoga clothing store. As a ballet teacher, I wear that type of clothing 6 days a week for work and get a special discount there because of my position.

A few weeks ago I had a gift card to said store and went to buy a new yoga top and pants. I don’t try things on there. I just grab them in a size 6 and they fit***

I got home and put the yoga top on and it looked awful. The built-in bra didn’t cover my boobs – it fit in the band around my ribs, but the length of the material was just to short to comfortably cover everything and not squish them awkwardly. I was disappointed as the top looked pretty on the hanger, but I knew a size 8 would be too big around the ribs so I went to return it and get my money back.

“What was wrong with it?” the stick insect behind the counter asked as she rang through my exchange.

“It just looked lovely on the hanger but horrible on,” I responded without going into detail about how a 6 fits in the ribs, but doesn’t have enough material to contain my boobs.

She looked disparagingly at me, “yeah you do have to have that certain body type for this top.”

I think my jaw hit the floor.

She kept looking at me.

“Well obviously I just don’t have that body type,” I responded incredulously.

She smiled in mock sympathy, “I know what you mean.”

I took my money and left in disgust.

*** I used to be a size 2 or 4 in this store. Barfing at my own fatness.

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The Slow Fade

The comments started this week:

“You are so skinny.”

“She doesn’t eat.”

“You don’t look ok. Are you starving?”

“Aren’t you hungry? You’ve only had coffee all day.”

“It’s like you have ’empty’ tattooed on your forehead.”

I ignore them because I can be thinner still. I have only lost 11lbs since the beginning of June. I have many more to go…the slow fade, the long waste away, the disappearing act. I am emptying myself of disillusion, of sorrow. I am comforted in my distress by the dull ache of starvation and the acute pain of hunger. I need not to need; not to want. I know no other way, but this: no food will fill me with the love I cannot give myself. I, so undeserving, have looked for it in another. It eludes me like my bones which will not show themselves.

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The Numbers Game

The Numbers Game

The numbers tumble at first, falling rapidly, swirling past my stout calves, up along my tree-trunk thighs and settling on my broad, starving, ever-expanding stomach. The thrill of the numbers shrinking is a high no drugs could ever reproduce in me. I laugh from my double chins, my rolls shaking, heaving. I have done this before; I can do it again. I will do it a million times over if I must. The first few days are heady with delight and obsession like a new lover but an old love affair remembered. I am beside myself with starvation, with renewed determination to see the scale swing down to where my self-worth was last seen waiting for me. Perhaps my sanity will be there too?

After a few days they stop, stalling. A stalemate. We stare at each other; this is hostile territory. A new lover becomes an old enemy. Swords drawn at dawn after a night of purging, I step on the scale to weigh my loathing and self-hatred. The needle swings past numbers that I long for, that I dream of, that I want more than this life itself. They speed past – up, up, upwards to places, figures, sums that I know will eventually kill me with their truth. I would get on my knees and pray if it would help my quest for thin. Plateaus of pain, of discontent, of frustration and the foreshadowing of what will come. There will never be a consolation prize for fat.

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Hollow Girls

Hollow Girls

They are concave, made of bones and sinews and tired muscles. Their feet are over arched and much abused as they float across the stage, ethereal and see-through. Clavicles and scapulae are on display for all to see. Chest bones, rib bones, hip bones poke through scanty costumes. Tutus and tiaras on skeletons. They sit pale and wasted through rehearsals. Not all, but many. Some wear their thinness like a badge of honour. Others follow them with envious eyes. They stare at their reflections in too many mirrors. Those asked to lose weight take note of their fraying forms. They have made the leap towards perfection.

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She’s not that skinny, is she?

She’s not that skinny, is she?

This article published in Psychology Today is for all the people who suffer but don’t look sick to others.

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