When I was in high school I weighed an average of 144 pounds and wore a size 7 or 9 jean. I had some “skin rolls” or that extra stomach fat most adults talk about as being “unacceptable”. At the time I didn’t think much of it until one day I heard the words that would change my innocent image of myself into one that I saw as horrid and imperfect. The words that came out of my own mothers mouth, “Mira esto que tienes aqui, necesitas perder de peso Kendra no te miras bien.” Whats those words meant, for those who don’t know Spanish, is, “Look at this you have here, you need to lose weight Kendra, you don’t look good.” My own mother was judging me.
I was never the heaviest in my family. My brother, who was 15 at the time, weighed over 250 pounds; my father, 46, weighed about 210; my older sister, 20, weighed about 190. So you see, I wasn’t really overweight, just had body fat. Yet to my mother it was just, fat. As you know, or should know, many teens wake up and the first thing they think of is, “Oh my God, I can’t leave this room looking like this!” Self image is important to us, or so that’s what society wants us to think. We must always look our best. Well in my case I also thought this way, waking up extra early to pick out my outfit (somehow making different varieties of a blue and khaki pant with white shirt; our school dress code). Then of course my hair, it had to be extra perfect. I’d flat iron it for about twenty minutes max until I thought it was perfect, then all the other miscellaneous things that come along; shoe selection, make-up, a nice sweater (if needed), etc. Once I felt I looked at my prime, I’d walk out of my glorious room doors to trot down the stairs thinking and feeling as confident as ever. I compared my glorious trot to the cat walk I would see on television with the stylish models looking as confident as ever. That’s how I felt.
When I finally decided to end my imaginary cat walk, I ended up at the bottom of the stairs ready to breakfast. As I poked around the fridge I could hear my mom walking towards the kitchen, her room was about 10 ft away, and heard her mumble something. I can’t recall what it was but it caused me to jerk up when I heard it again and could feel my mom tugging on my sides. I got up and asked, “What?” Then she said, “Look at this. What is this?” I looked down and she was grabbing my tummy. I of course declared what she was doing. I tried to move away but in every direction I moved to she just wouldn’t stop. “Look at this fat”, is what I would hear over and over. My high confidence was shot down in an instance. I felt ugly and that once glorious image I had, had been erased and replaced by a Mrs. Potato head doll.
I couldn’t believe my ears. My mom was ridiculing me. Although in her mind it wasn’t a big deal, in my mind it shot my self esteem down to an all time low. Every day from then on, when I came down the stairs, she would tug at my stomach or just make a small comment. I felt belittled. In my eyes my mom was suppose to be the one who always told me I was beautiful, the one who always loved me the way I was. Unfortunately she wasn’t. Day after day, my mornings were filled with demeaning words.”Why don’t you work out”, she said. “Why don’t you stop eating junk food?” I was only a teenager! I was supposed to be able to eat what I wanted, not worry, and just enjoy my young years but all throughout the day all I could think of was, ‘Should I eat that?’ or ‘Do I look fat?’. It was a never ending cycle of stormy thoughts backed by my mother’s voice constantly nagging at me. I felt trapped and unwanted. If my mother didn’t think I was pretty then who else would.
After being told to lose weight every single day, one day something clicked inside me, like a ticking time bomb when it finally explodes, and I just changed everything. I wouldn’t eat for days and when I did eat it was only small bites not even suitable for a baby’s appetite. In order to please my mother, I joined the tennis team to try and lose weight. Those vexatious words turned into appalling actions. I denied myself the pleasures of home cooked meals and ignored my roaring stomach to fit into that skinny image my mother imprinted into my brain. On occasion my mother would buy small jeans for me and asked if they would fit and I would say yes, even though I knew they wouldn’t but somehow in my mind I would make them fit to please my mother. After months of denying my body all the gratifying jumbo jacks I loved so much, all the chocolate donuts dipped in milk, all the chips with salsa I loved to eat right when I got home from school, and those midnight snacks I loved to death, I found out I had lost over fifty pounds. For my height, 5’6’’, my normal weight range was supposed to be around 140. I now weighed 94 pounds. My bones were visible, my face was flaccid, I was pale, and I looked sick. Yet in my eyes I was glorious again. I was that girl trotting down the runway. Now that I got my mother to stop nagging me about my weight I felt happy again. I was me again, with a different look, but me. Or so I thought.
After passing into my junior year, I was still keeping myself as small as I could. I ate only small soups and salads; nothing heavy or solid. My friends began to notice and asked if something was wrong with me. I replied, “Of course not, I look great!” they gave me bizarre looks but I ignored them all. I felt alive. No more voices in my head telling me what to do. No more mom pulling at my stomach.
While I thought I looked fantastic, I started to notice others around me gossiping and starring but I hadn’t the slightest idea of what it could be. Finally one day, my good friend pulled me aside and told me everything. She said, “What’s wrong with you? Are you okay? You’re too skinny its scaring me?” I responded with, “What are you saying? I’m fine. I look great.” From then on I felt that insecure feeling again I had gotten from my mother but it was different this time. It was a feeling of shame. One day in my room, in the confines of my tan walls and inviting lighting, I stared into the mirror and saw finally what everyone else saw. I was a skeleton. I looked weak and pale. I looked like I had no energy. Finally, I was beginning to realize what my mother had done to me. Her horrid words went deep inside my skulls into the central works of my innocent mind. I began to cry and release the storm of emotions I had hidden inside. Who was this person I had molded myself into? This wasn’t me after all. I wanted to be myself again. I wanted to be that curvy girl who wasn’t afraid not to look like the swim team girls, with flat stomachs, or the chearleaders with sculpted legs. I knew what I had to do now.
I confronted my mother and explained to her how she had hurt me all those years. Surprisingly she had not the slightest idea. She began to sob and ask for my forgiveness. We hugged as tightly as we could for what seemed like hrs. It was the best two minutes of my life. I realized I had to love myself for what I was, not what anyone else wanted me to be. If I was born to be curvy and have some belly fat or cellulite, then so be it! I would love me for me. My self confidence couldn’t be tampered with. As for my mother, I taught her to love me too as a real mother should.
At the end of my senior year I was back again to my 144 pound, size 7 to 9 pant, belly fat, curvy shaped girl I once was proud to be and I was darn proud of it. No more denying myself my favorite foods or ignoring the loud rumbles my stomach would make. I was truly a glorious girl again trotting down the steps of happiness.