I Remember

    You can't hate yourself into loving yourself. I wish someone would have emphasized this to me when I started having body image issues at the age of 8. This one goes out to all the mean girls--especially to the biggest mean girl of them all, myself.

    I remember being 8 years old with long brown hair in a blue floral bikini at the Chandler Park pool on a scorching summer day. I remember going up to my mom asking for a quarter for the pop machine, so I could get a can of Dr. Pepper. And I remember the lady she was talking with saying, "Oh, this is your daughter! She's so skinny and tan. She could be a little model." I was a normal, 8 year old girl in a bathing suit who had never given much thought to her weight or appearance and didn't quite know how to receive this "compliment." This moment. This exchange is what I feel all of the issues with my body image come back to. Where they're rooted. It's weird how one second the world is innocent. Then, all of a sudden you become self aware, hyper aware, critical, and insecure. It's funny; I don't even remember this woman--really remember her.  I can't even picture her face, but I remember her words. Words stick with you. Words have power and weight. As Maya Angelou once said, "Some day I think we will be able to measure the power of words. I think they are things. They get on the walls. They get in your wallpaper. They get in your rugs, in your upholstery, and your clothes, and finally in to you." The words got to me.

    The first person that I heard use negative language toward their own body, specifically, was my Momma. My Momma is tall and fair skinned. She has bouncy blonde hair that can often be found swept up out of her way. Nothing gets in my mom's way. Not even her hair. She is brown eyed and long nosed. She wears her jewelry like a badge of honor never going anywhere without it. She would look naked to me if I ever saw her without at least one set of earrings, a necklace, and two rings on. She likes jeans, white tennis shoes, hoodies, fuzzy socks, and flouncy blouses. She is my mother. She is strong and beautiful.

My beautiful Momma

    I idolized my mother growing up--I still do. For many girls, they learn self loathing from the women that raise them or just women in general. Whether it be consciously or unconsciously. My Momma is a beautiful strong woman who uses her body every day to work, move, and help people--to help herself, family, and customers. But, I can remember that strong woman being broken down in a dressing room staring at the number or letter(s) on the label of a piece of clothing. I remember. We have all been this woman.  Why do we, strong women, do this to ourselves? 

    I, of course, don't blame the women in my life for thinking of themselves negatively. I don't blame them for it rubbing off on me. I blame society's rigid ideals of women. I blame the magazines, tv shows, and movies. I blame the media. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't dislike all things to do with society and the media--though it may seem that way considering my constant outcry for change. But, the way women are discussed as fragile and delicate (which it is okay to be), and the way women's bodies are discussed and treated, particularly, are the issues that get me fired up. Females are strong as hell. We are so much more than our jean or shirt size. We are moms, teachers, helpers, doers, artists, coaches, lovers, fighters, and so much more. We are women. 

Art by me, Stacy Hall. Quote from the Unbreakable
Kimmy Schmidtt

    I can recall being about 10 or 11 sitting in my mom's beaten down maroon Nissan outside of the Dollar General gaping at the town's homecoming issue of the paper. Staring at the homecoming court and just crying. Crying my eyes out, and telling my mom, "I'll never be one of THOSE girls, will I Momma?" 

    I remember being in the bathroom in 8th grade and having a group of girls tell me, "I wish I could be as skinny as you, Stacy." While when I looked in the mirror, I saw a distorted image of myself.  What they didn't know was that I was too sad to eat. I could control my eating; I couldn't control my surroundings.  

    I can recall being in the 9th grade sitting by myself at lunch eating nothing, being a hundred pounds of skin and bones, writing in a journal while I tried to avoid the eye contact of everyone around me. I remember my Momma being so scared running into the bathroom when I choked on my toothbrush brushing my tongue thinking that I was throwing up what little food I ate. I never did throw up for the record. 

    I can remember sitting on the white and purple floral duvet cover of the extra long twin bed in my dorm room Sophomore year while two of my "friends" sat in the floor and discussed how they had both eaten two cookies today, and they couldn't believe how fat they felt. I also remember them making fun of the size XL shirts they found at Walmart that they said fit them like dresses. I was an XL.  They knew this.  I remember wanting to do nothing but eat a whole container of cookies after they left I was so angry. I remember eating the cookies.

    I have been thin. I have been fat. I remember under eating or eating nothing. I remember telling my parents I was practicing "portion control." I remember binge eating during finals week my Junior year of college, avoiding studying, watching Dawson's Creek, and crying about how messed up my idea of self was. How I didn't know who I was or how I'd ever be happy.

    I remember last summer at 24, having my husband take photos of me in my cute outfits, because I happened to one day come across a post of someone who looked like me with the hashtag "body positivity." I remember finally not being angry at my body anymore. I remember learning to stop hating myself. I remember my journey. It's important not to forget. I am so glad that I finally realized after more than half of my life that you can't hate yourself into loving yourself.

Thanks for reading,

Stacy