A Second Glance

I had the very first Barbie ever made – black & white striped bathing suit, plastic hair. She had a huge chest, a tiny waist, long legs and miniature feet.

Twiggy was the supermodel of the day. Flat chested, no hips and lots of mascara. I wanted to look just like her.

When I was in 5th grade, I developed a chest. My brother continuously made fun of me, and so did my classmates. I had been a competitive swimmer before that, but I was embarrassed to wear a bathing suit, so I quit.

My mom used to tell me how, when I was 6 mos old, the pediatrician had put me on a diet, “even though I didn’t feed you differently than your brother”.

Those are the roots of the poor self-image that I’ve carried with me all of my life. I’m genetically disposed to gain weight (BOTH grandmothers) and starved myself for 30 years so that I could wear a size 6 (which is hard to do if you have a 38″ chest). For years, I took a Dexatrim along with my multivitamin for breakfast, had a diet Coke for lunch, and usually salad for supper. I envied a friend of mine who was bulimic (I tried it, but I hate vomiting) and used to periodically wish I was anorexic so that I wouldn’t LIKE food. I was cranky and bitchy – but I looked great.

When I was 44 years old, I was diagnosed with dysthymia, a chemical imbalance-induced mild depression. I was put on a low dose of antidepressants and guess what? One of the side effects was weight gain. When I complained to the psychiatrist, his response was that I could either gain weight or be depressed – it was my choice.

I still periodically gain and lose the same 25 lbs, but at the age of 54, after open-heart surgery, I am starting to become more accepting of this body that I’ve abused most of my life. I am actively trying to foster a sense of confidence and self-esteem in my 9-year old granddaughter and my 21-year old niece so that they never rely on popular culture and media to tell them what they should look like.