Isis Winters is a mid-twenties common girl struggling with self image and finding the right confidence to live on with her life. Her husband doesn't make things much easier, with his persistent attitude and the harsh way he tells her to change the w...
TW: This story contains themes of body dysmorphia and self harm. Please click off if you are sensitive to any of these. Thank you.
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Isis Winters
Skin and bones. Twig. Toothpick. Unhealthy. Anorexic. All of these are just a few of the names I've been assigned over the years.
Growing up I was a lanky kid, moving through life like a windmill of long appendages attached to pointy elbows and knees. Now, in my late 20s I've filled out a bit but am still naturally slim.
When I was younger I laughed off comments about my weight, knowing that I was still growing, but now they really bother me. Instead of being greeted with a typical "How are you?" when hugging friends hello, I often hear, "You're skin and bones. You need to eat." This statement insinuates that I don't take care of myself. In my mind I reply, "You know I eat. All we do is eat when we hang out. My body hasn't changed in the five years we've known each other."
Outwardly I smile and move on with other conversation. After all they don't mean to offend me. But would these same friends instruct me to consume a few less calories a day if I was curvy? Definitely not.
And to make things worse, it's not any easier growing up in a black household, although it's not easy at all. In my teenage years, I would try to avoid family functions in fear of getting the constant repetitive "When you gon' get some meat on them bones?" Or the questioning about my dating life and blaming my inability to find a boyfriend on my body shape.
Then there's society's view that skinny people can't feel insecure. Beauty standards have exclusions and the beauty standard does not determine whether or not somebody will make fun of your looks. Yet, of course, bigger people have it worse, so skinny people shouldn't say anything at all, right? Apparently the longevity another group's issues determines the urgency of ours. Sick.
Then my husband... Oh, my husband. Two years, dated for four. I don't know what he seen in me. I'm not sure if he knows himself, considering the fact that he acts like he doesn't know. I've never opened up to him about these insecurities, afraid I would get another stupid response like I have for the past 27 years. But he surely doesn't make them any better...
"Fuck..." I moaned out as I kept my frail arms latched onto his neck. He was mostly silent, lowly grunting here and there. The look on his face while he thrusted told me that his mind was wandering.
Suddenly he regained focus and began to go faster, which wasn't what I wanted at all. Why won't men ever just listen when we tell them how to please us?
"Baby, can you slow down?" I said breathlessly.
"I'm almost there." He grunted as he didn't change the pace. What was supposed to be pleasing about this? I didn't know having sex was a one way street now, but maybe I'm behind on the times.
He pulled out of me and released on my stomach, groaning with his head turned back. I was silent, what exactly was I supposed to do here? He grabbed a towel and tossed it towards me before slipping his boxers back on and flopping down beside me. I furrowed my brows and sat up, looking over at his back that was turned to me.
