plethora

a reflection (tw: body dysmorphia)

you stand in front of the mirror. 

a fat little girl, age nine. your jeans are too tight, the waistband digs into your skin and it stings, it stings like bees. it stings like short, ragged nails being raked on flesh you didn't ask for. you feel like an engorged pupa struggling to get out of its cocoon  and your body feels like a water balloon being squeezed, but it doesn't pop. it's not popping. 

you stand in front of the mirror. 

it is a cruel, cruel emotionless executioner. you're twelve now. you're in the bathroom. just minutes ago, the great aunt you were so excited to see sat down next to you and put a hand on your lap, smiling, and asked why you couldn't be as skinny as your cousin over there. no one will love you if you look like this, she said. 

you walked so calmly to your parent's bedroom. you shut the door so gently. your books are on the bed, just as you had left them. you were interested in becoming a doctor, so you tell yourself that maybe you're just big-boned, that you're like this because you're unbreakable. you loved drinking milk. maybe, if you punched this wall, it would crumble. like sand. 

you stand in front of the mirror. 

you're a teenager now. you can now browse the juniors section. they don't have your size. you go to the men's section. maybe you weren't born to be dainty. besides, boys don't get insulted when they're fat. they're loved, especially when they're funny. their cheeks get pinched. their hair gets ruffled. in the midst of the department store, you become a half-morph. when you go to school the next day, you learn that it's called butch. 

you stand in front of the mirror.

someone tells you that if you want to lose weight that badly, then you should work for it. that's why all you've done today is exercise. you jump and squat and thrust, but then your reflection catches your eye and you stop. who are you kidding? 

you stand in front of the mirror.  

it's been a year, now. you're 14. we don't talk about this year. 

you stand in front of the mirror. 

today was the day you ran your first mile. well, walked for the most part, but you did it. it's been years since you really looked at your body. to you, it seems like something along the lines of an animal that had just been struck dead. it's terrible, but you shouldn't look. you want to look. you shouldn't look. later, you ask your mother if you were adopted. she finds you flipping through the pages of all the photo albums. for all his years of life, your brother has always been slim, always been scrawny. 

you stand in front of the mirror. 

it takes some effort, but you palm the expanse of your torso. with your fingers, you prod at the silver stretch marks adorning your thighs and your sides. they look like liquid stars. for the first time in years, you make eye contact with the one person you've always been scared to see. your eyes are not the almost-black of that of your friends, but something lighter. if someone were in kissing distance, they'd see pools of brown sugar. it takes some effort, and you're scared, and all of this feels like the first time you went to confession, but you tell yourself that you're beautiful. 

you stand in front of the mirror. 

you have a boyfriend, now. when he tells you that you are beautiful, you don't doubt him. 

you are no longer in front of the mirror. 

you're a year away from being an adult, now. 17. you've lost thirty pounds and when you stretch, your ribs sort of poke out a little. you've been getting a lot of good comments lately, but when your mom's friend tells her niece that she should be more like you, something breaks inside of you. there is a fear in her eyes you haven't seen in yourself for years. the need to protect her tightens your fists. comparisons are not compliments, you say loudly to your mom, but not to your mom. 

you are no longer in front of the mirror. 

a boy flirts with you. you don't flirt back. 

you are no longer in front of the mirror. 

you are 17 now, but at times you feel like you're 9, 12, 13, 14, and 15, and that's okay because you are 17. the numbers don't matter that much anymore. there is no weight to your worth. you are not bones and sharp angles, neither are you muscle and sinew, but soft expanse. because your hips are wide, you usually have to go a size up. this doesn't bother you anymore. 

you look at yourself in the mirror.  

you decide that you wouldn't change a thing.