Monsters of Our Own Making

Posted: March 29, 2013 | Author: Emily | Tags: body-image, self-worth, traveling | Leave a comment »

When I got accepted into a semester abroad program in Italy, I was instantly worried about two things. 1) There would only be 16 students including me, and what if I didn’t mesh with any of them? 2) We had breakfast and lunch prepared for us with dinner on our own, and I was worried about eating more than anyone else in the small kitchen used for dinner meals that I saw in pictures of where we would stay.
Both of these self-conscious fears were routed in prior college experiences. My freshman year I took a spring break trip with a school choir. We traveled to Colorado and back singing at churches along the way. I wasn’t close to anyone in the choir and often found myself alone on breaks. One night, in the family home of another member, they put two girls on a bed and me on an air mattress in the same room. I asked the girls if we were going to stay up and talk. They said they were tired and would probably just go to sleep. Instead they stayed up whispering to each other. I eventually moved the air mattress out into the hallway.
The next day we traveled for hours on our tour bus, and I stared out the window and cried the entire way. I felt like something must have been wrong with me that set me apart. I had the tendency of getting too deep, complimenting people in ways that were beyond our shallow acquaintance level, and other such issues that seemed to make people uncomfortable. I felt that day like I would struggle with connections to people the rest of my life.
My emotional connection to food started early. My father was gone a lot and would compensate by bringing my brother and I treats – chocolate muffins and smoothies, or taking us to Dairy Queen on weekends at home. I related affection to sweets.
I was taller than most girls I grew up with and a little chubby with chipmunk cheeks and rounded thighs. Most girls I hung out with were gangly or petite cheerleaders with small waistlines.
My creative brain was a conundrum to friends growing up. They’d often comment that I was weird. I had the tendency to start in the middle of a thought and forget to catch someone up. I was young and didn’t know how to articulate the crazy things going on in my head yet. This was one of the biggest reasons I took up writing, to slow down my thoughts and piece them together.
I began slowly to blame the isolation I felt on my size. It seemed easier to handle this than if there was something wrong with my personality. I also didn’t fit the “Teen Magazine” model of beauty. I wore bigger sizes than all of my friends, so I was already set apart physically.
With this physical blame for my isolation and an early tendency to emotionally eat, I was paranoid that my eating habits would further segregate me.
Early on in my semester abroad, I said something at the wrong time and a few people laughed at me. I felt like my fear was already coming true. I felt found out. They knew I was indeed too weird.
After a comforting conversation with our resident advisor, it became my goal during this semester to become comfortable with myself. I wanted to go home with a renewed confidence in who I was.
One episode really jarred me and made me realize how far I’d let my self-identity slip from ideal. I was on a train with three friends heading back from a long weekend holiday that had gone really well. I was sitting opposite the three of them, and I looked over and they were all quiet and peaceful, staring out the window or sleeping. I thought to myself, I’d love to hug them now. And instantly an inner voice said, You’re too big to hug.
I still remember the image in my head in that moment of me as a giant looming over these petite women. Of course, I was taller and curvier than all three of them. Of course, I was the heaviest girl on the trip – this seemed to be my lot often enough.
But the thought felt like an evil intruder, like a slimy creature with claws and sharp teeth that kids picture crawling out of their closet. And I’d created him.
That semester I journaled, read novels, worked out at a local gym, wrote music on my guitar, spent a lot of time with a couple of girl friends I made in spite of my fear that it wouldn’t happen. I worked on vanishing the monster I’d created by nurturing myself and the things I loved about myself.

The last night before we flew home, a group of us decided it was pointless to sleep. We piled into one room to chat on each other’s beds. I said I thought it would be fun to go around the room and say one word we felt like described each other.
These women had only one word for me. It was the only unanimous decision that night. They said woman. They said they were impressed by my maturity and self-confidence. That I seemed grown up to them in a way they admired.
I was shocked and proud, and I carry it with me always in the space the monster used to reside.
In moments like that it feels like the war should be over. My battle to a full and healthy self-confidence should’ve been complete. But of course it isn’t. Other moments where someone says I need to lose weight or that I’m weird still break into my heart through a tender opening. And other moments still are caused by self-criticism.
But it was a victory nonetheless. Never again have I felt too big to be hugged or had any other similar thought. Orvieto is where I studied that semester, so I’ll call it The Battle of Orvieto, where Emily slayed the ugly beast and became a woman.

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