An Open Letter: "It Must Be Nice"

To everyone who has responded to my weight with “it must be nice”:

When I rejoiced in my 2 pound gain and my ability to finish a sandwich, or lamented in my body’s stubborn refusal to keep those pounds on or to allow me to eat a normal amount at meals, and you looked at me with some mixture of annoyance, disdain, and disbelief and said “must be nice”, I know it was a joke. Really, I do. But the fact is, every “what a good problem to have”, every “you won’t always have to worry about that”, every “wish I could fill up that fast”, and every “you’re so lucky” makes me want to first rage and then cry. Don’t you understand? I see it! I see the glorification of the body type I was given – this petite thing with not too many curves. Wider culture has told me I am the ideal, or one of them at least. That my steady 113 pounds is something to celebrate, if not try to diminish to an even  110.

But while people around me struggle to drop that 5, 15, 20, 60 pounds; while you starve yourselves; while you count calories; while you imagine a world where you are finally the weight you believe you should be?

 I am weak. I get tired so much faster than you do. I stuff myself on 3 inches of sandwich, so full I could throw up, and two hours later I’m so hungry it feels like I could faint. Stress, instead of making me want to each piles of junk food, makes me so sick I can’t eat anything, and I go days eating just enough to keep moving – which for reference, is less in a day than you eat in one meal. When I stop paying attention and just eat whatever sounds good, I get anemic – nauseous, weak, tired, unstable, sore, irrational, incapable, dysfunctional.

So you know what must be nice?

Just one meal, being able to eat as much as I really want. Not feeling like I have to budget my intake – making sure what little I manage to eat keeps me moving. Feeling strong, instead of breakable. Being able share clothes with my friends. Being able to eat sugar! Enjoying cookies and brownies and cake and ice cream like every other girl my age without taking three bites and feeling like it might come up again if I eat even one bite more. Being able to skip a meal and not be in danger of passing out before the next one.

It must be nice to feel normal.

So here, I take a breath. I end my frustrated rant to say this: I’m learning to love my body. I’m learning to care for it better. I know that a large number of the things I struggle with are within my control, I can fix them with hard work and commitment.

But what I ask is that you? The acquaintance who responds with such quippy lines? I ask that you realize my battle is just like yours.

While you count calories, I’m reading nutritional facts, weighing the percentages of iron in my food.

While you work to burn off those pounds, I am fighting for every calorie to add a single pound.

While your ideal weight may mean losing a certain number, mine means gaining a number.

My goal, to me, is just as much a struggle as yours.

I’m at my highest weight since my first bout of anemia took 30 pounds from me three and a half years ago. It’s an incredible win, but every offhanded comment makes me feel guilty for rejoicing in my little victories.

Here is the crux of it all. This is not an issue of society. It isn’t fat shaming or skinny shaming. It is an issue of community.

After all that frustration vented above, the reality is: I am not alone in my battle, and that has been the most beautiful blessing. I’ve been surrounded with women in my family who have struggled with their own weight and body image battles most of their adult lives. My mother, my grandmothers, and many of my aunts have been supportive and loving, even as my struggle opposes theirs. It was my Nana who first realized I was anemic, which probably saved my life. I’ve celebrated their victories alongside my own. I’ve offered advice and so have they. I’ve been humbled by their compassion and assurance and concern. Their support, along with so many of the men in my family, and friends – men and women –  who have pushed me to eat when I didn’t want to and practically poured water down my dehydrated throat when I was too stubborn and weak to do what was best for me, have made me capable of pushing on.

So, my quippy acquaintance.

I dearly hope that your community pushes you toward your healthy goals, and reminds you that your identity is not in your weight or shape. I pray that next time your too-skinny friend shares her small triumphs, you can rejoice with her, and share triumphs of your own. Because we can all learn to be more sensitive to the battles of others.

With Love,

That Girl Who Needs to Eat a Sandwich

//Note: I am fully aware that this is not an issue of dramatic proportions. There are more important things. Things that deserve my attention and my words much more than this one. This is a relatively small issue. But because it is so small, why not fix it? So then we may devote our attention to more pressing matters of life.