Body Talk: years of torment

Posted on 26 June, 2019

When I was thirteen my mother taught me to diet.

It was the school holidays, I was home with my sister, the phone rang and it was mum.

She was going to a class at the community centre that teaches healthy eating, would I like to come with her. It was phrased as a question, but that was not the intention.

The classes ran for eight weeks and for the first time in my life I was taught to deprive myself. To ignore my body’s desire for food, to say no when I wanted to say yes.

I lost seven kilos in eight weeks and that is when I learnt that deprivation garners praise.

Praise from the other women in the class—women who were in their thirties, forties, fifties and sixties, praising a thirteen-year-old for mastering something they had spent their whole lives trying to achieve, something western society craves—thinness.

From that moment on the shadow has followed me.

The knowledge that you will never meet the expectations of western society unless you meet the physical expectations placed upon women’s bodies, you will never quite fit in, never be fully seen or accepted no matter what your intellect unless your body fits within a range considered normal.

Better yet, go beyond the normal, hone those bones into a chiselled representation of your ability to deprive, and you will know true greatness.

When I was sixteen I learnt the power of a woman’s body.

I wielded it as a weapon, a tool to get what I wanted. Boys, praise, social status. It was all in my control and all because I knew how to deny myself.

The thinner I got the more attention I got. As my stomach flattened and my waist cinched in, yet my breasts grew larger, male attentions were lavished on me.

As I skipped meals and exercised two hours a day, the only person who noticed or showed any concern was a friend’s father who questioned how far I was going but was easily brushed aside with excuses about being healthy.

When I fit into my petite sister’s clothes the women in my family validated the lengths I went to to get there.

Once you fit that mould nothing else matters—your intellect, your compassion, your skill—it all comes second in society’s eyes to the outward manifestation of your ability to deny yourself.

And yet years of torment followed. The moment I relaxed my habits the weight came back.

If I for a second took my eyes off the singular prize to focus my thoughts elsewhere, the weight came back. It was like a persistent stalker, always peering into every aspect of your life, waiting for its chance—for just a moment—to break you, to let you know there is no real control, just chaos.

At nineteen I learnt that women of a certain appearance have advantages in earning the best positions within the workforce.

Still slim from my high school dieting, and with the added benefit of youth, I won my job over 50 other candidates. I was later told by the male business owner it was because “sex will throw you farther than dynamite will blow you”.

It was also made clear by his wife that I won the job over another female candidate who could not be hired as she might be mistaken for a quarterback.

When I was 25 I wanted to find a husband, so I went into “repackaging the product” mode.

I denied until I once again fit within society’s norms and I was rewarded—I met my future husband, and much like my father, he is a man who doesn’t expect anything from my body.

He does not comment when I gain, he does not praise when I lose. A rare find that you would think would bring an end to the savage cycle of deprivation followed by gain—but, no, these wounds run deep within, they are seared through your flesh into your core. You are nothing if you are not thin.

At thirty-five I learnt that, for women, career progression in a corporate environment is subject to a male-dominated perspective that revolves largely around a woman’s appearance, and that is where I now find myself.

Within an environment where men do all the hiring and firing. Where management has made it no secret that they have denied the hiring of particular candidates due to age and appearance.

A place where I can quote the head of my department as saying that the company owner would kill him if he hired “another old one”, despite the fact that she was the best person for the role.

A place where I have sat across the table from the founder of the company and been subjected to drunken jibes that my regional manager who hired me must ‘like his women chubby’.

A place where I have been questioned as to the seat I chose at the dinner table as I have brazenly placed myself in the location of “the boys’ club”. A place that—despite all of this—I like working at and will continue to work at because I have no illusions that life is greener on the other side.

This is the world we raise our girls in, this is the world that my mother was trying to protect me from at 13 when she taught me to diet, because sometimes camouflage is the best form of defence.

If this editorial has brought up issues for you, know that you’re not alone.

The Butterfly Foundation Hotline for eating disorders: 1800 334 673 

Lifeline: 13 11 14