Body shame
I used to have an ideal body but it was never mine
Beneath the endless layers of hoodies and sweatshirts I always wear, I’ve spent nearly 30 years wrapped in something far heavier than these fabrics—the insecurities that have clung to me like a second skin, suffocating yet impossible to shed.
Growing up, I drew attention because of two things. First, my way with words, shaped by years spent between the pages of Agatha Christie’s whodunits. And second, my frail, almost malnourished frame.
Of the two, it was the latter that people noticed most. I walked the hallways of our school being followed by whispers that I looked sickly or that I wasn’t being fed at home.
Slowly, day by agonizing day, their words started to consume me. Each time I stared into the bathroom mirror, I looked away, ashamed of the person staring back. I despised my sunken cheeks, the hollow lifelessness in my eyes, the sharp angles of my bones. I loathed my effeminate voice, the way my face mirrored my mother’s—features that made me an easy target for sexist jabs and taunts.
I began to hate my own body.
As if fate hadn’t mocked me enough, in 2012, I became the victim of a hit-and-run accident that left me with a fractured jaw and several scars, further distorting my appearance. At my lowest, I found myself comparing my reflection to Grendel, the monstrous outcast of “Beowulf.” But by then, I had already begun numbing myself to the “jokes” and “good-natured banter” people threw at me. I lived by a dangerous mantra: No one can hate me more than I hate myself.
When I returned to school after a four-year hiatus, I had mastered the art of building walls. If I kept people far from me, they could only judge me from afar. And from a distance, they couldn’t hurt me. So I sharpened my tongue. Frank and sarcastic words kept others away from me. But that did not give me peace, only a false sense of security.
To compensate for my superficial flaws, I had to glaze myself in the eyes of others. Writing somehow served as my mask. I participated in several writing contests, bagged awards, and even got recognized in national-level competitions. The recognition of these winnings shielded me temporarily from the cruel and piercing gaze of other people. But the safety each competition offered was short-lived; as soon as the high ended, my self-worth would plummet to the ground again. So I had to win more competitions. I had to fool the public so their eyes would stray away from this lanky twentysomething student.
I can’t help but envy those people whose toned bodies and captivating faces grace billboards and magazine pages. They possess what I lack—physical allure and striking features that shield them from any insecurities or flaws they may have. I admire those models who can effortlessly draw attention and admiration from others. I wish I had their confidence or even a bit of the “good genes.”
But somehow, I managed to get out of the toxic and self-deprecating cycle. It did not happen overnight, it took years and hundreds of relapses to my self-hating habits.
I believe it started when my college friends and I rented a whole house so that we could prepare for our final exams. It was then I felt I truly belonged in a peer group. They encouraged me to have a healthier lifestyle and not worry about what others would say about how I look. According to them, all those winnings and recognitions cannot compensate for the admiration I should have for myself and the genuine appreciation they and other supportive persons have for me.
It was an eye-opening moment for me. I resented myself, for being weak, and for letting other people control my self-esteem. By the time I graduated, I was no longer the “malnourished” young man. I have gained weight and got rid of my waist-length hair. I started loving myself more and accepted those flaws and imperfections that made me who I am.
When I started working, I gained more weight to the point that I playfully referred to my face as an “overripe avocado.”
People still make fun of me and their tongues just won’t stop wagging, but this time, their harsh criticisms about my physical appearance are heard but not acknowledged.
I used to believe that an ideal body is free from ridicule. I fallaciously thought that that “ideal body,” was something I had to earn, mostly, through self-destruction. But I now realize that the body I once resented, the one I tried so hard to hide, was never truly mine because I let others define it for me.
Today, I walk through life no longer weighed down by the opinions of others. My body is not perfect, nor will it ever be in the eyes of those who perennially seek flaws. But it is mine. And for the first time, that is enough.
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Alduz Clark Viray, 28, is a trainer and advocate for journalism in different regions across the country.
