growing up fat, i made up someone prettier

about the body i had and the one i made up to survive it.

before you read: this essay touches on heavy themes, body image, negative body talk, shame, and self-harm. take care of yourself while reading.

i’ve always been fat. i really realized it when i was eight.

the whole flat smelled like sugar and buttercream, the chocolate cake my mother had baked still cooling on the counter, its sweetness drifting through every room and mixing with the plastic-sweet scent of new toys. cheap glitter from my tutu rained down onto the carpet, sticking to my fingers and to the dampness on my palms.

my favourite cd screeched from the pink player plastered with stickers, some shiny and new, some torn and curling, its tinny beat rattling the bunk bed. i sat on the lower bunk, knees pressed tight together, my white tights with the braided pattern stretching and leaving little grooves in my skin. i could hear chairs being moved in the kitchen, the faint murmur of my mother’s voice; in less than an hour, my friends and family would fill the flat. my heart thumped hard with excitement.

i tugged my birthday dress over my hips. it smelled faintly of detergent and dust from the wardrobe, but the fabric snagged, pinched at my ribs, the zipper catching my skin like teeth. my stomach dropped. this was my favourite dress, the one i’d imagined spinning in all week for my eighth birthday, and it barely fit. my mouth filled with the taste of salt before the tears even hit my lips. heat burned behind my eyes, my cheeks hot, my breath catching in hiccups. glitter clung to my wet skin as i sobbed, the sweet smell of cake turning suddenly nauseating. what was i supposed to do? through the blur, a glint flashed from my strawberry shortcake backpack.

scissors.

i grabbed them, the cold metal biting into my sticky fingers, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it filled my whole chest. i pressed the tip to the soft pudge of my stomach, not hard, just enough to feel the shock of cold against warm skin. of course i knew it wouldn’t work. but with the music shrieking, the smell of cake in the air, my dress cutting into my ribs and the sound of chairs scraping in the kitchen, all i could think was: i wish i was skinny. i wish i could cut my stomach off.

and when i squeezed my eyes shut, trying to disappear, she appeared instead. kaia.

kaia was me, but thinner. impossibly thin, so small she could fold herself into people’s laps like a doll. she turned heads when she walked past. her favourite clothes were dresses, because her thighs didn’t touch. she wasn’t awkward, she wasn’t pitied, she was wanted. i didn’t sit down and “make her up” like a story. she just appeared, uninvited, like a spark behind my eyelids, and she stayed.

as i got older, kaia dug in. she clung to me, stuck to my side like a shadow, like gum under my sole. she slipped into every room i walked into, sat with me at the bus stop, followed me into fitting rooms. no matter the diet, the supplements, the exercise, the endless doctor appointments, it was always the same answer: “it’s genetics. you’re just big-boned. the women from the south of europe are.” and “you’re healthy as a cookie otherwise, i can’t tell you what’s wrong. just keep trying to lose weight.” like that was meant to comfort me. i was just stuck that way. biologically disposed to be bigger.

hey say comparison is the thief of joy, but when i looked at kaia, the better me, the real me, the me i was supposed to live like, to be like, i felt at peace. it was the only time in my life i was happy with myself.

every time i stared at the cold mirror, brushing my hair, my stomach twisted and churned. why did god do this to me? was i such a bad person in my last life? how could he hate me? i wasn’t particularly religious, i mean, i was, but never forced to, yet i prayed anyway. to every god, every star, every celestial being: make me pretty. please. just grant me this one wish.

kaia stayed when no one else could hear those prayers. she was my answer and my punishment, my comfort and my wound, living proof of what i could never be but also the only version of me i could stand to love.

even now, years later, she’s still there. kaia. she walks a few steps ahead of me when i enter a room, her shadow spilling over mine. sometimes she’s silent, sometimes she whispers, sometimes she just watches me in the mirror. i don’t even have to close my eyes anymore to find her, she’s built into me like an extra rib.

i don’t know if i’ll ever get rid of her. maybe i don’t want to. she’s been there for every diet, every prayer, every mirror. i made her out of shame and survival, and she never left. she’s the only one who’s seen it all.

and when i catch my own reflection now, brushing my hair, i don’t just see me. sometimes, i see both of us staring back.