Unabashedly imperfect

Abstract

As a child, I have no distinct memories of feeling too fat, too large, or unlovable. Though I grew up in a poor, single-parent family, my mother devoted her life to keeping me from knowing we were poor, teaching me to make better choices in life than she had, and doing all she could to raise a happy, healthy, well-adjusted child. Every life has its troubles, though. After two years of sexual molestation, from age nine to eleven, several years of teasing at a variety of different schools, and the onset of depression during my mid-teens, I learned to hate my body. I blamed my shape and size for all the problems I faced, hid behind various preformed personalities, and told myself that if I could just be skinny, I would be happy. Life did not work that way. The more I attempted to blame my unhappiness on the way I looked, the worse my depression became, which led to cutting, binge eating, bulimic tendencies, and a several broken relationships. It would be in my mid-twenties, after entering graduate school and agreeing to my first polyamorous relationship, that I would discover the depth of my self-hatred and begin the long, arduous process of learning self-love. None of my bad habits would be broken easily, though, and it would take several years of working with a therapist, talking with my family about past hurts, and the support of some very good friends, for me learn that the person I am, inside and out, deserves love, from others and, most importantly, from myself.