Perfection/Obsession

I have always been obsessed with my body.

I was going to say in love, but love and obsession are not the same thing, or so I’ve learned.

When I was little, I used to take all my clothes off whenever I went to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror.

I used to think it was because I didn’t understand how to go to the bathroom. But now I think that it was my only time alone to evaluate who I was.

Even now, I lift my shirt up in the bathroom mirror. Not just because I had an eating disorder in high school, though I’m sure that’s part of it. More so now because I’m interested.

How does my body curve the way it does? Who finds this body type hot? Does everyone? If I get skinny enough, will everyone want me?

When I was younger, I didn’t yet know about being hot. No one wanted me in that way. And I knew nothing about kisses or sex or the ways you break yourself into two for someone to love (or obsess) over you. I think before I knew about all those things, I looked at my body in a prideful youth.

I’d cover myself with stickers when I peed in the big girl potty. I’d run around naked for no good reason at all. I was telling everyone this is me. I was connecting my nakedness to who I was, without anyone else’s input. I was proud of myself, proud of my body. Before I knew what perfect was, or what everyone considered perfect.

But perfection crept in as I grew up. As it does. I’m sure I could attach something Freudian to that if I wanted to, but I’ll leave that for later.

I had the perfect body at 14. Hourglass. Skinny. Tanned. It was my best feature, according to everyone else. And with this newfound understanding of my perfection, there came stakes. When the vultures (14-year-old kids) crept in, I had to be ready.

So this thing I once loved, for it simply being attached to me, I now got to obsess over. I’d swim twice a day, eat very little, and see that everything stayed the same. I was tanned, skinny, and perfect. And there didn’t need to be an end to any of it.

I saw what people thought, and it was exhilarating. At a swim meet, I’d walk around in my one piece that cinched my waist in and watch as the girls ogled and the guys exchanged glances. My body was something. Something to be in awe of.

I kept my mind at ease with the safety that I wasn’t counting calories. I wasn’t obsessed with the numbers or the food. If I could keep myself perfect, perfectly the same weight, perfectly tiny, then everyone could love me.

My internal love for myself turned into an outward obsession, and that was all I cared about for a while. But I started to notice hair on my arms that shouldn’t be there, that wasn’t perfect, was it? And I wasn’t as fast as I could’ve been in the water. I wasn’t strong enough to surpass my last times. Or to weight-train.

In order to be perfect in other contexts, I needed to gain weight. I would never be perfect in all the ways I needed to be so that everyone loved me. The stress ate me alive in more ways than one. I wanted to be the perfect student, but I couldn’t be without putting my sleep more at risk, and if I put my sleep more at risk, I wouldn’t look as pretty. I wouldn’t be as fast in the water. I would never be everything everyone wanted me to be.

My perfection in one context was imperfect in another. Slowly, I realized every battle I had over myself was completely in my own head. The love I’d gain from being skinny was futile, short-lived, a single spark that died quickly. It wasn’t the type of love I really wanted.

Slowly, I realized that the girl who ran around naked in the backyard was smarter at age 4 than she was at 16. She was proud of herself without anyone’s input. She was glorious in her joy. She ran with legs that were not yet long, but the grass was hers to touch. Her nakedness was a state of being that was not any different from her clothed. She was one and the same because she didn’t need anyone’s input.

I got out of the headspace of perfection with time. I still slip into it some days. But I constantly remind myself of who I was when I was little. Who I want to emulate. That this body is beautiful and perfect because it houses me, and I deserve to have the type of joy I had when I was young. I deserve to let myself grow, change, and become whoever I need to be.