I forgot who owned me

It’s been two months since I started training with a personal trainer. And this past week was the first time I doubted whether it was worth it.

I left last week’s training session not feeling like myself. I was inhabiting a body that no longer belonged to me, and I lost all motivation to keep it alive. I’ve trained and trained and I’ve grown more and more fixated on the image looking back at me from the mirror. It’s sad to admit it but it’s true; I’ve been late to school because I was obsessing over the darkness of my skin and the wobble of my thighs.

I see myself and I remember the dark nights of binge eating and the early morning runs and the protein shakes–I see myself and promise not to go back to that. But it’s difficult to run from vanity. So when I found myself slipping into that hole again, forgetting everything else but how much I’ve eaten and how much I’ve exercised, planning my next run but then hating myself for skipping it, and imagining my body bloat as a result–it became a battle that I didn’t want to fight anymore. So I considered giving up.

But last year, I fought a similar battle and won–kind of. When my mother threatened to send me to a dietitian, I broke down and rebuilt myself stronger than ever. I had stopped hating this body of mine and I wouldn’t let anyone turn me against it ever again. Now, I have to keep myself from turning against me. My body is a battlefield but I am my own army.


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