D-Day for a Quiet War

I’ve been at war with my body as long as I can remember.

My body was difficult. My body was broken. My body was stupid.

I grew up tall and gangly, with long red hair and glasses. I was soft, sensitive and shy – ripe picking for the schoolyard bullies. I hit puberty early and hard. I’d hit my D-cups by 13. I had hips. I was harder on the surface but between schoolyard bullying and grown men sexually harassing me I was a mess.

My body was difficult. My body was broken. My body was stupid.

My weight soared and fell over and over in my early twenties. I rarely felt good. I was frequently tired. Where the bullying ended my self criticism started. Too soft, too fat, not well dressed enough. My weight slammed down in my mid twenties when it was the least important thing happening in my life. One mental breakdown later and 6 months where my house was a prison.

My body was difficult. My body was broken. My body was stupid.

And back up it went in my late twenties. Climbing and climbing as I tried changing my diet, exercising more, and mentally beating myself. Too fat, too soft, too tired. Always bloated too. Never ever good enough. Always desperate to get my weight to stop, to go down not up.

My body was difficult. My body was broken. My body was stupid.

And then the D-day came. I was diagnosed with an auto-immune illness. One that directly effects my digestive system.

My body was sick. My body was hurting. My body needed care. 

The medication is easy. The diet changes are hard. The relationship with my body has completely changed for the better, a thousand-fold. I am mentally and physically healthier than I’ve been in many, many, years. I am no longer at war with my body.

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