By Shandle Blaha



Photo Credit: Greg Blaha

Dear Body,

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for starving you at all those lunch tables growing up, feeling that I looked like a pig. If they see me eat, they’ll know I am one.

I’m sorry for not ever looking in the mirror and complimenting you, for never taking time to notice anything beautiful.

I’m sorry for hiding you away indoors, never letting you feel the sunshine, telling you that your fat limbs and cellulite were undeserving of its warmth.

I’m sorry for never feeling that you are sexy enough to seduce my husband. I’m sorry to my husband for that one, too, despite the fact that he has never made me feel anything less than wanted.

I’m sorry for not letting him share certain vacation photos, those where you can see my arms, my chins, saying “No, you can’t put that on Facebook.”

I’m sorry for stress eating chocolate and popcorn and soda and filling emotional voids with food that didn’t nourish you.

I’m sorry for not taking you on more walks on the beach. My thighs are too fat and rub together. People are definitely staring.

I’m sorry for not walking up all those stairs. It’s too much for me. I get winded, I get tired, I’m too slow, and people are getting impatient waiting on the fat girl.

I’m sorry for hiding under giant sweaters. I was hot and uncomfortable, but at least no one could see my stomach.

I’m sorry for never wearing shorts or skirts or dresses. Fat thighs, chubby calves, even my ankles look fat.

I’m sorry for not taking you out into the world more. For telling the lie: No, I’m busy. I can’t go out. I’m not busy. I’m fat and ashamed.

I’m sorry for not going to those pool parties. I can’t let them see you in your bathing suit. They’d judge you.

I’m sorry for not making you get off the couch. It’s just too hard sometimes.

I’m sorry for cringing at photos. For only seeing fat: fat arms, fat chins, fat, fat, fat.

I’m sorry for calling you names. Ugly. Fat. Disgusting. Gross. Pathetic. Lazy. Sad. Rolls. Cellulite. Jiggly. Chubby. Tubby. Round. Big. Overweight. Flabby. Obese. I look pregnant. Bulky. Chunky. Thick. Heavyset. Chipmunk cheeks. Double chins.

I’m sorry for all of these things and so much more. You do so much for me every day, and I’ve constantly abused and berated you for not being ideal. You allow me to see, hear and feel how much I am loved, and it’s still not enough. You can’t magically turn yourself into a body I want, a body I would be proud of. I have to work at that. I’m sorry for not working harder. I’m sorry for not making more of an effort. My list of offenses is long, and it is going to take time for me to right them all. You’ve given me so much already. Can you give me more time?

Time to be better, to feel better. Time to get off the couch, to feel the sunshine, to make memories and take photos I can be proud of. Time to take those walks, time to seduce my husband, time to spend moments without shame. Time to nourish you and my spirit. Time to love myself as I am.

Love,

Shandle

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