It all started with one dimple.
One I didn’t like the look or feel of, and couldn’t help but fixate on it and believe it made me feel unattractive. I would go as far as saying that even now at 28, I hate my legs, getting my legs out - and am used to never wearing shorts or skirts with bare skin, they‘re not my style. I only want my legs to look smooth and toned. Until then, so far 12 years, I hide them. Dimples do not look good.
Cellulite has been my nemesis from the age of 16. From what I read in magazines or overheard, according to diet culture, it was ’bad’. Something to get rid of, remove, in order to be attractive, ‘better’. As well as trying body brushing, drainage massages and even a hand-held machine(!), liposuction has always been appealing to me. At this young age, I also stored in my memory foods and drinks to avoid to help prevent cellulite. Sugar being one, coffee another. To the extent that I still count how many coffees I have a week, as though one too many will increase my chances.
This belief is only attached me. I have never batted eyelid over anyone else‘s legs or skin - in fact I have felt only envy of them wearing an outfit I wish I could wear - and could wear if I allowed it. It is only me holding myself back out of fear of being seen as ugly.
People say recovery is not only about learning to love and appreciate your body, but instead to see it for exactly that - a body, shell, vehicle in which you experience unadulterated happiness and live your best life. A body that prioritises and chooses enjoyment. A body that ensures you live your best life.
Although I want to get over my fears and live like this, become body-care-free, given the ratio of years spent trying to remove cellulite versus learning to accept it is - of course I still hate it. Cellulite is my biggest insecurity and all I see is legs like others, models and celebrities, influencers and personal trainers. A small margin of the population, not everyday folks. Tunnel vision and one of the loudest driving factors to make me go to the gym and try to achieve toned legs. Then I will be ‘better’.
This facet of my body has already taken up so much brain energy and worry over the years - there’s no switch to suddenly make me fall in love. It is hard enough trying not to look at it or feel it; to not think about increased cellulite every time I consume foods and drinks on my ‘unsafe’ list. So how do I get to this place of acceptance and believing my insecurities are beautiful?
Those (already recovered) I admire on IG tell me I am more than my body; nobody cares or will remember how I look; I am loved for how I make people feel; it will get better. (Really? Because in my head, increased cellulite - due to lax rules and restrictions - means it will only get worse, I'm not sure how I will cope). All well and good if you are both recovered from an eating disorder and in a relationship - someone loves you, has fallen in love with all that you are. I am a single women, scared of dating (cue fears of not being good enough) and convinced this position makes recovery, accepting myself, harder. Not that I need external justification of beauty or complimenting but I am scared that as my body changes, cellulite increases - is my appeal to potential partners decreasing?*
I know the weight of my existence does not rely on cellulite but seeing others find body and diet culture freedom, accepting themselves for how they choose to show up and confident in their skin - I wonder will I get there? Because right now, even though my movement away from diet culture is many steps further than I was in 2020, even in 2012, cellulite and weight gain are my biggest threats. They continue to scare me and will always challenge me.
Unfortunately, as vicious circles go, the possibility of gaining weight puts me off living, enjoying, going out more. I can barely accept the one dimple it started with let alone more. A very real battle between living dictated by my insecurity or living for me, carefree.
More often than not, in this current moment, the former tends to wins.
*Given how much baggage I come with, let’s hope future hubby doesn’t come across this blog…
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