Tonight's Poet Corner: Balancing The Scale
Balancing The Scale
by Belinda Roddie
Distrusting my body, I fed it
hot mint tea and cold shrimp,
added popcorn like I was being
entertained, then washed it down
with water and guilt. I imagined
everything I ate that day descending
like stones into my stomach, churning
and spinning like the meals had been
stuffed into a blender, as if the puree setting
made the weight in my gut lighter. I do
this a lot, actually - projecting that mental
image, that movie set to music with
heavy bass. The symptoms I've been
taught to call excess and gluttony settle
into a dark cavity, are picked up by
a hurricane, and then disintegrate. I
pretend that I am now empty. Not brimming
with the light and sustenance that
calories are meant to provide. I call myself
a foodie, but I wish that also meant
I could look good while still being one.
When I describe my shape and size,
I joke that I'm, "built like a brick" -
squished into a compactor and spat
out like a perfect pink Lego block. I am
big and broad, a model hybrid of both
thigh muscle and jiggle, of biceps
and bulging belly, of the delicious
contrast between feeling healthy
and looking, "healthy." When I was
sixteen, I hid my frame in hoodies
and jeans, even though nowadays, I realize
the paneling was slim enough to make my
father's anxiety dissipate. I stuffed my inner
lining with chips and chocolate, gained
thirty pounds in college on a whim. Lost
twenty-five of it crying into my pillow when
I couldn't sleep and kept vomiting my breakfast
up in the shower because demons had burrowed
their way into my intestines like ticks.
Gained it all back and then some because
I was no longer adrift. Still, I'm
floating on the sea of skepticism where
ships boast doctors shaking their heads, even
though my muscles are swelling while
the numbers skyrocket, because that's
what happens when you lift two hundred
and ten fucking pounds on the leg press.
This purgatory is more like Hell, and I've
been folded and mailed to the Third Circle.
But I'm just trying to enjoy the taste of
my dinner rather than analyze it in
parts. I don't count the carbs, but the guilt
is still measurable in pounds. I want
to remember that there is such a thing
as being both fat and fit. I want to be
viewed as beauty in bulk. I want to be seen
as power partnering with pudge.
I want to be simultaneously strong
and soft, so she can hold me and indulge
in the warmth, drinking it through a straw,
never feeling bad about asking for
seconds. I distrust my body because
it begs for more than I give it. I ask myself,
am I offering it enough room to breathe?
by Belinda Roddie
Distrusting my body, I fed it
hot mint tea and cold shrimp,
added popcorn like I was being
entertained, then washed it down
with water and guilt. I imagined
everything I ate that day descending
like stones into my stomach, churning
and spinning like the meals had been
stuffed into a blender, as if the puree setting
made the weight in my gut lighter. I do
this a lot, actually - projecting that mental
image, that movie set to music with
heavy bass. The symptoms I've been
taught to call excess and gluttony settle
into a dark cavity, are picked up by
a hurricane, and then disintegrate. I
pretend that I am now empty. Not brimming
with the light and sustenance that
calories are meant to provide. I call myself
a foodie, but I wish that also meant
I could look good while still being one.
When I describe my shape and size,
I joke that I'm, "built like a brick" -
squished into a compactor and spat
out like a perfect pink Lego block. I am
big and broad, a model hybrid of both
thigh muscle and jiggle, of biceps
and bulging belly, of the delicious
contrast between feeling healthy
and looking, "healthy." When I was
sixteen, I hid my frame in hoodies
and jeans, even though nowadays, I realize
the paneling was slim enough to make my
father's anxiety dissipate. I stuffed my inner
lining with chips and chocolate, gained
thirty pounds in college on a whim. Lost
twenty-five of it crying into my pillow when
I couldn't sleep and kept vomiting my breakfast
up in the shower because demons had burrowed
their way into my intestines like ticks.
Gained it all back and then some because
I was no longer adrift. Still, I'm
floating on the sea of skepticism where
ships boast doctors shaking their heads, even
though my muscles are swelling while
the numbers skyrocket, because that's
what happens when you lift two hundred
and ten fucking pounds on the leg press.
This purgatory is more like Hell, and I've
been folded and mailed to the Third Circle.
But I'm just trying to enjoy the taste of
my dinner rather than analyze it in
parts. I don't count the carbs, but the guilt
is still measurable in pounds. I want
to remember that there is such a thing
as being both fat and fit. I want to be
viewed as beauty in bulk. I want to be seen
as power partnering with pudge.
I want to be simultaneously strong
and soft, so she can hold me and indulge
in the warmth, drinking it through a straw,
never feeling bad about asking for
seconds. I distrust my body because
it begs for more than I give it. I ask myself,
am I offering it enough room to breathe?
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