It was one of those cold rainy nights we sometimes get in September, the ones that are perfect for cuddling, you know the type of night I’m talking about. M and I were tucked away under the bedsheets. I was in heaven.
What M was about to say wouldn’t only forever change the way I felt about being in bed with him but It would forever change the way I feel about myself.
“Hmmm, interesting” he said, caressing the backs of my calves with his big, strong hands. “What do you mean?” I said, wide-eyed as a little girl on Christmas, bracing myself for his hand to make its way up to my lady parts.
“This.” He slapped my thighs, then gripped them so hard I screamed. “You could definitely tighten these up a bit.”
My body went from generating heat to growing completely cold. I was flushed.
“I think they’re fine,” I said, sinking deeper and deeper into the covers.
“You’re so close,” he continued. The man wouldn’t stop incriminating himself. “You’re nearly there. You just need to spend more time in the gym… let me help you transform your body.”
In an attempt to not succumb to my vulnerability — and instead fight back with wit — I grabbed at the thin layer of flesh on his thigh, hoping to make a look-you-have-fat-too!-point. But the truth was, he hardly had any fat on his leg, so I just looked stupid.
Hearing put-downs from the man who was supposed to love wasn’t exactly how I envisioned that particular night going. Had I missed something? Why did I need to be “transformed?”
Dating M was great when it was good. But when it was bad, it was awful! As with anything in life, there are pros and cons to dating a guy who spends day and night in the gym. Good sex in the bedroom, beautiful man candy on your arm and having a boyfriend who’s skilled in manual labor are just some of the pros. He’d assemble pieces of furniture for me, so I’d overlook his general douchebaggery.
But the cons were some of the biggest points of contention in our relationship. He had this insatiable affinity for the gym — both for feeling his best, but also for looking his best — while I was never too crazy about it after I quit swimming. He was obsessed with maintaining his “perfect” body.
He’d often send me “inspirational” photos, like ones of fitness model and whom I would never look like because frankly I enjoy pizza and popcorn way too much.
He once told me I was the laziest, flabbiest, most undetermined human on the planet, and I’d nod in acquiescence, like a bobblehead doll incapable of independent thinking. Except I wasn’t, I’ve run marathons, I’m a former swimmer but he had me so diluted that I thought so low of myself.
I’ve never been uber confident about my body like any girl who’s ever existed, I have insecurities. One day in the life of Tiara could mean feeling fantabulous in a tight white dress, but another day could mean a refusal to leave my apartment because the pair of jeans I’m wearing make me feel too fat to be seen by the world. I’ve always had body dysmorphia but M made this escalate. I once was able to look at pictures of myself and not tear myself apart but when I look at it now, I see the six-pack I don’t have. I see a nonexistent thigh gap. And I don’t see the sculpted-to-a-T arms I worship on Women’s Health magazine covers. I see tree-trunk thighs.
At the time we were dating, I didn’t take his remarks to be demeaning. I took them as constructive criticism. I wanted them to uplift me, make me want to strive to be better, not just when it came to looks, but also when it came to other facets of life. I figured that maybe, if I had a gym regimen to stick to, I wouldn’t be haphazard in things of great significance, like starting work projects and balancing my friendships.
Bettering myself meant going to the gym. And so I went, creating a sort of obsession of my own out of it. I wasn’t going to feel good or look good for myself; I was going to look good for him.
In order to build muscle, though, I needed to lose fat. So in conjunction with working out, I started eating less and less, that is never a good rollercoaster for anyone to get on.
My arms got skinnier, my tree-trunk thighs got smaller, and I lost 40 pounds.
M’s unwillingness to take me as I was — the jiggly butt, thick-thighed, trim-but-not-toned me — broke me.
There’s something about a man telling you you aren’t good enough that sticks with you long after the man is gone (as if there weren’t enough pressure on women, from women, to look a certain way). Being with him roused something in me, something I wish had stayed sound asleep: my insecurities. It confirmed that those trivial imperfections on my body weren’t trivial at all. They were worth changing. He made me feel like I wasn’t good enough, and that I’d never be good enough. I still don’t feel like I’m good enough.
For a long time after M and I broke up I felt different I felt separate from my body and it turned me into sort of a recluse. I struggle with trusting men, and I struggle with accepting I can’t fight the natural development of my figure. I’m still trying to get back on track.
These days, I “take care” of myself (whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean) as best I can. I eat healthily. I run on the regular and I’ve move forward from my verbally destructive relationship with each passing day, as much as I still carry around my personal piece of hell.
But I also try to remember that no one is “perfect”: not even my chiseled, Ken doll ex, because what he possessed in body confidence, he severely lacked in character.
