When I was writing the book, it was never clear to me what I was writing. I wanted to believe I was writing to myself, to forgive myself and come away with a clearer understanding of my life, able to put back together the broken image I’d come to believe in. In many ways, I accomplished my goal. I emerged with greater respect for the chosen experience. However, through writing back to my body, I saw how much my relationship to it continues to shape me. I was not beyond my disease as much as I had matured from it.
For as long as I can remember, I have looked down on my appearance with criticism and insecurity. I still have a difficult time smiling for the camera; I don’t like the structure of my smile outlined by my nose and can accept my face more when I pout. My smile presented itself like an imposter, standing in for all the things I’d hoped I’d have resolved by the time I wrote my final word.
But insecurity and criticism still overwhelm me. I do love myself. I don’t regret the choices I have made, but no amount of analyzing my experience can heal everything I have become conditioned to believe. Between my book and my smile, I confront fears sustained from my past – “You’re not smart,” “You messed up your body,” “You’re single because you choose to be,” and “What would have happened if I never lost weight?”
But a memoir and a smile are not theories with clear answers. They stir up interpretations of emotions, which have offered me the space to look back and tell the story of a past from both the perspective of who I became and who I was.
