good grief Body
good grief smaller body, I long for you, the things you used to be able to do and the way you looked in my quirky “I can pull off anything” clothes.
good grief 25-year-old me, I know you started eating in the middle of the night because of all the stress. First it was unconscious, then it became soothing. But that’s kind of how most coping begins, right?
good grief body, I could no longer trust you to stay the same way, keep up in a workout class, or just slide in anywhere amongst a packed car. I felt like you betrayed me. Oh how quickly this all became you vs. me.
good grief body, gatherings involving food used to be so much fun. Now, they’re just an opportunity for shame and self-criticism.
good grief body, when exactly did all my clothes get tighter? Where did all those cute, baggy, casual things go?
good grief clothing ads, you tell me I’m only supposed to buy clothing if it’s flattering and makes me look thin. But thin is only one way to look so I guess this is capitalism sinking its own ship.
good grief body, I watch other people watch me eat. If I eat more than them it’s probably, “oh so that’s why”. If I eat less, it’s probably “she must be holding back.” The constant self-monitoring is exhausting.
good grief larger body, the emptiness of depression is no longer quelled so easily by sex in you. Apologizing for the way I look in the heat of the moment can really kill a sexy vibe.
good grief body, when I imagine talking to myself when this all began, or at least when I think it did, I don’t know whether to be sorry or angry at her.
good grief body, I have a list of “if onlys” that could go on for pages telling you it’s all your fault
if only I’d tried intermittent fasting
if only I’d used that gym membership
if only I’d never accepted that job
maybe I would have taken better care of myself
maybe he wouldn’t have left
maybe this would never have happened
I know that’s a lot of pressure to put on you. I still do it anyway.
good grief, body, is throwing out the picture in my head of what I thought my life and me in it would look like. There’s a whole lot of gratitude to be had that my arms still hug, my lips still kiss, my feet still carry me forward.
good grief, body, is accepting that bodies change. If it wasn’t this, it would be something else and that’s ok.
good grief, body, is throwing out the picture in my head of what I thought my life and me in it would look like. There’s a whole lot of gratitude to be had that my arms still hug, my lips still kiss, my feet still carry me forward.
good grief, body, is writing about denial, anger, depression, bargaining and acceptance as the ways I have related to you over time. It’s never as linear as that suggests but I’ve never been one for doing things in a prescriptive order.
good grief, body, is saying thank you for being there through stressful jobs, demanding school, and every heartbreak. Like me, you were doing your best to make it through.
good grief, body, is buying cute clothes that actually fit. Wearing jeans that dig into your skin is physically painful and I’ve finally decided masochism doesn’t suit me.
good grief, body, is learning about the social influences that tell me what you should look like and realizing that health is so much more than exercising and eating right. Nurturing physical, mental, and spiritual wellness is the full picture of health: not your weight to height ratio.
good grief, body, is calling this body my body. Reclaiming you as the most permanent home I’ll ever have and thanking you for being there, coping in your own way, through all the tough times.
each good grief participant was given the opportunity to contribute something to the project
see below for this participant’s contribution
Stages of Grief of My Body
A writing assignment from treatment
