How to find Love - Chapter 3 - hips and dips

Wellington airport is feeling like my third home, the truth is I love it. Three quarters of me enjoys being in transit. I love the process of the airport, how everything is in rhythm, there is a safety in that. I love being two hours early, drinking coffee and pretending to be productive. It’s a business woman vibe. The other quarter of me is thrown off by so much trekking around, packing bags and accidentally checking in my headphones. Today is no different, as I sit here in my crocs ready to board a flight back home. It seems like a good time to confess that I have always secretly thought I would meet my husband on a plane. With current social distancing it makes it impossible to be sitting right next to him today, but I know better than to tell love what it can and can’t do. I have always imagined that he would be seated already, perhaps accidentally sitting on my seatbelt which would lead to me asking for it back and he would enquire about the highly stimulating, culturally relevant book I had clutched in my hand. The rest would be history as we talked all forty five minutes of our cross country route, only to exchange emails and collectively shake our heads at the people that need to be the first off the plane. Now that I’ve highlighted the potential of meeting the one in forty short minutes, you’re probably expecting a love story relating to travel, or chance encounters. I hate to disappoint, but I recognise that you may be disappointed when I say that this week, chapter 3, has nothing to do with loving anyone else.

 - it’s all about loving me. If you vomited slightly in your mouth at that sentence, I am right there with you. BUT it’s true, what is even more true is that like my quest for romance, my journey of self love is nowhere near the end. So readers, haters, whoever you are; let's just start right at the beginning. 

I can finger point the first time I realized that I was me and there was no changing that, the moment I managed to grasp the tiniest understanding of individuality, uniqueness, the moment my internal thoughts started to kick in. I was seven and I was in our bright orange bathroom staring at myself in the mirror that was so high up on the wall the reflection of myself only existed from the nose up. Something clicked and I said to myself “I am me, I am Emma.” I guess the issue was that several weeks later, I began to look in the same mirror and think “I am me, but I don’t want to be.” If you have ever had a similar experience, I hereby dedicate this chapter to you, and your story. Which is no doubt unique and important in it’s own right. 

Before I tell this story further, I should disclaim, I recognise what happened but harbour no resentment towards those bullies, the adults who thought their comments about my love handles were funny, or my siblings who knew exactly how to shut me up, the other kids who were battling their own insecurities or even my friends who managed to hurt me even though they loved me. I know that if those people genuinely knew what it was like to be me, they would not have said what they said or done what they did.

I can’t quite remember exactly when the bullying started, whether it started with outright comments or just underlying disagreement wrapped in ‘funny jokes’ but what I can tell you is that I started my first ‘diet’ when I was seven years old. I had a tiny pink diary, the front half of it contained my complicated love for two gingers and the back had my ‘rexca’ plan. I was seven years old and I didn’t know how to spell anorexia, all I knew was that it let you be skinny and all you had to do was eat less. And while luckily my love for food would never allow me to see me through to the end of this plan, it breaks my heart now that my little self was already so concerned about being what she thought other people would like better. I had written a menu that slowly cut the levels of food I was too eat, and also I was weighing myself every week and writing it down. I’ll never forget I was 42.7 kg. Feeling sad? Me too. 

I think the worst part of it was that I had already attached my worth to a scale, to a mirror, to strangers' thoughts. This was way before social media, or even idressup.com. Even with B1 and B2 I tried my best to be slim, and play sports well so that they wouldn’t think I was lazy, or that my premature hips were something to discount me for. I tried so hard to get rid of those things, I would lie there at night, imagining what it would be like if my hands were scissors that could cut them right off. I guess the positive in this story was that while I was a kid dealing with a lot of internal conflict I also had a clear understanding of who I was. Chuck it down to high functioning anxiety or the ability to compartmentalise but for some reason I was still fiercely myself. I let that butt crack hang out in those terribly made jeans, I rolled around in the dirt, and I didn’t let what was going on in my head stop me from believing that I could achieve anything. I don’t know if I am alone in this, but I often felt like there were two, going on fifteen different sides to me. 

And don’t get me started on clothes shopping, I still hate it. And this is a complicated one to talk about mostly because of mum. She was only doing her best would tell me that certain things didn’t quite look right because of my body. She didn’t know what she was doing, but I can tell you that before I went into the Pumpkin Patch that day I would have worn anything and by the time I left I felt like nothing was made for me. I wish I could bring the sunshine out at this point and  tell you that I quickly learnt to shut out those thoughts, and stopped trying weird diets and learnt to love me, hips, thighs and all. But that would be a lie. 

And I guess, I don’t really want to wrap this up right now, or really tell you much more. This morning I had a very freeing discussion with a friend that led me to recognising the importance in this story, in its beginning. It would also be a lie to tell you the way I view/ed myself doesn’t play a massive role in all the bad dates, awkward encounters and non defined friendships that are in the chapters to come. So like any good writer, I will leave you here right off the cliff edge between who I was and who I am becoming. 

Until next week - where I promise to tell you another story of a boy who picked me first for soccer and broke my heart - stay safe.

Unapologetically, 

Emma.