11/19/23

The first time I really saw myself was when I was 10 years old. I was sat on the wool rug in my 3rd-grade classroom, the rest of my classmates sitting next to me, forming a half circle centered around my teacher at the time, Mrs. Mankawhite. We were discussing the play we were going to be putting on toward the end of the year, an enactment of Moses and the Pharaoh, I was going to play the Pharaoh (maybe anti-Semitic in hindsight). My legs were folded into my chest, my arms rested on top of my knees, and as I sat there listening to my teacher explain where we were doing the play this year, I fidgeted with whatever I could touch around me; loose threads on the carpet, small pieces of mulch or rocks, abandoned on the ground after being drug in by a shoe. I remember my hands wandering back to myself, grabbing the toe of my shoe and stretching my arms, locked at the elbow, playing with the cuff of my pants. I remember the moment my hands found my stomach, folded into rolls from my posture, my fingers sunk deeper into the layers of skin than they did when I had touched my belly before. I must be fat. 

I couldn't comprehend that the elasticity of my skin required some "extra" that would roll when bent over, or the muscles weren't engaged. I must be fat. After that, I began noticing a lot more. What my bicep looked like when I flexed it, the jiggle of my puffy cheeks when I ran, still full of baby fat, the sway of my calves when my legs were propped up; but I started to notice things that didn't change, but simply required a new pair of eyes. I had a long neck. My nostrils were big. Why didn't I have that line on the bottom of my stomach, right above my hips, that my friend had? I began to worry. How long would it take for my friends to notice I was ugly? Did they already know, and were simply sparing my feelings? Did they notice the same things about themselves? A few days later after a particularly vigorous gym class, my friend asked me why my nostrils were so big when I was running around. I didn't know the answer; I simply agreed with her. A few years after that, my Violin instructor got me a special chin rest, noting the length of my neck and lack of accommodation from my previous chin rest was most likely the cause of my discomfort when playing. Nobody ever called me fat, but my rolls spoke for themselves. 

Seeing it in myself never went away. I started working out regularly in 7th grade; my friend had a six-pack, granted even then I was pretty sure it was a result of a high metabolism and not a diet or exercise regimen, but my other friends didn't know, and I was determined to get to that level of praise. However, it was not until high school, that my brain was leaning further towards developed than developing, that the image of my body became an object in my path. The comparisons I would make to my classmates, to past versions of myself, and as much as I attempted not to and told myself not to care, the men I saw online. I would never be them. I was shorter, wider, fatter, slower, I didn't have what they had, whatever that was. And every day I went to school my thoughts were consumed by how long it would be before someone found out. I was hiding, hidden between jocks and pretty girls both of whom I had somehow managed to convince I fit in with them, riddled with the anxiety of a man fleeing prison, waiting for the day someone would figure out I was a genetic disappointment. I went to the gym as much and as long as I could, hours upon hours of ensuring every muscle in my body had been torn down, before fueling its reconstruction with $30 Kirkland brand protein powder. I got closer to the men of my school, shyly hidden among the ranks. I watched what I ate, counted the calories, did my research on what foods contribute to what problem, and how many lemons I would need to juice into my water to burn the love handles away. 

Quarantine was probably the best thing that could've happened to my 17-year-old self. I lost those friends when they realized I wasn't one of them, and kept the ones that mattered. And in my alone time, I found a better solution to my problems than calories or weight exercises could ever be; men. Without the constant reminders of what my friends looked like, and how drastically different I viewed myself, I was able to begin focusing on my mind, on healing. I recognized what I looked like, I learned my angles, I found out what I liked, who my people were, and most importantly, I found out I was kinda hot. I was sexy, my eyes were stunning, I was tiny, I was submissive, and my ass was fat, I was mature for my age. I was desirable. Somehow, from the mouth of a 23-year-old Twitch streamer, or a bearded 30-year-old man in finance, I believed what the people around me had been trying to tell me every time I cried on their timeline. Something clicked in me during those months, the cardio skateboarding provided, coupled with a good few Tom Daley workout videos, a sleep schedule of 12 PM to 4 AM fueled almost entirely by Sugar-Free Monster Energy drinks, and good old-fashioned pedophilia turned me into someone else. By the time I got into college, I was the walking embodiment of a false sense of confidence, confidence earned more out of fear than anything else. Granted, I didn't loathe myself as much as I had in previous years, though I did in new ways, but my confidence was built on words, text messages, Snapchat filters, and cum tributes. 

It wouldn't be until the age of 20 that I began knowing who I am, and allowing myself the room to grow that I never gave myself when I was young. I had turned myself into nothing, a shriveled creature feeding on the hope of one day changing myself enough to love what I saw. For once, it couldn't be blamed on anyone, or anything really. My brain decided to hate itself before I even realized what it was doing, and now I spent my time teaching it to give itself more care. I don't know if I love myself yet, or if I will anytime soon. All I do know as of now is that I dont hate everything about myself. I love the rolls of my stomach, the hair on the nape of my back, the pudginess of my cheeks. I dont love myself yet, but Im making the promise to do what I can to love the 10-year-old who shoudlve been listening to Mrs. Mankawhite read out my lines, instead of wondering how many sit ups fix a muffin top. 

~Christian Reid <3