Flawed

I stood on the scale in the wide open gym, exposed. I had been able to hide my weight from almost everyone, and now I had to weigh in with my entire class. In Virginia, where I had lived most of my life, the annual school weigh in was done discretely in the nurse's office. Here, in Idaho, it was done in front of the class. 105 pounds. I remember one of my classmates, a fellow 10 year old, gasping and then commenting aloud that I weighed over 100 pounds. It was, at the very least, embarrassing. It was also a moment cemented in my mind, a reminder that I was the fat girl and that my weight could bring me shame. It didn't matter that I was the smartest girl in my class or that I had friends. I was fat, FLAWED.

I have always been a bit of a perfectionist. I was a straight A student growing up (except for a blip in high school where an obsession with friends and boys took over). I also wanted to be the best at everything (still do). I was behind on a reading contest at school, and instead of accepting second place, I stayed up one night and read and read and read and read and had my grandmother sign off on all of my books. If I couldn't be the best, I quit because I was a bad loser (still am). But when it came to my weight, I couldn't win (maybe because there is no win or lose). It was something that controlled me.

And I've allowed that "flaw" to define me. If I couldn't control my weight, then I must be flawed. It doesn't matter that I'm good at anything else because I've allowed myself to be the fat girl. I assume that no one else sees my achievements, only my weight. And by doing so, I define myself by my weight. And I allow others to do the same. But I am not good or bad, successful or unsuccessful because of some numbers on a scale or the size of my clothes (currently a 16). I'm just me.