WARNING: This post deals with eating disorders and “thinspiration”. It may be triggering for some people.
My daughter is three-years-old.
She has an amber-tinged head of ringlets that she wants to grow longer like Ana’s hair in Frozen. She has just started pre-school this term, where she is learning to sit with her legs crossed like a big girl.
She clings to my leg like a sea urchin when people remark on her big eyes and long lashes. And she informed me the other day, quite casually, that she was fat.
“Mama I ate too much. Look at my big fat tummy,” she told me.
My heart went cold. She is three. The idea of a girl barely past toddler-hood being so self-aware left me stunned.
It bothered me because I know eating disorders. It bothered me because I know the battle with food intimately. I know the torture of being hyper sensitive to every fold of flesh. I know the endurance test of bingeing and purging and the exhausting fight to exercise for hours on end.
I lived this for over a decade. Several hospital admissions, many rooms filled with voices talking, treatment, programs, behavioural therapy, mindfulness. I’ve been there.
I’m good now. But having a daughter makes you wonder how she will be. It makes you extremely cautious about how to tread in the future. I worry about how I act. I worry about how we talk about food. I worry about her perceptions of herself.
What I DON’T worry about? Is what she plays with.