I am always aware of my body. It is because I am a slave to my ethnicity. Being of Mexican descent is a defining and sizable component of my identity. It glues my limbs together. There are few parts I attempt to discard or alter, even when they are likely to destroy me.
My culture demands curves that I do not possess. I spend my nights binging on fattening foods, with little weight gain to show for it. My cupboards are emptied in a manic pursuit to change a shape that has been criticized by some men I have been attracted to, and some women who say they are only showing concern. They ask if I am struggling with anorexia, and will not ease with their line of questioning, despite giving them a thorough account on what I eat throughout the day, which surpasses three meals.
Sometimes I think I have evolved past caring what someone may think of me. Mostly, that is true. Finding myself on a journey to address what has held me back, allows for the observation that the most important opinion, in regards to anything having to do with me, will always come from my own mind. Truly, there is nothing a person can say that wears me down, the way self-abuse can.
What I seek in finding ways to conform to another’s standards, is to fit in enough to move with absolute freedom. I do not want to be a woman who is considered a living papier-mâché doll, queer from the outside in. My private world often bursts out, taking steps forward before I do. I want to be like everyone else. If that is impossible, then by appearance alone will suffice.