Christian Feminism Journal
Sarah Grimke was asked what men could do to help support the feminist movement. Her response was, "I ask no favors for my sex. I surrender not our claim to equality. All I ask of our brethren is that they will take their feet from off our necks and permit us to stand upright on that ground which God designed us to occupy."
I feel the pressure when I realize that I don't know what it feels like to not be conscious of my weight. The projection of my mother's body image wounds onto me had me questioning my shape long before the media would've taught me to. Our society's way of viewing and valuing women's bodies fostered this insecurity and eased me into a middle school life of starving myself and purging the little food I ate to keep up appearances. I did over 1000 sit-ups a night and had a perpetually open sore on my back from where spine slapped floor. I prided myself on my 87 full sit-ups in a minute and six pack on top of a running routine that always ended in my passing out because I was exercising like crazy without eating.
The girl I see when I look at pictures of myself during those years is gaunt and severe with eyes too big for her sunken cheeks and wide shoulders, ribs, and hips jutting out from underneath a tiny layer of skin stretched too thinly across them. But the scariest part is that I never saw that girl in the mirror at the time. I could only see those wide shoulders and hips that promised I would never be as petite as my classmates, that promised that it was impossible for me to drop from my size 2 to a size 0.
I am no longer in danger physically. I eat well and exercise a healthy amount, but viewing myself through a lens where even an ounce of fat disqualified a woman from being attractive has left a legacy of damage. I know there are people who judge me based on my body -- usually they're good judgments, but that doesn't matter. Every one who reinforces that much of my worth is physical, that I do well to conform to a straight male's standard of beauty, get your foot off of my neck!
You cannot yell at me. If we're play-fighting, you can win, but don't incapacitate me so I can't move. There are rules. Because if you are a man and you start yelling at me, my vivid past has taught me that you are about to hit me. It doesn't matter who you are or what your intentions are. If I can't move, can't flee, then I will start hyperventilating and crying because my mind thinks it knows what comes next. reliving those shadows is not something I want to do mentally, emotionally, or physically. These connections, these experiences affect how strongly and independently I present myself on a daily basis. Because I feel like I have to prove that I'm not someone who can be abused. It's a lie, of course. I have been abused, I can be abused, but at least this way you have to get closer to me to know it. Living day to day feeling like I have to work from the outset to combat being a relatively small woman? As if I'm working from the outset to counteract a deficiency. Get your foot off my neck.
I feel the pressure when I realize that I don't know what it feels like to not be conscious of my weight. The projection of my mother's body image wounds onto me had me questioning my shape long before the media would've taught me to. Our society's way of viewing and valuing women's bodies fostered this insecurity and eased me into a middle school life of starving myself and purging the little food I ate to keep up appearances. I did over 1000 sit-ups a night and had a perpetually open sore on my back from where spine slapped floor. I prided myself on my 87 full sit-ups in a minute and six pack on top of a running routine that always ended in my passing out because I was exercising like crazy without eating.
The girl I see when I look at pictures of myself during those years is gaunt and severe with eyes too big for her sunken cheeks and wide shoulders, ribs, and hips jutting out from underneath a tiny layer of skin stretched too thinly across them. But the scariest part is that I never saw that girl in the mirror at the time. I could only see those wide shoulders and hips that promised I would never be as petite as my classmates, that promised that it was impossible for me to drop from my size 2 to a size 0.
I am no longer in danger physically. I eat well and exercise a healthy amount, but viewing myself through a lens where even an ounce of fat disqualified a woman from being attractive has left a legacy of damage. I know there are people who judge me based on my body -- usually they're good judgments, but that doesn't matter. Every one who reinforces that much of my worth is physical, that I do well to conform to a straight male's standard of beauty, get your foot off of my neck!
You cannot yell at me. If we're play-fighting, you can win, but don't incapacitate me so I can't move. There are rules. Because if you are a man and you start yelling at me, my vivid past has taught me that you are about to hit me. It doesn't matter who you are or what your intentions are. If I can't move, can't flee, then I will start hyperventilating and crying because my mind thinks it knows what comes next. reliving those shadows is not something I want to do mentally, emotionally, or physically. These connections, these experiences affect how strongly and independently I present myself on a daily basis. Because I feel like I have to prove that I'm not someone who can be abused. It's a lie, of course. I have been abused, I can be abused, but at least this way you have to get closer to me to know it. Living day to day feeling like I have to work from the outset to combat being a relatively small woman? As if I'm working from the outset to counteract a deficiency. Get your foot off my neck.