I remember the moment when my mother and I went to the rides: I was jumping on a trampoline, and the ticket clerk – a guy of late adolescence – watched with mixed feelings how my chest swayed. In the small town where I lived then, it was impossible to find bras without foam rubber and bones, and they added a good half-size. I bought the first bra myself with the money saved on chocolates. We bought the second one together with my mother – she refused to believe that I could have such a breast size. It seems at this moment that butter and cheese sandwiches before bedtime became forbidden for me.
For the next few years, I had complexes because of my nose, dimples on my chin, the shape of my jaw and not a cool model of the phone, but not because of my figure, but at 16 I discovered pop culture, and everything became very bad. It’s amazing that as an adult I went to work in gloss, although it was he who brought me to the dangerous line. I was an ordinary depressed teenager, I was sad and lonely and for some reason I subscribed to a million publics on Vkontakte with fashion footage. So I fell in love with models Kate Moss and Freya Behu and decided to lose weight no matter what…
At that time, I was friends with a girl no less obsessed with thinness than me. Together, we went through the whole ABC diet (a monstrous diet where you eat 400 calories on good days and drink water on bad days) and have done many other terrible things to our bodies. I fainted on the street and once, in a fit, I ate everything in the refrigerator, and I didn’t remember it. I was afraid to eat, I was afraid that someone would see what I was eating. As a result, over the summer I lost weight from 53 to 46 kilograms, and still was unhappy. My friend also lost weight and became what I dreamed of becoming – fragile, thin, with protruding bones. To my delight, my chest was gone, but my shoulders, back and hips remained broad. I hated them.
I hated in myself what others wanted to have. I never wanted to be a sex bomb, and romantic relationships as such did not interest me until the age of 18. When that strange summer ended with the search for the lowest calorie beer in Pyaterochka and a diet of lettuce, my breasts and ass returned. An unknown man in the Alexander Garden offered me money so that I could show him my nipples (I just turned 17). An old friend suddenly drew attention to me. And I just wanted all of this to not be.
In my first year at the institute, I met my tragic first love, who, according to the classics, turned out to be a complete asshole. Among other things, he convinced me that I have a “huge Jewish ass” – since then I have not worn any more tight things. On our first real date, I fainted in a subway car because I hadn’t eaten for two days to please him. It was this person who gave me the idea that my body is vulgar, articulating it in different ways.
Life revolved around this belief. A friend joked that she would not take me on a hitchhiking trip, because something always happens to “girls like that”. A classmate withdrew an invitation to the cinema, because I am “not one of those who date one.” A friend of mine once said that no matter what I put on, I will always look like a sh ** a. To prove it, he dragged me to the mall, where I tried on some ridiculous outfits, and he sighed “well sh *** a sh *** oh.” My next partner on our first night together said that my breasts are perfect because they fit in his palm. Then I was again at a low weight, my breasts were smaller, and I was afraid that it would puff up again if I started to eat normally. And in parallel with this, for some reason I quite often received invitations to have sex for money from men on the street, which reinforced the idea in me that if I had not had such an ass, this would not have happened. I can’t say that I had a desire to cut off my breasts or butt, but I was convinced that I could “fix” myself with diets.
Everything changed in 2014, unexpectedly for myself – it just let me go. In three months of working as a nanny in an American family, I got great (pancakes with maple syrup, macaroni and cheese) and for some reason bought heels, strange dresses and push-up bras. And under the sunset of summer, the first boyfriend reminded of himself and unexpectedly admitted that he was hounding me because he was afraid that I would leave him. And my ass always seemed normal to him.
The time of bandage dresses quickly passed, relations with my own body became smoother: I gradually stopped being ashamed of myself, stopped trying to lose weight, and I think about the kilos I gained in recent years without shame. I don’t have scales at home and I don’t have a measuring tape, I don’t even know my weight in numbers. The last frontier was the chest. Previously, I veiledly hunted fat people – I could, for example, write to a stranger on the Internet “gray tights won’t suit you with your legs”. But I frankly hated overweight women with a frank neckline. It seemed to me that they cunningly deceive the whole world: they rivet their eyes to their breasts, diverting attention from the buttocks and abdomens. Now I am the same woman with a cut to the navel.
I don’t like my belly, legs, upper arms, but I love my breasts. I don’t hide it, I don’t shackle it with a bra; I gladly accept compliments from my friends. In one of the vacation photos, I came out as a real bomb – all the curves are on display. A couple of years ago, I would never have posted this photo, but now I was more worried about how ugly my hand was smeared on the side of the pool (I posted the photo anyway). I don’t think my body or anyone’s body is disgusting. I still have anxiety when I look the largest in the general photo, but the anxiety disappears after an hour.
Now I understand that I went to a war that could not be won. I am wide, tall and I have curves, and this will always be so. But since then, the RPP is forever with me. I have bipolar disorder and sometimes bulimia makes itself felt. I used to be able to come home stressed, order a huge pizza, stuff it into me and induce vomiting to calm down and fall asleep. Now for a year now this has not been in my life, but there is still anorexia, fortunately, in the mildest manifestation. If for some reason I don’t eat all day (for example, I’m busy filming, on the road), it’s difficult for me to stuff food into myself, because strange thoughts arise in my head that I can not eat for two more days, and the dress will sit better …
Now the state and society regulate how much a woman’s body can show, and the fashion and beauty industries set standards and pit women against each other. This is just absurd.