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At Times, My Struggles With Self-Image Almost Ended Me.
In my teens and early 20s, I battled an eating disorder. It’s time for a candid discussion about body-shaming in the LGBT community.
The rain was streaking down outside the windows of a church school somewhere in the hills outside Chattanooga, Tennessee. I was eight years old and my sign-language class just let out. Our instructor’s name was Giselle. She was in her twenties with hip-length chestnut brown hair and she wore a typical ’90s uniform: black denim OshKosh overalls with a white turtleneck underneath.
I can’t recall what our next appointment was for that day, but we were in a hurry to leave on time to make it to whatever the next activity was. I scuttled to the boys’ bathroom with my two younger brothers in tow. I finished first and headed to the sink; my brothers were still in the stalls. The cracked and stained mirror sat above a bay of old white porcelain sinks. I had turned on the faucet and was splashing cold water on my hands when to my astonishment, my mom burst into the bathroom.
“What is taking you all so long?” my mom was in one of her exasperated, red-faced huffs. She saw me standing there at the sink, tap still running. I wasn’t smiling.
“Awww, what’s that frown about?” my mom mocked me. She slid up behind me and enveloped me, wrapping me in something…
