给妈妈的信:您很“肥”,却很美!

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Dear Mum，

I was seven when I discovered that you were fat， ugly and horrible. Up until that point I had believed that you were beautiful―in every sense of the word. I remember flicking through old photo albums and staring at pictures of you standing on the deck of a boat. Your white strapless bathing suit looked so glamorous， just like a movie star.

But all of that changed when， one night， we were dressed up for a party and you said to me，“Look at you， so thin， beautiful and lovely. And look at me， fat， ugly and horrible.”

At first I didn’t understand what you meant. “You’re not fat，” I said earnestly and innocently， and you replied， “Yes I am， darling. I’ve always been fat； even as a child.” In the days that followed I had some painful revelations that have shaped my whole life. I learned that：

1. You must be fat because mothers don’t lie.

2. Fat is ugly and horrible.

3. When I grow up I’ll look like you and therefore I will be fat， ugly and horrible too.

With every grimace at your reflection in the mirror， every new wonder diet that was going to change your life， and every guilty spoon of “Oh-I really shouldn’t”， I learned that women must be thin to be valid and worthy. Girls must go without because their greatest contribution to the world is their physical beauty.

Just like you， I have spent my whole life feeling fat. When did fat become a feeling anyway？ And because I believed I was fat， I knew I was no good.

But now that I am older， and a mother myself， I know that blaming you for my body hatred is unhelpful and unfair. I now understand that you too are a product of a long and rich lineage of women who were taught to loathe themselves.

Look at the example Nanna set for you. Despite being what could only be described as famine-victim chic， she dieted every day of her life until the day she died at 79 years of age. She used to put on make-up to walk to the letterbox for fear that somebody might see her unpainted face.

I remember her “compassionate”response when you announced that Dad had left you for another woman. Her first comment was， “I don’t understand why he’d leave you. You look after yourself， you wear lipstick. You’re overweight―but not that much.”

Before Dad left， he provided no balm for your body-image torment either.

“Jesus， Jan，” I overheard him say to you.“It’s not that hard. Energy in versus energy out. If you want to lose weight you just have to eat less.”

That night at dinner I watched you implement Dad’s “Energy In， Energy Out： Jesus， Jan， Just Eat Less” weight-loss cure. You served up chow mein for dinner. Everyone else’s food was on a dinner plate except yours. You served your chow mein on a tiny bread-and-butter plate.

Silent tears streamed down your face. I said nothing. We all ate our dinner in silence. Nobody comforted you. Nobody told you to stop being ridiculous and get a proper plate. Nobody told you that you were already loved and already good enough. Your achievements and your worth―as a teacher of children with special needs and a devoted mother of three of your own―paled into insignificance when compared with the centimetres you couldn’t lose from your waist.

It broke my heart to witness your despair and I’m sorry that I didn’t rush to your defence. I’d already learned that it was your fault that you were fat. The lesson： you didn’t deserve any food and you certainly didn’t deserve any sympathy.

But I was wrong， Mum. Now I understand what it’s like to grow up in a society that tells women that their beauty matters most， and at the same time defines a standard of beauty that is perpetually out of reach. I also know the pain of internalising these messages. We have become our own jailors and we inflict our own punishments for failing to measure up. No one is as cruel to us as we are to ourselves.

But this madness has to stop， Mum. It stops with you， it stops with me and it stops now. We deserve better―better than to have our days brought to ruin by thoughts of our “bad bodies，”wishing we were otherwise.

And it’s not just about you and me any more. It’s also about Violet. Your granddaughter is only 3 and I do not want body hatred to take root inside her and strangle her happiness， her confidence and her potential. I don’t want Violet to believe that her beauty is her most important asset； that it will define her worth in the world. When Violet looks to us to learn how to be a woman， we need to be the best role models we can. We need to show her with our words and our actions that women are good enough just the way they are. And for her to believe us， we need to believe it ourselves.

The older we get the more loved ones we lose to accidents and illness. Their passing is always tragic and far too soon. I sometimes think about what these friends―and the people who love them―wouldn’t give for more time in a body that was healthy； a body that would allow them to live just a little longer. The size of that body’s thighs or the lines on its face wouldn’t matter. It would be alive and therefore it would be perfect.