I am nine and I am bullied at school.
I am a sponge and everything I hear becomes a part of me. My mum is so heartbroken by my sadness, she suggests we go on a diet together. She picks WeightWatchers because it seems easy to follow.
My teacher at school always has to tell me to take off my jumper on hot days. I try to keep it on to hide my round stomach. He tells me in front of the class. My face goes red.
I lose some weight, but I don’t stick to WeightWatchers and neither does Mum. I still get bullied for my size, even though I’m not that much bigger than the other kids now. I live for my afternoons alone with my favourite TV shows and songs. Alanis tells me, “everything’s gonna be fine, fine, fine,” and I believe her.
I am 14 and I have just decided that I will no longer eat proper meals at school.
Meg aged 21, 2012. Source: Supplied
I take a single apple to school each day. I drink lots of water and then slowly eat the apple at lunch. I love the feeling of my stomach being empty and the control I have over my body. I love the feeling as my clothes get baggier. I eat sometimes when I get home. I binge on sweet yoghurt and glasses of Milo. Then I purge.
I make a new friend. Annabelle is pretty and kind. She has big black curly ringlets. I am over at Annabelle’s house for a sleepover with our friends, Jade and Mim. We’re all changing. I take off my school clothes and change into the dance pants and T-shirt I have in my bag.
Meg aged 19, 2010. Source: Supplied
“You’re so skinny!” Mim says, seeing my ribs distinctly protruding from my torso. My stomach is concave. I am a size eight.
“No, I’m not,” I reply, feeling sad and happy that she said it. I can feel that my body is getting smaller with each meal I skip. But I have always been fat. I will always be fat.
I am at dance class. It is 8pm on a Monday and I’ve been there dancing since 4pm. I love to dance. I want to be a dancer. I am standing in a line with the other dancers. My cousin Joni is in the class with me. She stands next to me as we wait for Miss Em to put us into formation.
Meg aged 20 in 2011. Source: Supplied
Miss Em walks down the line and stops at me. She pulls me to the front. I look over at Joni and smile. She smiles back. She’s happy for me. We never get put in the front row. I think it’s because I’m not as small as the others. Joni thinks it’s because she’s not as good at dancing.
Miss Em considers me for a moment. “You’re. So. Thin!” she exclaims as she pats the outside of my thighs in time with her words. I feel everyone looking at me. I like them looking. I like being noticed for my achievements.
I am 30 and the nutritionist I’m seeing for my chronic fatigue syndrome management stresses how important it is for me not to skip meals. I say that I sometimes just forget, which is true. I don’t watch my meals anymore. I don’t diet. I’m an average size. Average height. Average weight.
Meg Hemmings. Source: Supplied
Most days, I like my body and how it looks. I feel better, but I’m not completely comfortable. Now my main problem with my body is not how it is perceived but how it feels. I am tired constantly. I am severely depressed. I have chronic pain.
I start going to therapy because my depression is unmanageable.
Meg aged 4, 1995. Source: Supplied
“I want you to go swimming,” my psychologist tells me. I am self-conscious about my body in a bathing suit. I haven’t swum at a beach since I was a child. I haven’t swum at a pool for more than 10 years.
“Just try it. The other people at the beach will be so wrapped up in their own insecurities that they won’t even be thinking about how you look,” she says.
This can’t be true. What did all of those looks mean when I had to use disabled toilets for the handrails or use lifts instead of stairs, if they weren’t looks of judgement from people who didn’t understand invisible disability? I push the suggestion aside.
I go with my parents one January day to Weymouth in the north of Tasmania. It is hot. It’s the first time we’ve been to this beach.
Meg Hemmings. Source: Supplied
I am lucky today because I have the energy to leave the house. The things that plague me don’t feel so heavy today – the sadness that clouds my mind and the fatigue-like lead in my feet.
I put my feet in the water. It’s what I always end up doing instead of swimming at beaches. I believe it’s fine to just have my feet in. I think that it’s refreshing enough. I don’t need to go all the way in. But then I think about what my psychologist said. I spontaneously throw off my dress onto the sand where my parents are sitting and talking. I run into the sea in the swimsuit I bought a few weeks before.
I am five, six, seven, eight. I am the ages I was before anyone made comments about my body. I am in the sea with a boogie board, laughing. We play and splash. I don’t want to leave the water when Mum and Dad say they’re ready to go. I am so deeply refreshed.
Meg Hemmings (she/her) is a queer writer based in Tasmania. A maxi-dress obsessive and epic road trip devotee, Meg writes memoir, prose and pithy copy. She lives with a chronic illness and is working on her first novel. Find her at , Instagram or .
Butterfly National Helpline 1800 33 4673 provides free phone, email, and referrals for individuals experiencing an eating disorder, carers and their families.
Those seeking support can also contact Lifeline on 13 11 14.
You might also like
Writing from pain: the whys and the hows
