“What if you saw evidence that I needed to lose weight?” I asked a close friend via a chat message. “Would you support me in losing weight then?”
“I’d support you if you and your doctor both decided that’s what was best for you,” he replied.
“Can I point out what I mean?”
“If you’d like.”
I could tell that he wasn’t quite sure what I meant and what I wanted to point out, but I couldn’t bring myself to articulate exactly what was ‘wrong’ with me and what my evidence was. There was just so much shame associated with it that I couldn’t put it into words. I felt bad for leaving him wondering (worrying?) about what I meant, but I felt incapable of doing anything else.
I practiced in the mirror, trying to figure out exactly what to do to give him a sense of how ‘bad’ things were. I wanted it to be honest, so he’d really see. If I pointed out the worst, I wouldn’t have to feel like I was hiding or like he didn’t understand the full picture.
I thought about it a few times when I saw him and didn’t quite work up the courage, but last night, I finally managed. Standing next to him, I made it clear that I was ready to point it out and waited for him to make eye contact. Then I broke eye contact and pinched my stomach. The t-shirt afforded me little protection, and I knew he’d finally see what I meant. I trusted him to be kind and supportive, but I didn’t know what he’d do or say.
A second passed, and once I was sure he’d seen, I let go and crumpled down to a sitting position, hiding once again. “It’s too much,” I whispered, ashamed. I held back tears, but I think we both knew they were close.
Another second, and I looked up. I saw compassion and kindness in his face, and my friend gently told me that what I showed him was normal, something ‘everybody’ had. “It’s not bad?” I asked, trying hard to believe.
“It’s not bad,” he reassured me.
“Is it worse than you expected?” I asked, tentatively.
“No,” he chuckled, “though I’m not sure what I expected.”
I apologized for being silly. “It’s not silly,” he said. “I mean, yes, it is silly,” he added, alluding to my ‘revelation’, “but it’s something you’ve been dealing with for so many years, and it’s understandable that it’s hard.”
I wanted a hug, but I’d asked so much already. I wanted to thank him so he’d know how much his patience and understanding meant, but I didn’t have the words. Instead, I just sat by him as I tried to process and make sense of what he’d said.
It made a big difference. I hadn’t scared him off; he didn’t see what I saw. Part of me feels like perhaps I just hadn’t done it right; I hadn’t shown him in the right way. But most of me understands. I feel safer, and less like I’m hiding a shameful secret.
And somehow, seeing his reaction helped me deal with the possibility of a different reaction. Even if he did see what I saw, I know without a doubt that it wouldn’t lessen me in his eyes and that he’d still care about me every bit as much. I know that’s true for all of my close friends and family. So not only am I okay now, but I’m okay no matter what—even if I gained (more?) weight, I’d still have the people I need in my life. They wouldn’t abandon me.
Maybe I don’t have to be so afraid.
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