The mere sight of a fitting room instils fear in me: it has always been a space associated with pain, disappointment and deep, deep shame.
Growing up, I was acutely aware of the fact that thin = good, and fat = bad – merely existing in our society will do that to you, and if you couple that with a particularly diet culture-heavy environment and being a people pleaser like me, it’s a done deal.
I wasn’t thin – it’s simply not my body type – and that was a cause of profound distress in my life: it dominated my existence in various different forms of disordered eating, chronic dieting and eating disorders until I finally sought help in my late twenties.
But fitting rooms were the pinnacle of my body shame. Conditioned by messaging telling me that anything above a size 10 was undesirable and needs addressing, my ever-fluctuating (but never down to a size 10) body just didn’t measure up. I would desperately try and squeeze myself into sizes I knew deep down just didn’t belong to me, and I would sometimes even buy those sizes, not allowing myself to even contemplate a higher number.
Instagram content
This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.
The label in the back of clothes was so physically small, yet so significantly meaningful to me, that jamming my body into a size too small and suffering the consequences of this discomfort was favourable to purchasing the same item with a different number on the label. My jeans used to dig in so badly that they felt like they were cutting my skin, leaving marks that lasted all night.
Physical effects aside, it was also sending a very loud and clear message to me and my body that was perpetuating my cycle of distress around my body: you don’t deserve comfort. You don’t deserve comfortable clothes that fit and make you feel good to wear. Only when you successfully shrink your body do you deserve that, but until then? Suffer in silence.