My first personal narrative needs a lot of work! The topic is about my weight and how it has affected me.
It's unfinished but I have a lot of it done already - I'm going to post it so it's clear what track I'm on.
The assignment is just to write a personal narrative, it doesn't necessarily have to be about a challenge but it can.
Any suggestions are welcome!
I was nine years old the first time I was ever called fat. From that moment on, I knew that I was fat. Up until that moment, I existed in a kind of blissful ignorance. That summer, I borrowed my grandmother's outdated spot-reducing books from the late eighties and calculated my BMI on her dial-up connection. It's only now that I realize how prematurely those thoughts crept upon me. My weight is something that has shaped my whole life.
In seventh grade, I briefly became a vegetarian in hopes of losing weight. I would give my lunch to the boy I liked. That boy later became my boyfriend; he would call me while he watched swimsuit competitions on TV and confess he felt guilty because he liked looking at them much better than looking at me. I smiled and told him he could cheat, if he wanted, because I knew I was fat.
In eighth grade, my friends would ask me why I didn't look like my best friend. She was taller with a larger chest and a tinier waist. I told them I didn't know. In this way, I came to see myself as a 'default', a point of comparison for people to determine what is and is not beautiful.
In tenth grade, I shrank to my lowest weight. It was still thirty pounds over what was "recommended" for me. I maintained this for about five months by smoking cigarettes, shoplifting diet pills, and living on mostly broth and Monster. I felt nauseous more often than not. Everyone congratulated me. I gained it all back and more.
I would put off simple activities like buying clothes or makeup. Instead, I added that to my reward list. When I reached a hundred and forty pounds, I would deserve a new shirt. When my waist was twenty-seven inches, I would dye my hair red. I hadn't eaten a piece of birthday cake in years. I was unworthy of anything.
I was twenty-one when I found out that fatness and happiness were not mutually exclusive. I learned, from others like me, that I am not ugly or flawed or lazy or gluttonous. It took me twenty years to learn that I deserve to feel good about myself. That my body was not a point of comparison for others to determine what beauty is.
It's unfinished but I have a lot of it done already - I'm going to post it so it's clear what track I'm on.
The assignment is just to write a personal narrative, it doesn't necessarily have to be about a challenge but it can.
Any suggestions are welcome!
I was nine years old the first time I was ever called fat. From that moment on, I knew that I was fat. Up until that moment, I existed in a kind of blissful ignorance. That summer, I borrowed my grandmother's outdated spot-reducing books from the late eighties and calculated my BMI on her dial-up connection. It's only now that I realize how prematurely those thoughts crept upon me. My weight is something that has shaped my whole life.
In seventh grade, I briefly became a vegetarian in hopes of losing weight. I would give my lunch to the boy I liked. That boy later became my boyfriend; he would call me while he watched swimsuit competitions on TV and confess he felt guilty because he liked looking at them much better than looking at me. I smiled and told him he could cheat, if he wanted, because I knew I was fat.
In eighth grade, my friends would ask me why I didn't look like my best friend. She was taller with a larger chest and a tinier waist. I told them I didn't know. In this way, I came to see myself as a 'default', a point of comparison for people to determine what is and is not beautiful.
In tenth grade, I shrank to my lowest weight. It was still thirty pounds over what was "recommended" for me. I maintained this for about five months by smoking cigarettes, shoplifting diet pills, and living on mostly broth and Monster. I felt nauseous more often than not. Everyone congratulated me. I gained it all back and more.
I would put off simple activities like buying clothes or makeup. Instead, I added that to my reward list. When I reached a hundred and forty pounds, I would deserve a new shirt. When my waist was twenty-seven inches, I would dye my hair red. I hadn't eaten a piece of birthday cake in years. I was unworthy of anything.
I was twenty-one when I found out that fatness and happiness were not mutually exclusive. I learned, from others like me, that I am not ugly or flawed or lazy or gluttonous. It took me twenty years to learn that I deserve to feel good about myself. That my body was not a point of comparison for others to determine what beauty is.
