I’ve spent a lifetime battling with food, my body and how I view myself. Now I’m finally on the road to self-acceptance 

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When I was 10, I was rushed to hospital with nausea, delusions and terrifying, inexplicable sensations in my body that had made me cry all day.

The doctor poked, prodded, put instruments in my mouth, weighed and measured me. He concluded I was malnourished. My body was now reacting badly to an infection - the chronic lack of nutrition from my refusal to eat anything good for me had left my immune system fighting on empty.

I recovered physically but my relationship with food remained tough. Trying new things felt impossible and all I’d eat was fast food.

But that trip to the hospital was a catalyst, sparking the first discussion in my household about my weight and my health. Not with me as such, but worried talks between my grandparents (my guardians) that took place in hushed tones when I was supposed to be out of earshot. But I was there, listening silently in the hallway, becoming hyper-aware of issues that had hovered in the background.

My difficulty with eating morphed into unhealthy desires for what I believed was the perfect body. One that was full, with strong legs and firm arms. I desired a silhouette which could hold clothes like a mannequin.

Impossible ideals

This, I now realise, was an unhealthy and impossible ideal, especially for someone like me who had spent a lifetime being naturally very thin, and what some, including me, would say was perhaps too thin. Humans are not a one-size-fits-all affair. We cannot all conform to one body ideal that was largely designed by advertisers to thrill and titillate.

Yet, gay and out at 14, I obsessed over men’s bodies. Their figures, lines, and shapes. Not with a sexually-charged gaze, but rather, picking apart the bodies publishers pushed onto the screen of my BlackBerry and questioning why I didn’t look as ‘healthy’ as they did.

At school, boys in the changing rooms eyed my skinny arms and said, ‘Are you bulimic?’ The chorus of titters and cruel taunts that followed every time I took my top off made me want to disappear. Now, I know those school-boy words didn’t cause my insecurities - those were already festering in my mind. But they certainly didn’t help.

I grew an unwanted awareness of my thin arms and the weird shape of the bones in my shins. And just like my bones, I felt out of place. Teenagers around me - whether thin, muscly or otherwise - all seemed more in control of how they felt about their bodies. Less bothered.

The chaos of my finicky eating habits played on my mind whilst I spent evenings in solitude playing SIMS, wondering if my body and mind been made entirely differently to those around me. It was very isolating. And scary. 

In summer, I only wore full-length jeans and long-sleeved T-shirts - anything that could obscure the body I was starting to hate from view. Shopping was a trauma in itself. I wanted to wear all of the gloriously hued t-shirts in the shops but my frayed, nervous mind stopped my colourful heart from wearing what it wanted.

I also had no money to dress myself, was shit at following fashion trends and nervous at just the thought of wearing something even remotely out of my comfort zone, by now the size of a tiny island in the vastness of a sea.

Acknowledging my sexuality cracked open a cavern of body image issues that I did not fully understand until I went to university in Birmingham aged 20, where I joined the gay party scene. There, I met people of every race, heritage, gender and sexual orientation, saw muscular boys in hot pants dancing on poles, heavy-set men in leather jackets, and judgemental, confident skinny men who still looked so tall and put-together. Some were friends; others not so much.

I started attending Gay Pride events. What for most seemed a hotbed of body liberation just made me feel fearful and self-conscious once more. One year, I left the house feeling pretty good, wearing short-shorts and a Primark top I’d cut in half over my kitchen counter - a blue and black DIY crop-top.

But I was ‘skinny-shamed’ by old friends who were visiting, who had no idea of the body image issues I’d battled all my life. They rolled their eyes, tutted their disapproval and mocked me when I became upset. ‘Ohhh I’m so skinny and I hate myself!’ they laughed, accusing me of attention seeking with my choice of outfit. It was hurtful - and ironic given that I was finally dressing how I wanted, solely for myself.

It took me back to the moment as a little boy when I’d finally felt brave enough to wear shorts on a sweltering day, only to be mocked by relatives for my knobbly knees; and back to that young man who‘d been too frightened to buy the coloured T-shirts.

It’s interesting now in retrospect, I can see how other people’s opinions on my body chipped away at me, piece by piece.

Realisations

My friends, in retrospect, probably had their own body hang ups. Though I’d never talk to someone the way they had done to me, I wish I’d recognised the source of their mean comments, so that perhaps their words would’ve felt less barbed, searing into my not-so-thick skin.

Years later, one of the friends who’d made a cutting remark apologised to me. They confessed they’d been suffering with body image issues and had lashed out at me; their cutting words revealing their own insecurities.

Thankfully, here came my turning point. In search of new friends - proper ones - I fell in with a group of ‘misfits', each with their own body hangups, as well as a couple of friends with physical limitations. Before meeting them, I’d had no awareness of how lucky I was to have my body: to walk, run and dance.

Being in a space where I was able to openly address my body image issues without fear of those around me being unkind, I realised a few things.

In the diversity of a city metaphorically and physically miles away from the rural Herefordshire enclave I’d grown up in, I began to see I’d learned very little about the inherent privilege I had enjoyed for being able bodied.
I then learned about colourism, the ugliest hangover of Britain’s colonial era. In the gay male community especially (but not exclusionary to queer or the wider LGBTQ+ world) being thin and white is often seen as desirable.

At least, this is what we’re lead to believe due to the almost exclusively white portrayal of gay men and women in media, film and TV over the years. Gay culture has been stereotyped and characterised as a ‘white thing'. Of course, it isn’t.

My new, supportive friends also helped me realise that I am naturally thin. Despite now eating a lot, I simply don’t gain weight easily. It’s just how I’m built, how my slim body functions. I came to understand that my body images issues started inside my head and heart, but amplified with people’s attitudes and reactions to me, the bullying at school and hurtful comments from people who were supposed to love me.

Unkind digs fuelled my body image issues until they consumed me. By moving away from where I grew up and socialising with a new and diverse group of friends, I began to un-wire the mesh of ingrained insecurities that sat in the pit of me.

I confronted my insecurities in the supportive shade of my new friends and found myself wearing less to feel more. I stopped giving myself such a hard time as I began to be more empathic of others, and grateful for the things I have.

Whilst my body image issues are still there, I am learning, slowly and surely, to love me a little more. I’ve learned what we say to other people, the opinions and comments we impose on them, really do matter.

Especially In the LGBTQ+ community, words and actions feel heightened, so being careful about them is pretty crucial. We are already a marginalised community, filled with people from all different backgrounds and some, maybe many of us are coping with life-changing traumas.

We have to be kinder, gentler and more compassionate, not just with each other but ourselves too. I spent years being mean to myself about the way my body looked and it’s sad. What a waste of emotion and time that was. Aren’t we all going through enough already?

• For help and support with body image issues and eating disorders, visit Beat

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