I was 10 years old when I first felt objectified by another human being. My uncle was showing off his new jet ski one summer when we were vacationing down in the Carolinas.
I was so much heavier than my cousin, who was the same age, he said to the family after returning from our trip gliding across the water. He could tell, he explained, because of how I felt with my arms wrapped around his midsection.
Looking back, I wonder if my uncle weren’t a bit too preoccupied with my body tugging on his, but that’s not how I took it at the time. I took it how it was intended: I was too big.
So, I stopped eating. As I withered away during puberty, I learned to see my physical form as something to be commented on and occasionally grabbed, but mostly, contained, controlled.
Oddly enough, it has taken me more than two decades to unlearn that behavior, discovering the love I have for my inside and outside at a time when their very nature seems most precarious.
You see, for the past two years, I have been undergoing extensive treatment for breast cancer. I am a year in remission now but am still physically a mess. And, my experience cycling through the health care system makes what happened with my uncle 23 years ago seem innocent.
For I have never felt more dehumanized in my life than I have at the hospital.