Alekhya Bhat
Trigger Warning: Fat Shaming, Eating Disorders, Bullying
I remember the first time The DUFF became a popular book at my school. It was in December of the eighth grade, but this possibly well-intentioned book meant to make the “ugly girl” get the “hot guy” in the end - a symbol of hope for the rest of us - became misconstrued. Suddenly this prerequisite of every group of friends having the one unattractive one (AKA the designated ugly fat friend) was held with the meticulous scrutiny of superficial beauty standards.
One day, a girl in my group decided to voice this as we sat on the staircase near our classroom - a popular hangout spot one could generally find us bitch about the general populous.
Said girl was laughing about the DUFF, talking about who the DUFF was in our friend circle. Her eyes kept darting to me. I remember the all too familiar pit of shame circle through my stomach as I over-analyzed her gestures, imagining her eyes dissecting my less-than-perfect body. Her next words confirmed my fears.
“Don’t you think Alekhya is the DUFF?”
Her voice conveyed good humor, with the remnants of a laugh behind the words. Her eyes were full of malice. My stomach coiled with dread. Part of me wanted the rest of my friends to object - to say that it was, in fact, not a funny joke, but a hurtful and untrue one. But my prayers were in vain when I realized that instead of taking this stand, they chose to laugh in agreement.
“Doesn’t Alekhya look like a chipmunk? With her chubby cheeks?” they laughed, before reassuring me halfheartedly that they meant it as a joke. Not once before this had I been critical of the way I looked. Not once before this had I cared. But I found myself repeatedly visiting the school restroom to look at myself - to suck in my “chubby cheeks” and wonder why I looked the way I did. Suddenly, the crushing reality of being the ugly girl in my friend group left me feeling utterly naked to my insecurities.
The next month was torturous. Calling me fat had become so normalized that no one thought twice before making a joke at my expense. In hindsight, I wonder if they even noticed they were being nasty - making comments to hurt me deliberately. I began to feel more and more embarrassed by the way I looked and portrayed myself. I began to wonder what I could do to make myself “prettier.”
One day, a friend of mine decided to make a callous comment on watching a video I’d had to partake in.
“Alekhya, you look so fat here!” she said, laughing. Another girl who was with us laughed at this as well, eliciting a nervous chuckle from me. Encouraged by this response, said friend decided to take her comment one step farther. “Honestly, if I were you, I’d starve myself to death or something.”
Two minutes later, I politely excused myself and went to the bathroom.
That was the first time I threw up my food.
From there, it snowballed. I created a schedule for myself and figured out which meals I could skip without arousing suspicion. I became a pro at lying to my parents about the contents of breakfast and lunch served at the cafeteria when, in reality, I wouldn’t have gone at all.
I recognized the foods that were more likely to make me feel nauseous. I recognized ways to get rid of the food I didn’t want to eat. I recognized every possible self-destructive way to ruin my body beyond repair.
But no one seemed to notice the difference in my weight. No one seemed to see that I was rapidly shrinking, looking sickly, and deteriorating.
No one seemed to notice as I slowly slipped away.
For many years, I blamed the girls who made me think I was “fat” and “ugly.” I blamed the girls who didn’t say anything but laugh at the jokes. I blamed every bystander, every nasty comment maker, and every person who had made me feel less than beautiful.
It took me a while to understand that this worked in conjunction with society, too.
Books like The DUFF reinforced this idea that you have to compare yourself with the people around you to quantify your level of attraction. Movies that cast visually “perfect” girls created unrealistic beauty standards. The Pretty Little Liars franchise romanticized Hanna’s route to popularity through her eating disorder.
And these young, impressionable girls I was friends with had become victim to social conditioning. And I had become victim to their conditioned opinion on beauty standards.
Society makes us believe that if we don’t look a certain way, we are not worthy of respect, love, and beauty.
But that’s where they’re wrong. Beauty doesn’t lie in uniformity; it lies between the cracks, fault lines, and imperfections. And your beauty lies in every single part of you, even if you don’t see it yourself.
Your feet and legs for carrying you around the world. Your arms for holding people in a warm embrace, your hands for writing words can change people’s perspectives. Your eyes for soaking in every ounce of brilliance this world has to offer. Your voice for letting you speak up about your opinions and make the world a better place. Your body for being able to carry out such complex processes.
It took me a while to understand that there’s no “designated ugly fat friend” because true beauty isn’t limited to comparison, and the words “fat” and “ugly” do NOT work hand-in-hand. True beauty doesn’t mean looking at someone else and wondering where you stand on the ranks of attraction.
No matter who you are and what you look like, you’re beautiful.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.