FOREWARD
Two weeks ago my dear friend Bekka wrote me an e-mail in response to the "Love My Body Now Series." Click {HERE.} Mrs. Besich shared my enthusiasm for assisting women in eradicating poor body image. She was generous and trusting enough to send me a snippet from an essay she had written regarding her personal struggle. The piece moved me to tears and my heart felt the imprint of her words. I knew immediately that her story must be shared with others to inspire and educate. Thankfully Bekka consented, having only shown the piece to her English teacher prior to you and I. I thank you Bekka for showing your vulnerability and allowing us into your world. You are an inspiration. 
A TRUE COMPANION
By: Bekka Besich
My face pressed deeply into the tile to find some relief, it is cool and refreshing against my warm skin. I lay in silence, catching my breath. There has been a brief break in the barrage of insults I hurl at myself. For a second, the gut wrenching sobs have subsided and I am able to take deep, calming breathes to try and trick myself into believing I feel better. With the minute amount of energy that I have not cried away, I slowly, methodically, pull myself off the bathroom floor. My hand searches for the sink and upon finding it use its stability to gently ease my wounded body up so I am standing in front of the mirror. I spy myself just then and tears are instantly produced. My face feels unrecognizable, swollen, with large, cumbersome bags formed underneath my eyes and splotches of red that indicate I’ve been crying. The hair in the front of my face is stringy and limp, soiled by wet tears that poured moments earlier. This version of myself, a tormented soul, an unlovable face, makes me sob uncontrollably again. As the noise escapes my lips, I grab a towel to momentarily suffocate its escape.
Husband is sleeping in the bedroom adjacent to the bathroom. I don’t want to wake him with a problem only I can see. The incessant sobbing causes the mental insults to begin again with the intensity of artillery fire - you are so stupid, stop crying. Stop crying you idiot! You are disgusting – My hands instinctively grasp my stomach and my breathing becomes short staccato breathes that don’t allow me to get much air. My fingers linger on the source of my mental pain – a stomach that feels uncomfortably full and protrudes and rolls in all the wrong places. The familiar panic of hyperventilating has set in with ferocity and I grab the towel rod to steady myself. I entertain the idea of throwing up to rid myself of the dreaded feeling of being full, and ease my self-loathing for the night. I crouch over the toilet, white knuckles gripping the sides – a receptacle that captures my dreams, happiness, and heartache with each purge. Just do it, I tell myself, stick your finger down your throat. No one will know. The night’s darkness promises to keep my secret. The mental battle rages on as the world lays silently, blithely in the wee hours of the morning.
“ED” is cunning tonight. The aptly named mental battle seems easier to fight if I give it a persona. ED is relentless. He won’t go away. I’ve tried to tell him, I’m happy, but these internal battles and nighttime breakdowns indicate otherwise. They are much less regular than when it all began in seventh grade but they have not completely subsided. I gently rest my head on the freshly cleaned toilet seat and think of my life. I am married to a man who the mere thought of causes me to pause several times a day and sigh with love. I have a profession that finds me exhausted with satisfaction, a family that loves me, and friends whom I adore. In those moments, with those people, I am happy. I momentarily forget about my gut of a belly, my prepubescent looking chest, and my disproportionally childbearing hips. This is my life; moments of ecstasy accompanied by silent, private struggle.
I sink back against the wall, my crying quiet while giant raindrop tears run down my face. Husband suddenly peers groggily through the door and says nothing. He noiselessly grabs my hand, his rough yet tender against mine, as he leads me back to bed. We don’t talk. I can’t talk. He wraps his arm around me as we spoon silently. His strong arm lying sweetly on my wretched stomach causes me to squirm uncomfortably until he moves it to the small of my back. His breathing becomes deep; he is asleep again. His sudden appearance momentarily breaks ED’s spell. He unknowingly calms my own breathing. In the darkness, away from the tiled floor, I glimpse a better view of the future. ED’s grasp may be too tight for a complete dismissal of late night sobbing, and while husband’s hands don’t stop the mental insults, they do seem to make them a little less true and a little less powerful. This is happiness: silently fighting internal battles with husband’s calming, masculine hands gently on my back.
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