An open letter to my neighbour, who thought she should

 

I had just come back home from the beach and was waiting for my turn in the shower. I was still in my swimsuit, a towel wrapped around my lower body, and a beach shirt draped over my shoulders. My face was red from the sun, and I wasn’t wearing my glasses, so I was probably squinting at everything, too. My hair was a mess from the salt water. (It was even after my shower.)

 

You were in my backyard with a much nicer lady that you seem to be living with, and I am not sure of your relationship to each other. My mother asked me to take a picture of the three of you, and that is when you first saw me.

 

I am sure you thought you were doing me a favour. I am certain you had no ill intentions. You might even be speaking from experience, and offering me what you thought was a piece of wisdom.

 

Your first comment towards me wasn’t even made to me; it was directed at my mother, and you said, “So everyone in your family is pretty heavy, huh?”

 

I will admit, I was more than taken aback. I hadn’t even learned your name yet, but you seemed to have already analyzed and categorized me. Still I smiled and shook your hand as I told you my name.

 

You asked me my age, and when I told you I was 18, you seemed to have figured out my entire personality with that one number. You nodded to yourself, though you hadn’t said anything yet, and then you made your comment. “You’re still young. You can lose weight. You just have to work for it.” Then you went on to give an example of a celebrity that lost 60 kgs by surgically making her stomach smaller, and then you made it clear that you disagreed with that procedure. I smiled, said nothing, and then took the photo.

 

My problem here is that you think I don’t work to lose weight. Which is right; I don’t, but you don’t know me. You know absolutely nothing about me at this point besides my age and my weight, and that is hardly any grounds to make judgement.

 

There’s more you don’t know:

 

You don’t know that later, when I did take my shower, while I waited for the water to warm up, I danced to my favourite song of the summer and loved the way my messy hair bounced, and the way the light reflected off of my eyes, and how my canines looked extra sharp when I bit my lip. You don’t know that I have, at times, found my own body so attractive, I have taken pictures of it bare . (Of course I show those to no one, because I have no one to show them to, but if I did, I would.)

 

You don’t know that some days I can’t stand to look at the mirror, because somehow I have altered the way I remember I look, and it shocks me to see my true reflection. You don’t know that cameras are my worst enemy unless they are in my hand. Because I know something you don’t: the angles that perfectly hide all my flaws and imperfections.

 

I was not hurt by your comments that day, because it was a good day. That’s not to say I didn’t care. If I hadn’t cared, I wouldn’t be writing this right now. Maybe on that day in particular, I could handle it. What if it had been a bad day? Okay, let’s say that a comment like that wouldn’t be enough to tip me off the edge on a bad day -- which it truly wouldn’t. What if it hadn’t been me? I grew up in an environment that forced me to develop thick skin. What if it had been someone who paid more attention to what other people thought?

 

You don’t know how someone will react to criticism like that, especially not when you first meet them. You are lucky that it was me in the way of that sting; I am immune. The problem is that it was most likely a comment made out of entitlement, and worse: habit. How many other people have you judged upon meeting them? How many of those people, no matter their gender, might have been sensitive to a comment you might have made? How many times might you have knowingly or unknowingly touched on a person’s most troublesome insecurity?

 

 

I know you are not the only one with such habits. It’s actually a very ingrained part of Turkish culture. And I hate it, and so does most of my generation, but there isn’t anything we can do but wait until it is our turn to be the elders of a nation.

 

 

Why I’m writing this letter when I sincerely doubt my neighbour is ever going to find it:

 

I want to remind everyone who reads this that you don’t have to please anyone else aesthetically. Your own opinion is enough. In fact, it’s the only mandatory one. Your vote is a veto. It is the only one that matters by default. If you want to add people that you trust onto the counsel, that is all your choice, but always remember that you still have the veto power, even in that case.

 

If I was unhealthy, I would be working on shedding this body for a healthier one. Trust that that is true. If I was unhappy, I would be doing anything to change, because that’s me. I am fine with the way I look, as a whole. I want other people to reach the same level of comfort with their bodies. If you are there, amazing! If you are working on it, keep going! I am rooting for you!

 

 

If you, however, are trying to make a person uncomfortable with their bodies simply because it is a body you wouldn’t be comfortable having, then you need to stop, because your actions are destructive. That is the true unhealthy thing in this situation. It’s toxic.

 

I love you all, and I will love the body you love on yourself, no matter what.

 

Peace out. <3