The Skinny Myth

A 20-year Obsession With Staying Slim Kept Alix O'Neill Trapped in a Cycle of Deprivation and Reward. But Pregnancy Shook Up Her Perception of Perfection – and Her Sense of Self
 

I was expecting tears of elation. This was the moment I’d spent the best part of a year waiting for, but as I gaped at the pregnancy test in my hand, the happiness I felt was diluted by other emotions. There was panic I’d unwittingly harmed the baby after a boozy weekend, doubt I was cut out for such an enormous responsibility, and an element of fear – fear of losing my body and myself to motherhood.

Thinness has been my thing for much of my adult life. I wore skinny like a favourite pair of jeans. Tiny breasts and a well-defined clavicle were comfortable, a second skin. Growing up, my looks didn’t come into the equation. A spirited kid with big dreams, I was going to be a playwright, an author, an FBI agent (lack of American citizenship wasn’t going to stand in my way).

But as I entered my teenage years, everything seemed less certain. Humility was the ethos at my convent high school. Sure, you could have ambition – within reason. When I demonstrated an aptitude for French, I was rebuked for showing off, while my English teacher smirked when I told her I planned to be a writer. Puberty did little to help my plummeting confidence. Braces, thick-rimmed government health-issued glasses and skin lubricated with an immutable layer of oil – I was the poster girl for awkward adolescence. My friends embraced the changes in their bodies, they knew how to work the extra layer of flesh on their hips. Me? I was all boobs and bum, self-consciously concealing the latter behind a denim Hard Rock Cafe jacket welded to my waist.