Tammin Sursok: 'I've spent 35 years hating my body. I don't want the same for my children.'

I was 15 years old. The pulse of music reverberated against the cold cement in which I sat. Swarms of newly pubescent boys, clumsily and madly kissed their new finds from an hour prior. The air smelled like hotdogs and beer. My insides burned. I desired to be wanted, to be lusted over.

My head began to feverishly bob back and forth. My peppermint breath laboured and my skin began to prickle like burnt grass. I waited. I waited. I waited. The clock mocked me as hours passed.

And then it happened. I saw him. He had jet black hair that matched his eyes. His fingers were pencil thin. He walked within a cloud of cheap musk cologne towards me. My world began to decolour. I could feel my heartbeat within my groin. This was it.

"Hey," he moaned.

I stared blankly, paralysed in fear and lust.

"Hey," he repeated with more gusto.

"Breathe," I mumbled to myself.

I lifted my innocent grey eyes to meet his.

"Hi," I said, "my name is Tammin."

"Hey Tammin, I’m Steve. And I want to tell you something."

My heart stopped. I had daydreamed for years that this moment would come.

"Yes?" I fumbled to say.

"You need to go to Jenny Craig."

*****

I was 17 years old, and I sat on the floor of an antique bathroom in Italy. I had spent the last 40 minutes ramming my chapped and raw knuckles down my throat. I knew this routine well. I had become an expert at lying.

Swirling within the bowl were six fluorescent braces bands dancing like tropical fish. My fingers stung as they dove in to the oily water. It didn’t matter though, for secrets kept me warm at night.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and saw my eyes; they looked like they were bleeding. I weakly smiled at my reflection. I was 100 pounds, I thought, now people would love me.

*****

I was 21 years old, and he was 30. He smelt like sweat and promise and kissed me deep and long. He had movie star hair and bleached teeth and always called me babe. He would take me back to his house, that was bought with his parent’s money, and let me share a place for my toothbrush.

I overlooked the fact that he choose to talk about me looking like an Olsen twin with my large forehead and flailing arms because I was taught in school that boys that like you, make fun of you. I waited up for him when he would leave for days to find himself. When he would eventually return, he would ask me to take my clothes off. To which I always obliged.

Because, again, I was taught it was the right thing to do. He would then, while he proceed to have his way with me, pause for long enough, just to say, "Your stretch marks are getting better."

*****

I was 30 years old. I had just given birth to my first child. I would brush my hot skin with the tips of my fingers. They would fall into the grooves on my stomach that looked like a map of Venice. I cried salty, plump tears. Was I now deformed?

I had spent the last 30 years being told that the only way to happiness, worth and love was for other people to view my body as good enough. I had let my body be objectified by the hands of men; I had let my worth be valued by the headlines of the media; I had let other people's opinions bathed in hate define the way I viewed myself. For too long. Not anymore.

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I have spent the good part of 35 years hating my body. I can't get that time back. But my children can. And it starts with me.

To all my fellow women warriors that have ever struggled with self worth, body image and the fear to break free of old belief systems, I see you.

May we all love ourselves.

May we all rise together.

Happy International Women's Day.

This post was republished with full permission. You can read the original post here.

Feature Image: Instagram @tamminsursok.