The Body Politic

The Diary of a Not So Ordinary Boy

If it weren’t for the pressure I feel under to be thin, I could almost believe that my body was my own.  I sit, every morning, eyeing my breakfast and telling myself I ought to eat less, be less; every morsel that passes my lips laced with an added helping of guilt.

I never used to worry about being thin.  I never even used to think about it.  All those women, publicly plastered over the pages of magazines, paraded on the telly and in films, naked in newspapers; they had nothing to do with me.  I was young, and strong(ish).  My body was a sign of my power.  It was mine, and I wasn’t reducing it for anyone.

I remember the moment when I understood that it didn’t really belong to me at all.  I was sitting in a blandly lightish-beige office, chatting to a doctor, an obstetrician.  She was…

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