Hungry for Love by Alice Maestrini

Jun 2

Illustration by @katydidthese_illustrations

They all looked alike, the lovers I had in my early twenties. All sickly pale, blue eyed, extremely intelligent and self-absorbed, some narcissist, some bipolar, some both. They all have been problematic young men with a common history of addiction and imposed psychiatric unit visits. All insane in the brain, as I am. Subconsciously, I looked for them exactly for a reason, so that they could use me, abuse me, humiliate me, prove me that I was right hating myself. I didn’t know back then. For a long time I mistook that for love. I very much believed that only living on the constant verge of triggering my worst insecurities and traumas would mean being loved. I thought that a toxic, troubled relationship was the only form of love I deserved.

Many years of psychotherapy later, I learned how love was never on the table. It wasn’t dedication, it was fixation. It wasn’t affection, it was manipulation. It wasn’t love, it was self-destruction.

I remember our naked bodies wrapped around the sheets, my thighs being considerably bigger than theirs. I remember the insulting words disguised as compliments. I believed the reason why those men didn’t want a relationship with me was because I was fat. I didn’t see how toxic they were instead. It breaks my heart looking back at some pictures and seeing how I wasn’t fat at all. I would like to hug that frightened girl and tell her to not be so hard on herself, that she deserves to be loved. Nobody told me that at the time, and in response I developed a troubled relationship with eating and with my body.

My eating disorder was a symptom of my hunger for love. I grew up in a toxic environment that led me to believe that I was worthy of love only if I looked a certain way. I tried to fill the Void by stuffing myself with food until feeling sick. Often I didn’t even stop then. With time my body became larger and the efforts in loving myself weaker. I completely closed myself off and kept everyone at a distance. I became bitter and cynical, thought love and relationships were only good for selling songs and cards.

It took me years of psychoanalysis, moving countries, cutting off people, taking distance from certain environments, challenging my own beliefs, exploring my body, other bodies, my sexuality and eventually fighting my own inner demons to start grasping what love meant. For me it now means being kind to myself, allowing myself to be flawed, to make mistakes, to feel displaced, to have a big, disharmonious body and still being ok with it.

There’s no magic formula, it is a never ending process, but a crucial step came with coming to terms with the fact that I was fat. Once I started considering that word as a mere descriptor - just as being tall or dark haired - I could start realising that my body doesn’t define the person I am, the amount of love I deserve. I still struggle a lot but what keeps me grounded is to surround myself, my physical and digital space, with people and content that make me feel seen, represented, validated. I became familiar with the concepts of fat acceptance and liberation, body positivity and neutrality. And when it’s a particularly bad day I start dancing in my underwear singing out loud in my bedroom. Try it.

Love yourself.

If someone talked to you

The way you do to you

I'd put their teeth through

Love yourself

And that's what they do

The bastards made you

Not want to look like you

So you pay through the nose

To look like someone else

All the weirdos on the shelf

Love yourself