Dee’s Grand Presence.

Chapter 1 The Constant Battle

I was born big, or so it felt. From my earliest memories, my frame was always more generous, my curves more pronounced, my presence, well, just more. Childhood photos showed a sturdy, round-faced girl, always a size or two ahead of my peers, a little wider, a little softer. As I grew, so did the whispers, the subtle glances, the well-meaning but utterly cutting advice. "You'd be so pretty if you just lost a few pounds, Dee," my aunt would sigh, patting my arm with a pitying look. My mother would leave diet cookbooks on my bed, open to pages filled with bland recipes and calorie counts. Society, it seemed, had a very clear expectation of how much space a woman should occupy, and I was perpetually exceeding it.

So, I tried. Oh, how I tried. Every diet plan promising a "new me," every fad that swept through magazines, every punishing workout routine that left my muscles screaming and my spirit deflated. My appetite, a roaring beast inside me, became my greatest enemy, a secret shame I battled daily. I'd meticulously pick at salads in public, making a show of my "healthy choices," then sneak home, heart pounding, to devour a forbidden pizza in the dark, the guilt a bitter aftertaste to the delicious indulgence. I was a master of camouflage. My wardrobe consisted almost entirely of baggy sweaters, shapeless tunics, and dark, forgiving colors – anything to create the illusion of less, to make my body disappear into the background. I perfected the art of shrinking, of making myself invisible in a crowded room. I'd stand at the back, cross my arms over my chest, and try to fold myself inward, hoping no one would notice the way my hips strained against my jeans or the soft swell of my belly beneath my oversized shirt. Every mirror was a battlefield, every reflection a stark reminder of the body I desperately wanted to escape, to diminish. I longed to be small, delicate, to fit neatly and unobtrusively into the world's narrow expectations. But the truth was, my body had other plans, a stubborn resilience, and my hunger, a constant, insistent hum, was always there, waiting, a powerful current beneath the surface of my attempts at self-erasure. The exhaustion of this constant battle was immense, a weight heavier than any number on a scale. I was tired of fighting myself.