I need constructive criticism on this essay ASAP! What should I change? What do I need to improve? Thank you in advance!!!
Being Fat with a Skinny Mind
I am a twin. I was born twelve weeks early. I am a girl, and he is a boy. Our story of survival started coming out of our mother’s womb. I was untouchable in an incubator my mother was afraid to look at. My brother was tangible, something they could hold, touch, hear. My lungs couldn’t work. Machines connected to me worked my body for me. The nurses had used all the veins they could find on my arms and legs, so when they started using the veins on my bald head, my mom had to leave the room. I weighed all of three pounds and seven ounces. I wanted to live; you could hear it in my cry, a cry of survival.
I am twelve weeks old. I went home when my sibling. I was rarely held. A bond was never started between my mother and I; maybe she could always see the machines that kept me alive. I am not fragile. I kicked my twin out of the womb to get out of my way, and I use that strength to cry, to wiggle, to find solace in toys and blankets. We made it to our first birthday, and our second, and our third, and our fourth. I wanted to live; you could hear it in my giggles and screams, a thunderous boom of survival.
I am afraid of any and all doctors and hospitals. Maybe it was because we were born early or maybe it is just my mother’s nature, but she never stopped feeding us. Whatever we wanted we could have. We had home cooked meals, but none very nutritious. By age five or so we were considered over weight by every doctor in the central Ohio area, but my mother refused to believe it. My mother became a stay at home mom when I was seven years old to be with us more, to coddle us more, to protect us more (she thought). I wanted to live; you could hear it in the way I stretched, ran, and played with friends, movement of survival.
I am twenty-one years old. I still don’t play sports. I enjoy the arts: reading, writing, painting, creating with my hands beauty. I am not a couch potato. I do not just sit on my butt all day long. I enjoy dancing. I enjoy playing soccer and being competitive. I just don’t like them enough. I am pretty, but no one is willing to notice. I can paint on a pretty face, and hide emotions of inadequacy and fear of the outside world. People can be mean, and I am sensitive. My inner strength hasn’t changed, but my outer appearance has; I no longer weigh three pounds and seven ounces. I want to live; you can hear it faintly through clogged arteries and acid reflex disease, a pleading to survive.
I am obese. I am five feet and an inch tall. I weigh two hundred and sixty-five pounds. It’s has been a long childhood of over eating, fast food, junk food, and binge eating getting here, but I have been in this state of physicality for a few years; it has taken its toll on my body and health. I had asthma as a child, and it may be coming back. I currently suffer from acid reflux disease and every episode feels like a heart attack. At twenty-one, I shouldn’t be worried about heart attacks or not waking up in the morning or having a stroke, but I am. I am scared. I want to change before I become a national news story of an early death or being the heaviest person on earth. I want to change before I can no longer live. I want to live; you can hear it in my prayers, prayers of survival.
I am changing. I teach toddlers. I need more energy. I need less of me and more space. I work with healthy, average built women who can and are willing to help me. Women who will write recipes recommend good gyms. I will try these. My motivation stems from my desire to live a long time for my younger family members and the children I care for at work. I want to live for them, so that they single handedly can see what hard work and dedication can do. I want them to know I love them so much, I am willing to change my whole life around to be healthier and live longer for them. I want to live; you can hear it in the machines chugging and blenders mixing, sounds of a new life.