For great justice.

This is the story of how cosplay made me love myself.

Eat. Hate myself.
Skip the gym because I had a rough day. Hate myself.
Stare at photographs of myself. Hate myself.
Starve myself for a day. Hate myself.
Eat. Hate myself.
Wash, rinse, repeat.

I’ve never had a good relationship with my body. I used to lay in bed at night and wish, wish, WISH - please, please let me wake up in the morning with a different body. In college I wouldn’t leave the house for a week because I was so terrified of people seeing me - of JUDGING me and policing the way I looked.

I keep clothes around that are much too small for me. I look at them and murmur: “someday…”

I stare in the mirror and I pinch my fat. Tears roll down my cheeks when I see the squishiness of my thighs. I collapse on my closet floor when trying to compile outfits because I JUST DON’T LOOK RIGHT. I JUST DON’T FEEL RIGHT.

This has been my life. It didn’t matter if I was at my lowest weight of 125lbs or my highest of 180lbs: No matter what, I look in the mirror and I feel that the woman staring back at me isn’t what she should be.

I compare myself to my skinnier, prettier friends. I push the fat on my inner thighs aside to see what I would look like with a gap in between my legs. I suck my stomach in and touch my ribs: “There, that’s beautiful.”

About five years ago I started to cosplay for the first time. At first, it was difficult for me. I thrived on the attention that cosplaying brought, but I felt that with this excuse for people to look at me - after all, I was representing characters that were so unreal - that everyone was thinking to themselves: “Ugh, look at her. Look at that fat, disgusting girl trying to cosplay. That’s cute. *eyeroll*”

I picked costumes that were long and modest. I hid under the folds of fabric. I hid behind my own camera. I’d bring costumes to conventions, only to break down when I looked at myself in the mirror and take them off again, mercilessly throwing them into a heap in the corner of my hotel room.

Four years ago I was pushed beyond my comfort levels by agreeing to cosplay Knockout from the Female Furies in a group of empowered, beautiful women. Knockout wears a leotard with a thong. The biggest issue I have with myself is my hips and thighs - “they’d look okay on a black woman, but on a white girl they’re not okay!” says society. I thought that agreeing to cosplay Knockout would push myself to work out and finally lose weight.

I did. I ran and biked and lived on smoothies for months. Barely anything changed. I was still as curvy as always. But I couldn’t back out. I couldn’t let these women down. So I packed up my costume and I changed into it, stricken with terror. I walked around San Diego Comic-con in a thong leotard.

At first I felt the need to hide. Behind other people. Behind fellow cosplayers. Behind my purse. But then I felt myself opening up, like a flower in the spring. I felt the eyes on me - not judging and appraising, but admiring and approving. What a wondrous feeling it was! To feel empowered, beautiful, and sexy. To feel like I was okay in my own skin.

Thus began my journey to self acceptance via cosplay - and while I admit I still have a long way to go, I feel happier and healthier every time I put on spandex. I can eat now without getting panic attacks. I wear dresses that are tight as a glove and show my curves - my imperfections. At times I still feel like I am drowning in my own insecurities, but I recall back to those hours of being a superhero and suddenly I’m okay again.

So for anyone guilty of body policing cosplayers, for accusing us of merely doing it for attention, for objectifying us and ridiculing us - it goes deeper than what you see on the surface. For some of it, it’s integral to our identity and well being.

It’s really hard to stick your tongue out without it touching your lips.