Felt cute today, decided to talk about my body image issues for a bit...(a ramble)
Full disclosure, this post really has no point, other than I felt a sudden urge to blab my problems to the rest of you so maybe someone will come across it and give me the answers I seek...
I know that I am stuck in a body I don’t have much love for. I know that ‘stuck’ isn’t a healthy way of thinking about one’s existence inside one’s own skin. But sometimes we humans have knee-jerk problematic responses to things, like seeing our reflection in a mirror in an unflattering light or at an unflattering angle. Sometimes we even acknowledge that this is ‘shallow’ behavior (at least in the strictest sense)—being overly concerned about your own reflection, well-known hallmark of the Mean Girl archetype we all love to hate and hate to love. However, it is also, unfortunately, a lesser-appreciated hallmark of those of us who happen to have a fairly fucked up relationship with their own bodies. Mine isn’t as fucked up as others I’ve known over the years, but then fucked up is fucked up, and I think we can agree that this isn’t a competition.
I’ve been feeling lately like my body is punishing me for being lazy. Symptom of menstruation, perhaps. Actually, it definitely is. For one thing, in the days leading up to and during menstruation, my hormones go off the rails and I start to have really bad breakouts on my skin. And not just on my face. I won’t go into the details for obvious reasons, but I think you get the picture. My body isn’t a mess, it isn’t malfunctioning, in fact it’s probably working just fine (comparatively). But I swear to high Christ, times like these I feel like peeling off my skin and setting it ablaze in a trash bin behind a Walmart parking lot. (I don’t know why I use Walmart for imagery; I haven’t gone near or shopped at one in nearly a decade. Perhaps, in my mind, it’s a place only fit for the deeply depraved impulses of human kind.)
I sit down a lot. My main mode of exercise is walking and I haven’t been to a gym in years. I occasionally set aside time for myself to do stretches and yoga, but I am really, REALLY bad at forcing myself to do things like that on a regular basis. I’m what’s called an ‘obliger,’ you see, which means I’m mostly motivated to do things when they are asked or demanded of me by outside influences. Like being given homework at school. Or going to weekly classes for yoga or some other form of healthy physical activity. Neither of which I’ve had occasion to do in a while. So when it comes to regular exercise, for now at least, I’m pretty effectively useless. This isn’t to say that I can’t do certain things for myself, or that I won’t ever develop the ability to discipline myself. I hope I will some day soon. But for now, that’s just the way I am. I love walking and being active, but my natural state is sitting in a comfy chair and reading a book or scrolling through Tumblr or watching one of my comfort shows. It’s a curse, I guess, or maybe a blessing. Either way, usually my period manages to get me all fucked up again. I’ve gotten a lot better at managing my BDD (Body Dysmorphic Disorder) and the depression and anxiety that came with it. They do still live inside my skin, firmly embedded there for god knows how long. At least now they have to pay rent.
Quick tangent: as I write, I am listening to this song…1
(You all know how much I love to share music in my posts.) I’m not sure why I am listening to this song in particular, but it’s in one of my Wes Anderson playlists—yes, I have playlists dedicated to music from Wes Anderson movies, I’m a nerd2—and this kind of music makes me feel absurd in the best way. When my body issues rear their ugly Hydra heads (cut one off, two more spawn, it really is the best metaphor I could have come up with on the spot), I need to start thinking of them from an absurdist point of view. My body is like a Picasso painting—not the ones he did when he was fifteen, but the ones he’s generally known for.
What I mean is that, in my mind—because I don’t often look at my reflection—I don’t really have a, shall we say, defined architecture. I see different versions of myself in different mirrors. I never know which ones are telling the truth, if any of them are (BDD is a real bitch that way). If I had any visual artistic talent I could probably make a fortune selling dozens, maybe even hundreds, of self portraits, all from different angles, with different lightings, colors, shapes and sizes. Or maybe not—it’s kind of rough out there for artists these days.
No one would know which piece shows the real me. Because none of them do.
But getting back to my tangent (I know, I’ve always been bad at writing essays that make sense structurally), I’m listening to this music because I wish I lived in a Wes Anderson movie. Maybe then I could articulate my problems in a more profound, prosaically proficient way. I could use words like ‘victuals and comestibles’ and ‘remitted’ and ‘ticker tape,’ and other such quirky lexicons to express my existential pain. I could even be ‘ugly,’ but the camera would make me look beautiful in my own way. Aesthetically pleasing. Hilarious. Colorful. It is a consummation devoutly to be wished. A fantasy.
And ridiculous music would play in the background and I’d feel like a clown. I wouldn’t actually be a clown, though. I’d be a glaring metaphor for something greater than myself.
Tangent over. I think…
I’m not sure what else I should say. I suppose I always feel the need to express my issues to other people because I don’t want to be the only one holding on to them. This is one of the reasons why my experience with the labyrinth was so moving for me. I reach out to people a lot—friends, family, even coworkers when it feels appropriate to do so—to articulate what I’m feeling. But why do I need so many people to know about my neuroses? Maybe I mistakenly believe they might hold some secret, sacred answer to the questions I have. Perhaps I just want to be taken care of. Mothered by humanity—stripped of some of my agency so I don’t have to take responsibility for myself. I need to be nurtured, I suppose. Like a flower. Except flowers aren’t ‘obligers.’ Yes certain situations encourage growth, while others cause them to whither. Yes, the very presence of the sun is enough to turn their heads in an entirely new direction and reach for the sky. But they have built in codes, they have their own rituals that are as sacred to them as breathing is to us. They also breathe. They know what to do. I do not.
I need to be watered and cajoled by the gentle hands of others. I cannot abide a harsh existence where every person looks out for themself. One of my great fears in life is of being left alone. Or being left behind. Isolation. I may be an introvert, but I generally love being around people. At least, until I run down my social battery and must return to my hideaway, where my skin slackens and wrinkles and sometimes bleeds in the dark. In the dark is where I mostly feel safe, or at least, unperceived. Because the dark makes you unperceivable. You can be truly formless. An entity of voice and noise but little more than a silhouette.
So there you have it. On display, though not fully. There’s a lot left to get off my chest, but I’ll save it for another time. I’m not happy with my body. I don’t think I have been since the fifth grade. What a time of terrible discovery that was. At least I don’t hate myself anymore. I just wish I were different. I wish I could offer some wisdom for the rest of us who are dealing with this bullshit. But the truth is, I’m in the same boat as you. I don’t have much hindsight; as a newly-minted twenty-four-year-old, in the eyes of the world I’m still a baby. I don’t know what to do to heal myself other than to talk about it constantly. I used to keep a diary, and sometimes I will write something down for my eyes only. But diaries can only do so much for you when you long to hear the voice of God. Ideally spoken in a human voice, in a language you understand. Ideally by someone you care about who also cares about you.
All I can really offer as a meaningful contribution to the conversation is what I feel in the moment. I can chronicle it, I can force feed it to you, I can sit back and wait while you digest. This isn’t a memoir looking back at the mess my life used to be. This is happening to me right now. I’m stuck in the middle of some long-winded soliloquy about the meaning of life. About why my body is a disappointment to me and why I wish it could be better. Oh look at that, my internalized fatphobia and ableism have also come out to say hello. Well hello, assholes! You still owe me last year’s rent. Dicks.
Maybe this will help someone. I want everything I write to help someone. Why else would I embarrass myself like this? Validation? Yeah, probably. But also a much more noble, outwardly-focused reason.
I don’t know how to end this. Someone should tell me to just do it. Okay, I will.
If you want to know which Wes Anderson film this is from, it’s actually from one of his short films, “Castello Cavalcanti.” Watch it, it’s really good. Apparently “dicerie” means rumors. I wish I could fit that into this post thematically, but I can’t so here you go.
I also have indisputably good taste, so shut up.
So instead of mumbling your miserable moments, YOU can incisively, entertainingly, and detailingly articulate them. Your heightened body awareness and highly developed verbal skills--(likening one self-image to a Picasso figure! is so evocative! )...Such "brain dumps" give us readers a mass to circle and contemplate for resonances to our own such moments. No one is repelled, trust me, Celeste. For myself, I never really lived in my body; it seemed accidental, almost. Which is a better starting point: feeling stuck inside your body, or feeling unattached and fleeting, unrooted from the body ? We're ALL in this struggle; all at some point along a spectrum of Self-Becoming. Keep on making yourself up--collaging your self with music and art-- and putting each self out there, Celeste. Oh--and move as much as you can fit in, not in a scheduled way; you don't work so. In bursts, if that's the way it happens.I'd dance a lot, if I were you!