by Holly White
Being able to accept my body meant I could see my hip bones;
that when I lied down in bed they were sticking far out and my tummy dipped
into a valley and the two peaks stood as mountains either side. I'd see how
much I could hold, trying to hook my fingers around in some attempt to assure
myself I wasn't gaining weight. I'd look in the mirror and stand sideways
trying to asses if they were sticking out more from the previous time I looked,
only a few hours ago. I was transfixed by them and what the represented - bone
sticking out meant I wasn't fat. And if I wasn't fat I was pretty. I wanted to
be able to arch my back forward and see the perfect, repetitive rise and fall
of my spine descending down to where my proud hip bones resided. From the top
of the ladder my vertebrates mimicked, they would snake off into a V and form
my collar bones; two bones that held the weight of my world on, I wanted them
to be so prominent you couldn't miss. Stopping and staring as you trace them
with your eyes, I wanted you to see the grace I held. The framework leading
effortlessly up my neck and to my face. The face I scrutinised everyday, every
glimpse of a reflection, every time someone looked at me, assuming they didn't
like what they saw. My eyes too small, the blue not bright enough, my skin
covered in imperfections, my nose disproportionate, my lips not plump enough,
my cheeks to puffy or maybe too hollow, my smile crooked, my teeth tinged and
wonky, my freckles looking stupid, my eyebrows not full enough, my jaw unflattering,
my hair dull, my voice croaky. I could go on but I'll stop.
So many things to change, improve and perfect to my
standard; if I didn't feel pretty then I wasn't pretty and then I wasn't
capable of being pretty to anyone else. I didn’t develop an eating disorder and
I didn't start hurting myself but I carried a constant reminder that I was
never going to be able to be beautiful. It didn't seem to matter to me that my
parents constantly told me I was, because that's what I expected them to say; I
cared only for what the people who didn't have any obligation to my existence
said. For the people who had no regular involvement, impression, voice or
imprint in my life, I cared for most the way they viewed my body. And it was
because they weren't in my life long,
for at the most a few hours, this was the only impression we had on each other.
They saw me, they judged me, they dismissed me. I wanted so badly to have some
kind of reassurance it was positive thoughts and then I could take some twisted
form of gratification knowing a stranger approved of my body. My body they
would never see exposed, or touch or be in constant contact with because they
were a stranger - and I wanted their approval. I based my entire self esteem
off of a stranger's opinion I could only guess at. Now I have been through
puberty and reached the other side, whilst I am not an adult, I will take it
upon myself to say I have matured over these years and don't build my esteem
from such a method as the above.
It’s taken me a long time to pull myself out of the hole of
denial but I write openly with maybe a completely clichè ideology, to somehow
spread a little more love and understanding of ourselves. And I write for our
blog because it's the only place I know so far for an audience that may work in
a similar way to my own mind - we all come together in one giant hub of life
combined with every feature (about to be listed) that are going through our
systems at such a high concentration: work, stress, anxiety, friendships,
relationships, jealousy, annoyance, sex, lust, drugs, hate, love, sadness,
happiness, anger and want. It's everywhere. It's consuming and it is in us.
Body acceptance, for me, is about taking the time out of my
day and being able to carefully put on stand by the overwhelming feelings I
have taken on board the hours before I look in the mirror. When I have work to
do sometimes I neglect my body's needs; when I am stressed I will again either
neglect it or comfort eat until i can suppress it; when I'm anxious I start to
hate it for being unable to cope in simple situations; with friendships and
relationships I curse it for not being able to get across the right feeling or
words; when I'm jealous I hate it for feeling so useless compared to others;
when sex comes to mind I am repulsed at the thought of it being exposed and
intimate; when I feel lustful I am embarrassed to think for one moment someone
could feel the same way for me; when drugs enter me I am disappointed that I
can't take care of myself; when I feel hate I am infuriated at the consuming
feeling it lets me have; when I have love for a person I am frustrated beyond
belief at my inability to show just how much they mean to me; when I am sad or
happy I dislike how easily I can show what I feel; when I am angry I begin to
shut down; when I want I can never see the things I already have.
And putting that all behind me can be hard when I have to
look in the mirror when I already have so many conflicting and loud and unkind
thoughts in my head. But looking in that mirror I see a body and a person who
has seen me through the best times of my life and stayed there for the most
traumatic; other people have come and gone, their words have been said and
their looks have been cast but I have been the one to keep me going through
every single situation...
...This is how I remember to love the body I have and I
wouldn't trade it for the world.
(Or sandwich)
Comments
Post a Comment
Comments with names are more likely to be published.