Friday, March 7, 2014

Societal Distortion

I used to have a love/hate relationship with my body.  There were parts that I really loved, like my voluptuous, full breasts, or my somewhat thin ankles.  But lately, I have developed a very unhealthy loathing of every aspect of my physical self and it is neither healthy nor tolerable.  Like, why do I have to layer and dress and accessorize this “thing” that deceives me just to reluctantly display it to a public that doesn’t see it the same way that I do.  Why do I have to justify my feelings of hatred to people who look at me and tell me I look “fine”, and to those who say “I wish I looked like you”?  I mean, really?  DO you?  Do you wish to carry around the extra skin, stretch marks and wrinkles of a woman 160 pounds ago?  Because I dare you to.  No, I triple-dog-dare you.  And then I triple-dog-dare you to infinity to wear a bikini while doing it.  And when you take the bikini off and shit is flapping around like a wounded bird, I want you to fuck your husband.  With the lights on.  Challenge accepted?  I didn’t think so.

I know most of this self loathing is self induced.  I know some of it comes from this very plastic Kardashian/Victoria’s Secret/airbrushed –not real-suck-the-fat-from-my-ass-and-inject-it-into-my-lips world we live in, but some of it – most of it – just comes from the reality of what I have done to myself.

I lived a wonderfully cake and ice cream filled life for a very long time where Ben and Jerry’s and Little Debbie allowed me to wallow in my troubles.  I wrapped a bad marriage and a deep depression inside a Taco Bell Wrapper and washed it down with a double chocolate shake.  I held it in with girdles, and disguised it with laughter.  And then, I took the easy way out and had most of my stomach removed, almost as though I were ashamed of it being there, like I couldn’t control it’s mere existence, and left myself with a body that is as foreign to me as those menstrual cups that women walk around wearing nowadays. (I mean really?  You’re bleeding into a solo cup all day and dumping it into random toilets throughout the day, and I’m weird for having my stomach removed??). 

I just don’t know how to stop looking at the magazines and comparing myself to these genetic freaks of women who push a baby out of their cookie, and then wear a bikini the following week as if nothing happened.  I pushed a baby out of my cookie and had one cut out of my stomach and I look like I just went 7 rounds with a baby tiger and a tractor trailer.  And lost.

I need to find a way to stop looking through these distorted eyes, and into all these fun house mirrors.  I need to find a way to see what is beautiful about myself again.  If for no other reason than so that my daughter can always see herself that way, and never, EVER, carry these burdens as an adult like I do.

You’re too skinny,
You’re too fat.
Don’t eat this.
Don’t eat that.
Put on that girdle,
Squeeze into those Spanx.
Put on those heels,
A thicker belt will cinch that waist.
It’s picture time?
Go paint your face.
Make sure to stand at an angle,
One knee bent, One hand on your waist.
Eat kale and fish,
No apples or grapes.
That’s too much sugar,
You need protein intake.
Get on that treadmill,
Put down those weights,
You want to tone, not muscle,
It's sexy to look emaciated.
You’re beautiful
If the world tells you so.
Never let anyone down,
Never say no.
You can never be too pretty,
You can never be too skinny,
You can never be too perfect,
In a world without pity.