I needed to write this headline to get over something. A fear. Call it one of my cheese suits.

I really want to do this before this year ends and the next one begins.

Before we begin, please look at this photo, what the person chose to name it, read the photographer's summary, and the comments that follow it. I wonder if you thought it was funny, or stupid, or cruel, or just nothing in particular.

For me, it was extremely painful. I feel a deep hurt--the kind of shaky anger and pain and fear and confusion that I can only equate with the feeling of betrayal. That's the closest I can come. How heartless, how without humanity. Look at the PLEASURE with which they go at it. The abject hatred for people they don't even KNOW. It...frightens me. It always has. I have grown to realize I have lived with a fear of this sad reality all my life, regardless of what my own body looked like.

I have wanted to write about body issues for a long time now, but I find each time I think of doing it, I don't know how to start, or what exactly I want to say. There is so much to say, and so much I want to avoid saying. I guess since there is no eloquent way to do this, the best way at this point is just to lay out some facts and then maybe they'll lead to something eventually.

Fact 1:
The thing that is on my mind, that I wanted to talk about today, is I'm now hovering on the line between fat and thin. I have not been on that line for a long time. More specifically, this balance is currently in the form of a number for me. Last week, I was on the brink of breaking the 200 pound mark. As in, one more pound, and the scale would have a "1" as the first figure of three, instead of a "2." It has been...at least two years (or more?) since I could say that.

Fact 2:
I was at one point while I was writing this blog, 248 lbs.

Fact 3:
I have been bothered since the start that I could not admit that when it was true. And that I knew then that if I ever did tell you that number, I would never do so until I was at a weight where I felt safe from the ridicule and scorn I assumed would come with such an admission (see photo link above). I don't know that I'm actually at that safe point now, yet, but I know I feel safer than I would have back then. I feel ashamed that I was ashamed to admit this. I think it was cowardly.

Fact 4:
It is harder for me to tell you about this than it was to talk about my sexual assault. I am more ashamed of being fat and of my body issues than I am of having been a rape victim. I think there is far more disgust and far less pity out there in the world for a fat woman than there is for a rape victim. (At the same time, I think my weight issues may be inextricably bound to my assault issues, but I am as of yet unsure of the exact connection.)

Fact 5:
I have never lied about my body type by saying I was thin, but I was never open about it either. I am certain this deliberate omission allowed people to envision an entirely different kind of woman when they read my writing. I suspect no one read my blog and imagined I was fat. I suspect they imagined an entirely different kind of woman, with an entirely different kind of body than one that was carrying around 248 pounds of weight around on it. I assumed, and continue to assume, that people do not want their image of a sexy, beautiful, mysterious blogger ruined and replaced with the harsh reality of an image of "a fat pig."

Fact 6:
This means, of course, I assume no one would assume if I were fat, that I could also be sexy, beautiful, and mysterious. That I could be anything beyond merely gross.

Fact 7:
I believe with certainty that I will lose readership because of this post. Particularly male readership.

Fact 8:

I can not talk to people about my weight without making a concerted effort to make them understand that "I was not always this way." That I was, at one time, and for a very long time, very thin. I suspect I do this because I think if they know this, it will somehow make them think not quite so little of me as they would if they assumed I have always embodied The Fat Person.

Fact 9:
There is a huge amount of shame I have about having become fat. About being fat. I don't want this to be true, that I feel shame about it, but it is true. I think people look at fat people and make assumptions about them, based solely on their bodies. Loser, sad, lazy, pathetic, slovenly, ugly, subhuman, animalistic (think of the nicknames: fat pig, fat cow, fat fucking bitch, ugly sow, fat ass--all animals).

Fact 10:
It fills me with anger that this is true. That people--and particularly men, but women, too--treat you differently when you are thin than when you are fat. And I know this to be true first-hand. It fills me with anger when I look at personal ads and see men--and I mean even FAT men---saying they only will consider someone "petite or 'fit.'" It also annoys the hell out of me that "fit" is the new euphemism for thin. If you're fat, you don't "fit." It fills me with anger when I hear someone say, "She has such a pretty face, what a shame..." about a woman who is overweight. It fills me with anger when EVERY SINGLE DAY I have to hear fat jokes in the media, and just out in the world--or just commentary on how one shouldn't be fat, how it's preferable to be thin. If you are not fat, you probably don't realize the constant barrage of it. Take a day to notice it carefully. Count it up. It's overwhelming. Some of these comments--if they were said about a race or a religion, people would be up in arms. Fat people are the one group no one even feels a begrudging need (even if only by fear or societal pressure) to show any respect to.

Fact 11:
Even as all this makes me angry, and even as there are many fat people who I love and respect, I often find myself deep down adopting these attitudes, in a once-removed kind of way. As in, I feel sorry for them that I know the world won't look at them as well as they should, because I assume that's the case. That I know many people might not find them attractive. And, much as I'm ashamed to say it, in the past I have sometimes wondered if when I am with a fat person in a social situation, if people think that says something about ME. As if the attitude about fat "rubs off" on the other people around the fat person. As a result, of course, I assume no one would want to be around me while I'm fat, because they wouldn't want my "fat vibes" ruining their mojo.

Fact 12:
I can't tell you how hard it is to have just written that. I can't imagine how pathetic and fucked up I must be coming off.

Fact 13:
Bringing us back to fact 1: I am now hovering. I have lost almost 50 lbs. I am just about to cross the line from plus-size clothing into regular clothing. Just about to cross the line from two-hundred-and-something to one-hundred-and something. And for some reason, I am fucking terrified. I had one pound to go last Thursday, and it was done. This week, I binge ate, so now I am five pounds heaver than I was last week. I just lied to you. I am seven pounds heavier. I actually thought lying by that two pounds would seem different somehow. This is how fucked up I am over this issue. Anyway, I have successfully moved myself away from the brink for one more week, it seems. Sabotaged myself. Whatever.

Fact 14:
Again, I am fucking terrified. I am terrified to be fat, and I am terrified to be thin again. When you are fat, no one sees you. When you are thin, everyone looks at you. But not at you. That's not what they're looking at.

Fact 15:
I feel like no one has ever really seen me in my entire life.

Fact 16:
People congratulate you on getting thin. This enrages me. People feel they have free reign to comment on your body as you lose weight, and especially when you're thin. Many days, I feel I never want to hear I'm beautiful again, unless it has nothing to do with my body. And yet, I crave knowing someone finds me physically beautiful. Because I suspect if they don't see me as beautiful outside, they won't even consider what's inside. I don't want to CARE if people think I'm beautiful. I don't want to CARE. I don't want to CARE. But I do.

Fact 17:
I often see myself as two separate women: fat girl and thin girl. Like they are different people. I guess because I get treated differently, I assume people see me differently, and it's somehow created this split in my own mind. Fat girl is all the things I'm not supposed to be, and all the negative things I am, and all the positive things that go unnoticed when I'm stereotypically beautiful. She's sad, and isolated, but authentic. Thin girl is perfect girl, the girl everyone wants, who can play the surface game really well. She's what the world wants. I'm afraid to lose fat girl. She's part of me. I don't want people to assume she's not there. I don't want people to know she's there somewhere and so not to want me, because she might show up again. Fat girl, while being painful to be her, doesn't have anything to prove anymore. She doesn't have to care what people think, because she already knows what they think--not much. Thin girl--she's the good girl, whose looks please everyone else. I don't want to be pretty to please everyone else. I don't want to be thin to please everyone else. And even if I get thin for me, people will do that--they will express their pleasure at the fact I am thin. I AM NOT GETTING THIN TO "FIT" IN. Or am I?

Fact 18:
I AM NOT GETTING THIN TO "FIT" IN. Or am I?
That is the scariest part. If I'm fat, I know I'm not doing it to fit in. If I'm thin...well...
I am getting thinner because I am getting healthier, finally treating my body nicely after a lot of abuse, and my body is responding. I am also getting thinner because when I look at photographs of me, I don't even know who that woman is. I don't recognize her. I want to know myself. That is my goal. But I know in so doing, it will also gain me certain other things. Acceptance, attraction, desire...love.
I wish someone had ended up loving me while I was fat. It would have proved to me the world isn't as full of fucking assholes as I now think it is. But no one did.
I look at those hundreds and hundreds of personal ads of men--even fat men--saying they'll only date a thin woman. And I know in a matter of months, I'll be able to write to them and they'll want to date me. And all I can think is, FUCK YOU.

---
Photo credit: DIY cosmetic surgery--a tummy tuck by jayjuice. It's a series; the whole set is great. See it here.

So I've lost a whole lot of weight recently, which now requires me to go out and try to find new clothing. One thing I need is new jeans, and badly. Frustratingly, a lot of jeans these days aren't built for my shape. I'm an hourglass--but most jeans are built for girls with skinny boy hips. So that's one problem--finding jeans built for curvy women that actually look cool. But then another deal with my body is that I have a pretty long torso. This means there's a greater amount of material needed between my waist (or hips) and my crotch than the standard size jeans usually have. And since they don't make jeans for varying torso sizes, what that means is that most jeans end up giving me some semblance of what popular culture so classily calls "camel toe."

Now, in general most clothing I try on doesn't end up looking over-the-top obvious like this. It's more like it merely shows that I actually, like, (gasp!) have a vulva. I'd say, for instance, something like this.

But because people make such a big deal about how awful it looks when women wear clothes that emphasize that area, I tend to reject these jeans (and trousers, and shorts, etc.). But as I threw the tenth pair of jeans on the dressing room floor in frustration, I got to thinking. I mean, come on, does it REALLY matter if you can see the shape of a woman's pubis? What the fuck is the BIG DEAL, anyway? So WHAT?

And I began to wonder if not only that, but if perhaps this is one of those things that culturally gets made fun of but secretly most straight men and lesbians actually LIKE seeing? I mean, if really everyone likes it but is just afraid to say it, then I'm going to stop caring if my mons veneris is into showing herself off. But if I'm going to be made the subject of finger pointing and ridicule, forget it. I'm too self-conscious for that.

So, what do you think? Is the camel toe a thing to be worn with pride or avoided at all costs? If you're a woman, are you self-conscious about it when you choose clothing? If you're a man or woman who's attracted to women, do you find the CT attractive or repulsive when you catch a glimpse of one? Or just merely laughable? Or do you have no feeling about it at all?

Really, why do people care? Do you even notice if someone's got camel toe? I don't think I ever do, really.

(photo credit: my camel toe picture by Corx)

Or "Half-Nekkid Hotel Room," whichever you prefer.

Well, I've always been an admirer of Osbasso and all the people brave enough to join him each week in doing HNT posts, but I've always been hesitant to post any photos of myself because 1) I have been trying to overcome lots of body image issues and haven't wanted people to focus on or provide assessments of my body, and 2) I'm probably unduly paranoid about protecting my anonymity. However, lately I've been doing an ongoing project for myself as my body transforms from one shape to another. The goal is to learn how to fall back in love with my body and accept it in its many forms. More specifically, as I've been losing weight, I've been documenting it through photos--taking pretty pictures of it in all its stages so I can remember what it was like and confirm for myself that my body is and was always appealing in all of its various incarnations.

I took a few that I liked for the series last week when I was staying in a hotel. And since it seems like lately barely anyone is reading anyway, I figure no one will probably actually even see this HNT, so what the hell.

The following are shots of me late at night in clothes that no longer fit, documenting a transition in body and mind. It's a fond farewell to my absolutely favorite Hello Kitty t-shirt, which is now swimming on me and which I need to (sob) retire. This shirt was one of the few things that made me feel attractive while I was fat. And also, to add to the image, a matching set of retro cotton panties (I love the look of retro Sears catalog panties) that I've also gotten too small for. These clothes were soft and comfortable and made me feel safe and cared for and pretty during some really hard times. I'll miss them, but it's time to say goodbye. Now that I've shown them some photographic love, I am ready to let them go.

So, below the cut, two more from my "Goodbye, Hello Kitty" series.

(Biting my lip nervously as I hit "post.")

I've lost a significant amount of weight lately. The kind of amount that makes people widen their eyes in disbelief.

Anyway, it's hit a point where I had to acknowledge I couldn't go on hiding in my old clothing anymore, as it was getting to the point of clown-suit ridiculousness. Everything in my closet hung off me like loose elephant skin.

For those of you who have never been plus-sized and a woman, let me enlighten you: people generally don't go out of their way to make nice clothes for those of us who are. Your selection, if you have any sense of style and don't prefer mumus or "mother-of-the-bride"/retiree wear are very limited. When I was plus-sized, I shopped in pretty much exactly three places. They were all I had if I wanted to look halfway decent.

Now, I'm no longer plus-sized. This means that I can now shop pretty much anywhere. I can walk through any mall and enter pretty much any shop and try anything on. My choices are now limitless.

This should be a good thing, but all I seem to be able to find it to be is overwhelming. And unsatisfying.

I go in, sort through racks. And nothing looks interesting. Nothing feels like ME. Occasionally, I'll come across something that halfway pleases me. I'll try it on. I'll experience delight that it fits, and I'll feel good for a few minutes. I'll put it in the pile to buy. I'll build that pile up in an orgy of excitement that my body works with so many different kinds of clothes.

And then, slowly, I'll re-try on all the clothes I've laid aside one more time. And I'll reject each one. I'll realize it doesn't make my body look that good after all. Maybe it doesn't really fit, I tell myself. Maybe you'll look ridiculous, like a sausage trying to stuff itself into a skin. Or, that's not you, I'll say to myself. That's just the closest thing you can find to not boring that only sort of approximates you. You'll be sending out the wrong message. No one will get who you are.

And I reject item after item until I walk out of huge shopping centers completely and utterly empty handed.

Nothing, either actually or psychologically, seems to fit. Nothing is right. I have a world of selection open to me, and nothing is what I want. I'm looking for something, but I can't find it. And nothing I try feels good, feels right, feels like I can walk around with it and be ME.

And I am realizing now this phenomenon is becoming a larger metaphor for everything in my life right now.

I have to go back to my job today, after more than a week off. I am dreading it with all my being. Not because my job is so horrible. It's actually a good place to work, on paper. But it just doesn't FIT anymore.

Nothing fits. Not jobs, not lifestyle, not relationships, not friendships. I find myself screaming in my mind constantly, "I want OUT. I want OUT."

And yet, I have no idea OUT TO WHERE. I want to ball up my life like a piece of paper and start a fresh page. But I have no fucking idea what to put on that page, and I'm so afraid to mar it with bad prose that was the wrong choice that I feel paralyzed. I am walking around, the world a wide open market of choice, and I can't choose anything. I have no idea what fits. No one makes anything I want.

I hate this. I want something new. I want to understand what I want. And I don't. I just don't.

I want to move, I want to start. I want my new clothes. But I'm stuck.

The anger and frustration I feel right now, I can't even describe to you.

I want OUT.

I want OUT.

This was so hard for me to write and I'm not even sure what I said here or if it makes any sense; I just kept going and willed myself through it until it felt like I'd finished. I'm not reading it or editing it because then I'm afraid I won't post it. It may be a while before I can come back and read what I wrote. So I apologize in advance for any messiness or lower quality writing than normal.

The idea for this post came from here.

Note: The two links that point to images of the woman's body are NSFW.

---
Dear Body,

I've been avoiding writing you this letter, so I know it's something I've got to do.

Why don't I want to talk to you?

Actually, that was the only thing I could think to say for the last few weeks since I thought about starting this post, "Dear Body, We've never really talked."

I find this to be shocking. I never really realized it before. But it's true. I've never really communicated with you in any way. And for that I'm so, so sorry.

I'm trying to start now. But it's really hard. This letter is going to be a mess. I apologize in advance. I hope you'll stick with me more than I've stuck with you all these years. I know I may not deserve it, but...I hope you'll hear me out.

What really prompted me to write today after waiting so long was that last night I couldn't sleep, and I ended up watching a film on some independent movie channel that I'd already seen once. But I watched the whole thing again, anyway. And in this film, there is a main character, a young woman of my coloring, who is often seen naked. And I remember the first time I watched this film finding her somewhat mesmerizing.

It was much the same this time. I found myself completely absorbed in watching her body as it moved across the screen. And while watching her, I was overwhelmed with this profound feeling of connection also this instant, deep sadness that wailed both straight into and also poured out of my heart--almost like mourning. This is the only way I can describe it; the reaction was simply visceral, and not easily given words. But then again, Body, you felt it, so you know. We felt it together. Or maybe it was you who made me feel it. Maybe it was you who was telling me it was time to feel these things.

In any case, when conscious thought followed the emotional response, I recognized with some shock that: 1) her naked form looked almost exactly like yours did when I was in my early 20s, and 2) I was thinking to myself that she was beautiful.

This may sound odd to some outsiders that it was hard for me to piece these two together as connected thoughts. But I don't think you'll be surprised by this, will you?

Because I was was looking at this other girl's body, so much like you were then, and responding to her in all her erotic, naked power. I mean, she was stunning. Just this marvelous, vibrant thing, full of life, in this absolutely mesmerizingly beautiful body.

But when I looked at you, I couldn't see any of it. When I looked at you looking much like this, here is what I thought:

"Yeah, you're thin, but look, your belly still has a curve outward. It's not flat. It totally ruins your chances of having a really nice body. That curve is so aesthetically unpleasing. You'd better hide it. Wear control-top tights or something."

"Look at how your breasts are sagging. And you're only 20! See how they are heavy at the bottom like that, with that slight curve at the top? That's not normal. They should be round all the way around, and up higher. Guys will be disappointed in them. Sure, you can make them look good in a bra, but when you get naked, well, guys'll put up with them, they won't say anything, but they won't be thinking anything good."

That's the kind of thing I said to you, when you were generous enough to gift me with the shape you did. I ridiculed you and picked you apart. I couldn't even see what was in front of me.

But I wasn't comfortable even with that. I knew enough between the obsessive media focus on eating disorders and my feminist studies that it wasn't "right" to criticize my body. And on top of that, I was never comfortable, even from early childhood, with how much focus people put on my appearance. So I didn't even like attention to you--positive or negative--coming from myself, let alone others. And so to solve this dilemma, I decided to completely ignore you, block you out. I chose to pretend you didn't exist in any real or important way; that you weren't a part of THE REAL ME. Any reference to you or thoughts of you I just...let slip away as if they didn't exist.

Do you remember that one guy in my dorm telling me in an offhanded way I had the perfect body, and me just staring at him blankly? My response was beyond just not wanting to believe him or trying to be modest--I simply couldn't conceive what he was saying. I felt nothing except some slight confusion, like he was talking another language and so I couldn't possibly have a response. I didn't forget I did this to you, if you thought i did.

Do you remember all my lovers who went on about how great your breasts were? Do you remember how deep down, I felt surprised every single time, no matter how many times it was volunteered freely? How I just sort of pretended I didn't hear? I didn't let myself feel anything about what I was doing. But I didn't forget I did this to you.

Do you remember how tense I felt whenever someone went to kiss my stomach, wishing he'd move past that flawed spot quickly, so I didn't have to think about how I didn't measure up? And then just pushing that thought out of my mind? I pretended I didn't do this. But I didn't stop. And I didn't forget.

Do you remember how I almost always covered you up with big, big tops and long skirts or round babydoll dresses all those years so no one could see most of my shape? Oh I was good at pretending that I was revealing stuff, but nothing was really clear and out there to see.

I need to say this to you, though I am ashamed to say it.

I was not proud of you. I was ashamed of you. I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve that. You were lovely and good and I humiliated you and hid you away like you were a defective child.

Not because I thought you were ugly, or I didn't love you. I didn't think you were ugly; and I loved you, more than you could probably understand.

But I didn't want anyone to see you. Because I thought...

I don't know. I don't know why I was ashamed of you. I don't understand. I wish I could understand.

The other day I was talking to my therapist about having urges to eat when I wasn't hungry, and why I don't seem to want to let myself get thin. She asked why I thought I might be doing this. I responded without thinking, "Maybe it's because I'm afraid of what will happen if I'm thin."

She asked me what I thought would happen. And I had no answer. I'm not sure. I just know I'm terrified. Terrified to be thin. Terrified to be looked at. Terrified to be attractive. Terrified of what I might attract.

I should keep going with that list, free forming, because I'm getting somewhere, but I'm too terrified to keep typing that list.

But. For now.

Maybe, like the "defective child" analogy I made earlier, it was not that I couldn't see the beauty in you, not that I couldn't love you, but that I thought the world would be too hurtful to you. I wanted to protect you from what would happen when exposed to others. So I hid you away.

Writing that made me want to start crying.

But I don't know. Maybe it was that. And maybe it was even worse than that.

I never thought I hated you. I really didn't. But there is evidence to the contrary. I hid you away, and didn't let you get love and attention, from myself or others. I ignored you. I denied you were important to me. I said you didn't matter. I didn't let friends and admirers of yours come around. And if they braved my displeasure and admired you anyway, I made their lives very difficult.

And I did this all while I was telling myself and you how much I loved you, but that other people just didn't understand. Only *I* could really love you. Everyone else was a sham.

At that stage I wasn't hurting you physically, but damn if that doesn't sound like an abusive relationship to me. Neglect? Abandonment? Denial? Possessiveness?

Maybe I was not a good person to you. No, not maybe. I was not a good person to you.

But it's not over yet. I wasn't satisfied with that level of dysfunction. I let whatever that was in me that was doing that to you grow. And I started hurting you. I treated you very badly. I force fed you, in a way, until you became distorted into an almost surreal version of the things I'd hated about you. My breasts grew bigger and, in my eyes, even saggier. My stomach got larger and, in my eyes, more grossly engorged. I made you into the object I was afraid the world saw you as to begin with. I forced you out of all proportion until when I saw myself in photos, I didn't even know who I was looking at anymore. The adult body I'd started with had ceased to exist. I ate and drank and hid from everyone and let your mood get lower and lower, and your health worse and worse. I let it get so that walking up three flights of stairs got you out of breath.

I took everything you gave me, everything you were, all that sweet, pure, goodness, and I hurt it in every way possible until you were a crippled, gasping version of your former self, desperately trying to hang on, wondering why the hell this was happening and when the hell it was going to stop.

I don't know why I did this to you. Because you ARE ME.

Maybe that was why I did it. I didn't want you--a body--to be me, the essence of me.

Whatever the reason, the end result was that I treated you the way I was afraid everyone else would. In trying to protect you, I made my worst fears for you come true. *I* was the unfeeling monster. I was the one who looked upon you with disgust. I was the one who told you when you were thin that no guy who ever showed interest could ever be interested in more than just wanting your body. I was the one who when you were fat who told you no one loved you because of how you looked. And now I'm the one telling you that if you lose weight, you'll never be loved for anything except your body again. And I'm the one who's telling you Ithat at forty you'll never have that 20-something body back, especially due to the problems *I've* caused for you--and that this, no matter how thin you become now, will still make you unappealing to the world.

I was the one who never let you out without fear, or let you feel your full joy of being, except for when I was having sex and became too sensorially overwhelmed to think about suppressing you anymore.

This is my attempt to try to testify. To bring let you know I am not blind to the things I've done. That I get it. I know you've been going it alone, trying your best to stay afloat despite all the abuse I've piled on you. And you've done marvelously. I can not say the same for myself.

I'm so proud you've managed to hold up all this time. You are so much better than I've ever given you credit for.

I want to say how sorry I am for all of this, all I've done.

I know sorry isn't not enough. I know you deserve more. But it's a start and I think it's important to start with saying I am so very, very sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't enjoy you when you gave me so much; that I couldn't feel anything except either bad or blank about you. I'm so sorry I've hurt you. And I've hurt me. I've hurt us, because we are the same. And I want you to know that I know this now.

I hope you will forgive me for not knowing it before, and for what I've done as a result of that.

I want you to know that I won't stop at apologizing. I'm going to do something about it. I'm going to back up my words with actions.

I will not ignore you anymore. I will not pretend you don't exist. And I am trying so, so hard not to hurt you anymore. I know I need help with this; I know I can't stop alone. I'm getting this help.

Because it's time for me to stop this. I don't want to hurt you anymore. I don't want to be scared to be in whatever my real body is at this age. I want to find out what my real body is at this age. I want to give you the freedom to show me.

I want to stop being scared. I want to stop thinking what you look like has a direct correlation to how well I'll be loved, to how shallow the world is, to how shallow I am, to how I'll be treated.

I want to stop feeling LOOKED AT. And I want to stop punishing you for being looked at.

I want to live together and work together and talk to each other all the time.

I want to accept you, as you are, and feel real love for you. Not love tempered with fits of compulsive, unconscious abuse.

To feel proud of you, as you are. To show you off and not think I have to be ashamed because of it.

I want us to be friends. I want us to be lovers.

I want us to love and be proud of each other. I don't want to be separate entities, passing notes through a crack in a wall.

I want symbiosis. As it always should have been.

I want joy coursing through you. Not just my soul. Through YOU, Body, through my breasts, which are mine, and not needing of adjectives. Through my belly, which is mine and not needing of adjectives. Through all of you, which is me and not needing of adjectives. Except one. Joyful. No matter how your lines are drawn, we will always call them joyful.

More with that word joy. The most important thing:

I want to enjoy you.

In my remaining years, finally, finally, I want to enjoy you.

I want all that. But first I have to learn how to talk to you. And as you can tell from this disjointed and sometimes repetitive letter, I still haven't learned how to communicate well with you yet.

I'm trying to do better. But just like with a family member you've seen but never really developed a relationship with, I kind of love you in the abstract, from the outside, but I don't know how create a love bond with you in a highly personal way.

But I really want to. And you've stuck it out and stuck around, so I'm hoping that means you do, too.

So this letter is my very ineloquent way of asking you, will you help me figure out how to do this? I need some help and I'm feeling pretty shaky, and I'm not even sure how to get started. I'm going to do everything I can on my own, but maybe you can help show me the way to release some things. I'd like to work together so we both feel safe and happy and ultimately can see in each other the goodness that's really there.

I want to see you. Let's not hide anymore.

It's okay.

Please tell me it's okay.

Love,

Me

An interesting thing: one night last week, I said aloud to someone for the first time that I think I hate my body. And have been hating on my body for...oh, maybe at least 30 years. Acting like an made-for-Lifetime-TV-abuser to it.

Fact: I said it out loud, came home, and went to bed shortly after. I woke up in the morning and weighed myself and I had lost five pounds. Something about that felt related; like I'd gotten rid of a tiny bit of something, at least, that was--perhaps literally--weighing me down.

I wonder about that moment, when someone who's been abusive finally can step back enough to get a glimpse of what they are. To begin to accept the name of it, and own one's actions. Not just regret for one small incident, but the admission of a whole patterned tendency to be an mean, cruel, angry, bullying asshole. About what brings that perspective on. And about whether it's at all freeing to come to terms with it. If the knowledge can actually bring on change.

In any case, it doesn't feel cathartic, but it felt like just a tiny bit of release.

I wrote about this a few posts ago, but seriously, my behavior toward my body was--no IS--so stereotypically abusive. Not only is it angry, and manipulative, and physically cruel, but I told myself it wasn't hatred I was displaying, it was love. And I was different in public and in private. As a feminist, I knew it was bad form to admit to hating my body. So I said I didn't in public. I was nice to myself in public. But in secret, I whispered cruel, soul and confidence-destroying things to my body. I sectioned it into tiny, tiny bits, and then applied unseen torture to all of it. I mean all the things they do in torture, too--ignoring its humanity for long periods, playing good cop/bad cop with it, exposing it to cruel people who didn't respect it, force feeding it, preventing it from moving freely and easily...

I am not going to blame myself for this, as it was unconscious. And I think certain parts of it were brought on by post-traumatic stress from my sexual assault, and from some problematic views I was raised/forced to absorb. But the fact is it is there and I guess it's time to fully face up to the fact that I have been saying, "I hurt you because I love you" for a long time now.

And also face up to the shame and hate I've been associating with my body for a long time. Just get it all out. Maybe other things along with those five pounds will begin to be released as a result. This has worked for me before. Sometimes one has to face one's greatest fears for them to go away. Sometimes one has to admit to the parts one hates most about oneself--the things one hides in the dark--to stop being so fucking cruel. Sometimes you have to do what you think will bring you the world's worst hatred; because only through doing that can you realize that the world's worst hatred is A FUCKING BIRTHDAY CAKE compared to your own inner hatred.

So. After having had that conversation, all I've been able to think about is this--and this one scene from the film Lovely and Amazing. Unfortunately, I can't find a video clip of the scene online anywhere, but maybe you've seen it. In it, Emily Mortimer's character, an up-and-coming actress, stands in front of a guy she's just slept with (another better-known actor) and asks him to review her body honestly. And after only the tiniest amount of convincing, he does. He goes from top to bottom, and just lists everything that's possibly not perfect about her (and a few items that were nice). It's a riveting scene; neither character is displaying any emotion at all; they're acting like it's just casual, friendly conversation. But the whole situation is just charged with this subtle brutality, one that at least I recognize all around me, every day. And how unconsciously brutal he is being in his gently-voiced, casual assessment of every inch of her body, and how unconsciously brutal she is being in her desire for it, and her almost hungry acceptance and casual absorption of it. (Screen shots of the scene here--NSFW--to give you the mood.) This small picking apart of lack of perfection, until there is no wholesomeness of body anymore, but only an assemblage of parts and flaws and mediocrities and the all-important sanctioning or damning of it all by others.

It was her desire for the hatred I found most disturbing when I saw this film years ago. Maybe because I recognized it. Even as, when I was watching it, I remember thinking, Why would she ever do this to herself?

Why, indeed. That's something I clearly need to ask myself, but this time find some kind of answer.

So now, in the interest of getting it all out; of admitting everything, I'm going to make my list of body hatred. I'm not saying these things are true or untrue. I understand perception is a scary thing. I recognize that I notice these things with a microscopic intensity that no one else does, and that many no one would ever see or know about unless i pointed it out; and perhaps not even then in some cases. Yet, I have had a compulsive need to point those things out to myself, and a compulsive fear of disgusting anyone who recognizes their existence. So now I need to just say it out loud. I need to point the big spotlight on my pointing the big spotlight. Because I"m sick of hiding this small shit like it's something to be ashamed of. Like we don't all have human bodies. Like everyone else, despite their humanity, will be disgusted if I'm anything less than sculpted by angels with instruments made from light and air.

So I'll shut up now and tell you my list. I'll stand naked in front of you in the bedroom and say it all out loud. And you can see how I've made myself into some kind of monster in my eyes. And by doing so have been a monster to myself all these years.

Head to toe:

Hair: There are white hairs now; enough that they're noticeable. Hairline grows sideways so I can't get cute, shorn haircuts. I think my hair grows down too low in front of my ears. For a while I thought it was receding on my scalp; now I don't know why I thought that, doesn't look that way at all. But for the record.

Scalp: Lifelong struggle with dandruff and scaling. Flakes on my clothes, especially when seasons change.

Ears: Too waxy; I never think they're clean enough. Embarrassed to have someone stick their tongue in there. I think my earrings smell weird sometimes after i put them in. I wonder if there are bacteria in the holes.

Face: Forehead getting lines. Lines on my cheeks when I smile have come out this year. Pimples, especially along the jawline. Teeth aren't white enough; I think this makes me look old. Eyelashes not long enough. Upper lip not full enough. Mole above upper lip. Hairs around the mouth, especially the corners.
Neck: breaks out (extension of jawline)

Collarbone and shoulders: more pimples/boils

Back: More pimples/boils. Ugh, hideous. Itches a lot.

Arms: ghostly residue of eczema from when I was a kid

Hands: skin beginning to show signs of age. Scar on inner palm. Fingers not long enough.

Breasts: Sagging. Stretch marks. Hair growth around nipples. Hormonal fluctuation=nipples sometimes express discharge. Very big; making it hard to find nice bras or wear button-down shirts--and impossible to go topless in public. A focal point people sometimes fixate on; grosses me out and makes me uncomfortable/scared.

Torso overall: Too long: hard to find clothing that fits it well.

Ribcage: scar from skin biopsy

Stomach: fat, fat, fat. completely distended. horrible. Also, I think my navel smells wrong.

Pussy: Impossible to shave, wax, or depilitate without razor burn bumps. Labial acne breakouts. A bout of vulvar vestibulitis, and a bout of cervical dysplasia/HPV that thankfully both seem to be gone now, but that still weigh on my mind like bad, traumatic memory ghosts.

Ass: too wide, flat, and low.

Legs overall: Not long enough--torso is long, legs only average length, making them look too short; also not proportionate enough--thighs are notably bigger than shins

Thighs: Too fat. Stretch marks present on outer thighs. Inner thighs too soft; also stretch marks.

Knees: random bouts of weakness/pain if I'm exercising. Don't look straight enough to me; seem to slope in and down.

Shins: a couple of capillaries showing through here and there. Dark leg hair.

Feet: Size 10-11. Huge. Roll over my arches and can't wear shoes w/out arches. One foot turns in slightly when I walk.

Toes: Hair on big toes, and calluses. Currently infected nails on each from fucking pedicure place I will never go to again.

There. I keep feeling like I left something out, but that's probably enough name calling for you to get the picture, anyway. This is what I've been saying to myself behind closed doors. Usually followed by gut feelings of disgust, shame, and a desire to hide away from humans for the rest of my life.

Too bad I wasn't able to hide away from my own cruel self.

I'm going to keep comments open regardless of how tempted I am not to. And unlike when I wrote a similar litany kind of post way back when, I'm not going to try to control what people say to me if they do comment. However, I am especially interested in if/how anyone can relate, and what bodily areas in themselves they might have, before or now, picked apart or are ashamed to tell or show the world they have.

I'm not sure what hitting "publish" on this post will accomplish. But I felt strongly it had to be done.

Just some perspective on my last post.

It was a difficult post to write, because I was both admitting some psychological shit I didn't want to own up to, and because I was "telling on my body"--there are things I've mentioned in that post that I've never told anyone, for fear that by mentioning these things exist, they would blow up into giant imperfections and that would be all the person could see when they looked at me.

But the point wasn't that I was confirming that list, but rather that I needed to admit to the fact that this behavior is going on and these listed items exist in my head, AND that I've given all of them a label as "bad."

I was trying to think yesterday about how I could get across how I feel, because I didn't think it came across in the last post. To get across that it wasn't about wishing the things I listed were better. I don't want to "fix" them or "erase" them (well, okay, maybe the adult acne stuff)...so much as I just want to stop hating them. And this sentence popped into my mind, "I want someone who I can tell all that to, and they'll still love me despite my imperfections."

And then I thought, that's all wrong. Because the point is, these things I've listed--hair growth, scars, skin breakouts, a stomach that's not completely flat--they are NOT "flaws" or "imperfections"--they are perfectly normal things that a good majority of people have. NOT to have any of these conditions is what is less normal.

So the sentence is, "I want someone who will love me because I'm a completely normal human being, with a normal body, which they happen to enjoy very much." And of course, turns out that's slightly wrong, too, because I'm projecting outward--assuming I need someone else's approval to be validated. The real truth is, I want myself to love what a normal human being I am. I want to be able to tell myself these things exist and think, that's just fine and normal. I want to stop hating myself for not being perfect--the only state which is, in fact, abnormal--and also non-existant. I want to be able to look at something like a hair that grows on my areola and know that 1 in every 6 women also has this. One in every six. That means well over half a billion women worldwide (if my math is correct). So, hardly a freak; hardly a fact that needs to be shrouded in shame--even IF one prefers to remove said hair.

Yet, I have persisted in seeing these things as imperfections rather than acceptable normalcies. And I have assumed, due to my own inner monologue and my fear of modern media's influence, that the rest of the world is so diseased with this viewpoint, too, that I can simply NOT be "good" as is.

It's simply not true. I'm fucking normal. I'm "good as is." I'm tired of having to either live up to or fight against some standard of beauty that's completely manufactured and culturally subjective--because either way, assimilate or fight, that "standard" then takes center stage and all the power.

I'm aiming for standard free. Full acceptance. Of my body, and of other people's.

This goal may come particularly hard to me, as I was raised from infancy to be hyper critical of my and others' appearances, and to think more about how I would appear to others than about how happy I was with myself. I'm not going to go into it here, because it's an unfriendly topic for mother's day and I'm not in the mood to feel mean. But I'm going to try not to be angry about the fact that I was submerged in this pathology so early. I can see now that it was not personal but rather completely indicative of someone else's insecurity, which at the time I was too young to separate out from. Nonetheless, I can't help but wish that it hadn't been the case, for both that person and for me. Because I don't really want to find myself here, struggling with this, at this point in my life.

But that's another story for another time, maybe.

As it is, I'm here at this point in my life struggling with it, and that's the way it goes. Better to be struggling with it than just burying it like I've done for so many other years. No more. I'm ready to torch this fucker like a bad tick that's been sucking my lifeblood for too long.

Seriously. I'm done with this shit.

What I choose to believe...about myself, about others, about how the world works and thinks...all of this is merely perception. And a perception is never a universal truth; it's a choice.

The problem is, sometimes I'm so used to one way of perceiving things, it's hard to figure out what new thing to choose instead--or even how choose it or believe in it, once it's chosen.

I've got some serious thinking to do.