Every week, Tuesdays at 7:30 p.m. to be exact, I meet with my therapist. Therapy is supposed to make people feel uncomfortable: talking about feelings is something we’ve been taught to feel uncomfortable about. However, growing up in the generally emotive household that I have and being in and out of therapy since I was six, I could go on and on for hours.
Then, this week, I was presented with a narrative that generally makes my skin crawl: tell me about your relationship with your body. Similar to the piglets' cry when the wolf threatened to blow their house down: not by the hair on my chinny chin chin. Despite my body and the idea of my body being something that runs on my head in an endless feedback loop, like a military torture method, that’s one place I don’t ever really want to go.
But, after some thought, and the epiphany that the way I feel about my image is relatively common compared to the rest of the human population, this is how I can explain it.
Imagine you’re looking in a vertical, floor-length mirror: one that you’d commonly find attached to the back of your bedroom door. I’m not talking about a wildly expensive Pottery Barn find; I mean a Walmart steal, one you could practically break over your knee. When you stand far away, you’ve looked the best you’ve ever felt. You’re so unbelievably lean, with a bold stature, and muscle definition you can only achieve with a pilates reformer. Then, as you inch closer and closer, it’s like some wild optical illusion has happened. You see the marks on your body from when your skin stretched during puberty, the folds of your skin, and areas you probably should moisturize more often. Essentially, you feel awful about yourself: you’re short, stout, plump even.
Well, that’s how I feel about my self-image. The last time I knew exactly what I looked like, I was probably five, and even then, I don’t even think I knew. And because I have no idea what I look like, and I know exactly what everyone else looks like, it’s safe to assume that the closer I am to the mirror, the more accurate it gets.
Now, take away the mirror: I’m not always looking at myself, that would be vain. Rather, I’m envisioning this made-up recollection of myself in the mirror all the time. I wince when I put on my jean shorts because my hips were a bit enlarged last time I checked, or I self-motivate to exercise because my face appeared half an inch rounder in my last up-close analysis. I no longer weigh myself because I’m so afraid that the weight on the scale will confirm that I am as ugly and rotten as I thought I looked that day. I no longer look at myself for the same exact reason.
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