March 27, 2008

A Letter to My Body: Overcoming My Own Body Image Issues

**Cross-posted from BlogHer

When Suzanne introduced BlogHer’s Letter to My Body project I was very excited to participate. Excited but nervous and scared, as well.

For so long I’ve struggled with body image and my very unrealistic expectations of how I should look and what I should weigh, and I didn’t know how I would put my feelings into words.

So many amazing women have written beautiful letters to their bodies.

I’ve felt similar feelings about my body as Angella has about hers:

You have never made it easy for me.

For as long as I can remember, I was referred to as a Big Girl. I was bigger than all of my friends. Taller, wider, thicker.

I was a regular kid who liked candy and Pop Shoppe pop. My Mom loved me to a fault. She did not want to deny me anything, for fear that I would choose my Dad over her. Any food, any treat, was mine to be had. I was never denied anything.

I had friends who were skinny. They could eat candy and drink pop and still retain those pencil-thin thighs. I was beyond envious.

My thighs were never pencil-thin. I had that inner thigh that swayed in the breeze and reminded me that I was not in the same class as the Pencils. I would pound my pillow while chanting, “It’s NOT FAIR!” and hope that you would hear me. That you would ramp up my metabolism and let me be like the other girls. Candy and pop, and pencil-thin thighs.

You did not listen.

This made me so very, very sad. I would cry myself to sleep and wonder why my body hated me so.

Lady Beams is amazed at how reliable her body is:

Here we are after spending a half a century together, and I figure I know you pretty well. We’ve pretty much come full circle, the baby with her belly hanging out over her diaper, the little girl who was taller than almost everyone in her class, the blossoming young woman who quickly turned into “full figured”, and the older woman who has once again turned into a body with her belly hanging over her underwear. You’ve taken me from being a kid to having 3, and I must say we got along pretty well thru all of them. We’ve gone thru menopause together and it was easy. No matter what I’ve done to you, you have always bounced back and been strong and reliable.

But it’s Sepha’s letter that moved me to tears (please read it’s entirety at her blog, Undone):

I used to revel in my body; it looked pretty fancy without much effort, it brought me pleasure, allowed me to feel good. The breasts came in a little early and I could have done without nasty people pinging my brand new brastraps. But perhaps it’s good that they did because it gave me a little more time with a full pair before the mastectomy at age 28.

Didn’t you know body, that you weren’t supposed to let cancer in? That it was a baddie who you ought to have fought? I know I didn’t go in for playing cops and robbers when I was a child, was that what you needed to teach you to fight baddies?

You did bad, you let me down, you’re responsible for the lopsided mess that is now my bosom and yet you still didn’t learn because you let Mr Cancer come back and set up residence in my bones and lung. How did he sweet-talk his way back in? Was a year’s worth of hideous treatments not enough to teach you to attack Mr Cancer?

It’s so hard to hate you, body, because you are me and hating you means hating me - but I do. I can’t really bear to be with myself a lot of the time. I look away from the bathroom mirror when getting into the bath. I struggle over what to wear that won’t show off a non-existent cleavage. You’ve cheated me - because the world out there thinks that women have *two* breasts - it’s in the magazines, on the Television, in films, in fashion, it’s instilled into every baby being breast-fed; it’s on every woman I see walking down the street. You’ve turned me into the Non-Woman.

I had over a month to write my own letter to my body, but I hesitated and worried about what I should say. Each time I started writing, I would find something “wrong” with my letter and I’d start over. I thought that my letter had to be perfect. Then I realized my body image issues were carrying over to other aspects of my life, and it was time to end this obsession with perfection. Here’s my letter:

Dear Body,

For most of my life I’ve treated you terribly. For most of my life I’ve been unhappy with how you look. Growing up I never believed you were pretty. I constantly compared you to other girls. Your hair wasn’t long enough. Your eyes weren’t blue enough. Your stomach wasn’t flat enough. You weren’t a size four. You would never be a super model.

I’d like to tell you these feelings of inadequacy began in high school — junior high even — but I remember feeling depressed about you, dear body, in fourth grade. I still remember my tenth birthday and calling you fat for the first time.

Do you remember that day? Mother had taken us to a department store to buy a new outfit. I was trying on clothes in the dressing room, looking at your stomach and thighs in the three angled mirrors, and wishing you were skinny. You were the body of a typical ten year old girl, but I thought you were ugly. I didn’t know that you weren’t fat. I didn’t understand that you were still growing. I didn’t know you were healthy.

My perceptions were skewed by what I thought you should look like. Looking back now, I truly believe my first dressing room experience affected how I would look at you for several years to come.

Every television commercial or magazine ad featured a thin, blond, green-eyed girl with sparkling white teeth. Those models always looked so happy, so confident, so beautiful. I believed it was because they were petite and thin. I thought they had the perfect bodies.

Those ads made me feel worthless. I hated you. You didn’t measure up to the bodies of those girls. You were big boned and “hefty,” as the school nurse called it. She tried to tell me not to fight genetics. That I should be happy with who I was, not what my body looked like.

Body, what you looked like affected everything in my life. I never went to prom because I didn’t think you were thin enough to wear a formal dress. I stopped playing sports because I thought your thighs were huge and I didn’t want anyone to seem them jiggle when your legs ran. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a two-piece swimming suit because you had large breasts and wide hips and I couldn’t risk anyone seeing my less than perfect body.

As I reflect on all of this, I get angry. Not at you, dear body, but at me.

I’ve spent twenty-nine years insulting you instead of cherishing you. You’re the one constant in my life. My relationship with you is the longest I’ve ever been in and I treat you terribly. If I treated my husband this way, he’d have left me a long time ago.

I constantly insult your breasts, stomach, ass, thighs and arms. For ten years I forced you to smoke cigarettes. For too long I’ve shoved chocolate and potato chips into your mouth instead of all the healthy foods you need to function properly.

I’ve neglected you, yet you’re still with me. Your heart still beats. Your lungs still breathe. You conceived and carried a beautiful child for nine months. I never thanked you for the wear and tear, and the pain you endured to deliver my precious baby.

I’ve never treated you with respect and honor. I’ve done nothing to show you how much I appreciate you. In twenty-nine years I’ve never told you I love you. Not once. But, I do love you.

I love your eyes. I love your hair. I love the freckles on your knees. I love the scar on your right arm, proof that you were able to heal from my gymnastic clumsiness in kindergarten.

I love your wide feet (even if it is hard to find shoes that fit them), because they’ve carried me everywhere I need to go.

I love your lips, they’ve given many kisses. I love your arms, they’ve given many hugs.

I love your stomach, stretch marks and all, proof that a little person lived there. I love your breasts that nourished my baby.

My deepest regret is not taking the time to tell you how much I love you and appreciate you before now. Thank you for sticking with me. Without you I’m truly nothing.

Love Always,

Me

Writing this letter was therapeutic for me. As I dug through all the layers of my body, I discovered so many emotions have prevented me from loving my body. I had taken my body for granted, always expecting it to just be there without realizing what it does to keep me alive and well. It’s empowering to discover how much I do love my body when I think of all it’s been through.

I’m challenging you to write your letter to your body. Don’t hesitate like I did. Don’t worry about what to say. Your body is beautiful, imperfections and all. Won’t you share your story with us? Click over to this post at BlogHer and the Mr Linky to ensure we click to your blog to read your amazing letters.

What are you waiting for?  Get to it!

March 18, 2008

Rambling, Ranting and Other Blogorrhea

I’ve been going to the gym five days per week because I’m trying to slim down. Way, way down. I’ve got to shed at least 100 pounds. I know you might be rolling your eyes at that statement, but it’s true. Seriously.

I’ve never been this heavy. It makes me sick just thinking about it. I’m not going to tell you my number, but it has a 2 in it. At the beginning of the three digits. This is not good. It’s not healthy, either.

I’ve ditched the fast food (unless it’s an extreme emergency — like the Shamrock Shake I had on my birthday), I’ve stocked up on fruits and veggies and lean meats.

I’m digging 30 minute workouts on the elliptical trainer and I attend two toning classes a week. This all good, right?

And yet, I’ve only lost four pounds. I know. I know. Muscle is working it’s magic here. But still, I’m not a patient person, I want this weight to melt right off of me. High expectations. Totally Unrealistic Expectations. I know this. I’m not totally naive.

Since I subscribe to nine million magazines (totally NOT my fault), one of which is called Self, I decided to take the challenge. The Self Challenge.

Not only that, I’m joining Christina in the Hot By BlogHer Challenge, too.

And, I want to fit into my fricken skinny jeans again.

Yeah. Remember when I said I’d write a coherent post? I fibbed. This is a rambling mess. I can’t even get a sentence put together these days. What the hell happened to me? It’s like I’ve completely forgotten how to blog.

Totally suffering from Blogorrhea. No doubt.

If you missed my latest Mommybloggers post, I highly suggest you run from here and go there. That post actually makes sense. Maybe. I don’t know. See? I’m in a bloggy rut or something.

Although I have some good posts coming up for other blogs, The Dana Files is suffering. For that, I apologize.

But anyway, back to the rambling.

I think I hit my breaking point when I was trying on clothes in Target on my birthday. I found some adorable things, but they quickly became ugly ass fashion disasters the moment I put them on and stared at my rear in the mirror with the dim lighting of the dressing room, which highlighted my biggest assets. It was horrible. I cried. Can we say “muffin top”? Followed by “pear shaped blob” a.k.a my ass?  I think my ass grew an ass.

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

Thing is, I’m all for eating healthy and exercising, but my husband is not. He could care less about what he puts in his mouth. His weight barely fluctuates year to year. Not that he’s a thin mint, he’s got some marital bulge, too. But he does most of the cooking and I do most of the sulking when buttons pop off my pants.

I saw a photo of myself from Christmas and I was sick. I look terrible. And it’s not a self-image problem. I’m seriously overweight.

I have so much to say about this topic, but I can’t get the words to come out. I don’t know what my problem is.

Y’all better read this post quickly, before I wake up tomorrow and delete it.

February 22, 2008

Not So Private Parts

First and foremost, I want to thank you all for your comments and e-mails after my very bad day yesterday. I will be eternally grateful for all the good advice, cheerful support and good wishes. There are no words to describe the love that has filled my heart from each one of you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I’ve discovered a few things about my unfortunate situation.

First, it’s not the end of the world. I truly believe that better things are in store for me, I just need to figure out what they are. Second, I’ve got a lot of free time now, and I have been able to focus on some tasks and projects I neglected because I was working full time. Lastly, I’m enjoying the amount of time I can spend with Dawson. In just twenty-four hours, I’ve learned that my son is a comical boy and he loves to make his mother laugh.

For instance, last evening I decided it was time to stop feeling depressed and take a freakin’ shower. I couldn’t wait to jump under the hot water and wash away my troubles. On my way to the bathroom, I announced to the hubs, “I’m going to shower, so please watch the Doodlebug.”

Dawson followed me and said, “Mumma, Dawson wants to take a shower, too, okay?” Those big blue eyes melt me every time. I couldn’t say no.

I’ve allowed Dawson to shower with me before. Frankly, it’s ten times easier than trying to squeeze him into his tiny tub (we don’t have an operating bathtub in our house, we had to postpone our bathroom remodeling plans due to finances).

I’ve never felt uncomfortable about Dawson seeing me naked because I don’t want him to have a negative image about the naked body. I believe that if I’m comfortable with it, then it’s okay. (However, my mother doesn’t agree with me. Her fear is that my son will grow up “different”. I’m not sure what “different” is code for, but I have a hunch.)

Anyway, Dawson and I got into the shower, I lathered him up and then let him play with his bucket and shovel while I finished washing my hair. When we were finished, I wrapped him in his towel and put on my bathrobe.

“Mummy, what’s that on your wegs?” Dawson asked.

“What sweetie?” I asked. “There’s nothing on my legs.”

“No, Mumma, right there,” he said, as he pointed to my nether regions.

“Honey, what do you think that is?” I asked.

“It’s itchies, Mummy. Dawson doesn’t have itchies. I gots a penis.” I was so proud that my little Bug knew the proper name for his anatomy.

“Yes, honey you have a penis, but Mommy has a vagina.”

“Mommy doesn’t have a penis?”

“No. Mommies don’t have penises. Only boys have penises.” I started to laugh. My mother would be horrified if she heard this conversation.

“Daddy have a penis, too, Mommy.”

“Yes. He does.”

Suddenly Dawson ran out of the bathroom and yelled to the hubs, “Daddy, you have a penis?”

“Last time I checked,” he replied.

“I’d like to see.” Dawson said, as though he just wanted to confirm that his father did, in fact, have a penis.

I’m still laughing about this today. (And I can’t help but wonder at what I should teach him about keeping his penis in the privacy of his underpants.)

September 27, 2007

Have Breasts, Will Nurse

Nearly four years ago, when I was pregnant with Dawson, I made the wise decision to breastfeed my baby. In all honesty, I did so because my mother breastfed her four children and I just assumed that was the right thing to do.

In my third trimester I began to research the benefits of nursing. I discovered that my breast milk was like the milk of the gods, and it would nourish my baby better than formula. I learned about colostrum and the antibodies in breast milk, and I was really happy when I read that nursing sheds those extra pregnancy pounds a bit faster.

After my son was born I realized how difficult nursing was. I was clumsy. I had flat nipples. I couldn’t hold my baby and figure out how to make that nipple pop out and achieve a proper latch-on.

I grew frustrated and spent many hours in the hospital trying, failing and crying. But I did not give up. I like to believe this is because I’m not a quitter, no matter how many times I was tempted to dry up the milk machines and switch to a powder formula.

In truth, I didn’t give up because I cared about the baby I just delivered and I felt it was my obligation to at least try. (I am not by any means telling other mothers they have to do what I did, I’m just sharing my reasoning with you for the purpose of this post.)

Before I could leave the hospital, the lactation nurse made me show her that I could breastfeed. I was very insecure and nervous and I just couldn’t do it. She tried to tell me I wouldn’t be able to go home until I could do it. I became very upset and lied to her.

“I’m going to use formula,” I said. “Hook me up with a free sample or whatever.”

I would have said anything just to go home and try to nurse in peace, without all those busy nurses hovering over me. Two days postpartum and already I’m seen as unfit, I thought.

When I got home, the struggle was still there. I tried to use a nipple shield to feed my crying, hungry baby. After several hours I gave up and called my friend who was nursing her seven month old.

“Help me,” I said. “Please just help me, show me, or whatever.”

I was desperate, and my friend could sense this and she came over minutes later with her daughter.

She unhooked her nursing bra and showed me exactly how she got her daughter to latch on. It was all I needed and moments later, Dawson latched on for the first time. I cried tears of joy. Tears flowed for several minutes as I felt what was happening. I watched my child sucking at my breast and nothing could have made me any happier. I heard him swallow and knew that he was being nourished.

All those crazy nurses, trying to show me different methods was such a waste of time. I was so grateful to my friend for helping me with my struggle.

I never nursed in public for fear of people staring at me. I was afraid of the dirty looks and the hurtful words, and I was insecure about my ability to quickly whip out my breast and feed a hungry baby.

I managed to nurse for four months and then pumped for two more.

When I went back to work my milk supply started to lessen, due to the erratic pumping times. I was so busy at work and the pressure I felt to “get back into work mode” made it difficult to keep up. My baby began to prefer the bottle over the breast. At the end of six months I switched to formula.

I felt guilty. I was angry. I felt like I was forced into a decision I wasn’t ready to make.

When I think about all the crap nursing moms take regarding breastfeeding, my head spins like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist.

We’re not supposed to nurse in public. We’re not supposed to post photos of ourselves nursing because it offends others. We’re expected to feed our babies in a bathroom because other people may lose their appetite if we accidentally show our boob in a restaurant.

We’re supposed to apologize because other people are uncomfortable with breasts.

Well I say, “Fuck that and fuck you,” to those people.

Those people who have a problem with breasts used as nourishment for a baby need to seek therapy. You’ve got your heads on backwards my friends, and I highly suggest you rethink your idea of what a breast’s intended use is. Especially you, Bill Maher. My tits may look like pleasure pillows to you, but these beauties fed my baby and will feed any future babies I may have. Get over it.

I’m sick and tired of being told what to do, how to do it, where to do it and who to be careful not to offend.

It’s because of society’s fucked up view on breastfeeding that I was so insecure about my ability to nurse my baby.

I have expressed my views on this subject before. But when will the criticism toward nursing moms end? When will we stop being snubbed and ridiculed and attacked and judged? WHEN?

Oh, and Facebook? Suck my tit: