Body…Love?

painting woman in mirror
“Woman in front of the Mirror” by Janos Vaszary, 1904. Wiki Commons / Public Domain

I do not love my body right now.

Some days I don’t even like it.

I don’t like the way I feel in it.

I don’t like the aches and pains.

I don’t like that noone touches it.

I want to be body positive to inspire others.

I’m not proud—I mostly just feel awkward.

I’m not supposed to complain about this.

I don’t like that I even have time to complain (privilege).

I don’t love myself this way.

I feel like I can’t breathe well.

I don’t know how to get past the fog that’s in my head.

I need someone to move with me.

*Now and then I find myself telling myself what I’m “not” supposed to be feeling—eg: hating my body is a no no—which really just tends to make everything worse. So I thought I’d just try completely doing it, letting myself go there, then seeing how it feels. Now I’m left feeling somewhat emptied of this negativity, and better. If you are having a hard time dropping or stepping out of neuroses, recommend this sort of exercise. 

Advertisements

invisible

{found on Pinterest}
{found on Pinterest}

Last night I had one of those “how long will it take them to notice I’m gone” moments.

Originally I had just gone to the bar to get a drink, but the barstaff didn’t see me either.

So, a little too drunk for a Thursday, I pulled an Irish goodbye. I walked up the street and got the best steamie in the world and walked home holding back tears and wondering why in the hell at nearly 37 years old I can still feel so small.

I wondered if some of my relationships seemed easy because there aren’t really deep feelings on the other person’s part.

I wondered if I’m worth feeling for.

I was in love with them and they didn’t really love me back. So now I’m not in love with them anymore.

I’m also far away from many people I love(d). That distance creates another kind of wall, and I’m pretty sure that it’s better this way.

Some people said they loved me and so I told them I loved them too. Then I would visit and be close and some of them didn’t really step up to be with me when I showed up. I mean be with me in a real way.

Not a sexy way, but a real way.

It made me feel confused and sad.

I’m really good at removing myself, but this isn’t something I’m proud of.

I’m really not good at being seen and heard—also not something I’m proud of.

Even hanging out with a best friend, I can cease to exist at the blink of an eye—or in this case, the shake of an ass.

I should have just kept sitting in this park.

park

Where do I start today?

15454948586_ba1d0ea487_z

Image: Lorenzo Blangiardi at Flickr 

A wise suggestion from Andy Charrington when I explained that I didn’t know where to start with my writing right now:

“Start right where you really want to.”

Okay, I thought, well that’s a scary spot. A pretty strange and scary (though not entirely dark) spot…

It’s the place where I wonder how it would feel to run my fingers over her heavily-inked collar and breast bone.

It’s the chair in the corner of the tropical party that I showed up late to (wearing too much black), then left alone as each couple curled up together.

It’s the way a tendon in my left shoulder twitches sometimes, my body’s signal that I’m overwhelmed with anxiety and overdue for regular yoga and massage.

It’s the thing where I push myself out of the house regularly, mostly alone, often too late. Just yesterday pushing myself to a favourite cafe via slow bus, frozen toes..only to have it be too full.

It’s the way my being became seized with doubt after opening that piece of mail, after reading that particular message.

It’s the way I go out and come home alone, go out and come home alone, go out and come home alone…because I want to.

(But do I?)

*

I could start in these kinds of dark places—or I could start with the bright spots, of which there are many:

The band last week that made me feel like I was 16 again—sweaty bodies dancing joyously, strange and sometimes heavy music. Real music, real people, bodies dancing heavily in a drunken room.

The Time Traveller’s Wife, a sweet secret santa gift from an internet friend.

The way he concocted a super-special fresh mai tai cocktail the other day, icy cold and a bit bitter, complete with chunks of coconut, just for me. I was wearing a rainbow lei which was borrowed from Regretta the unicorn pinata.

It’s the way she bought me a coffee from the little outdoor sidewalk window, even though I barely knew her and had also kept her waiting for too long.

It’s the way we do Dollar Cinema, sitting up front and spiking our Pepsi (Nightcrawler, Boyhood).

It’s the way we served Sunday dinner messily last night, then laughed hard about how imperfect it was. Then we played guess the animal.

It’s being invited to work out with a friend and discovering that you actually like the gym that you’re in.

It’s listening to a best friend’s adventure stories on the other end of the phone.

It’s having a Sunday feel like a Sunday is supposed to feel.