*Warning* This is long, and involves some emotions and scenarios that may trigger strong feelings – but that is understandable, since my journey has been long and has created a lot of intense feelings, as well.
If My Body Makes You Uncomfortable… I will No Longer Apologize
I put on a dress that is more form-fitting than I remember, and I turn in front of the mirror, looking at myself from all angles. I ask my husband if I’m a little too this, or a little too that, to pull it off. He says, “You look beautiful, but if you don’t feel comfortable, you shouldn’t wear it.” He holds my gaze for a moment longer than is necessary. Oh. I have raised a red flag, and we both know it.
We’ve all got our own beliefs, and our own unique relationships with food and our bodies. We’ve all got some trauma – I don’t think any of us are immune. After the “red flag” dress incident, I did a live master class with the coach of a program I’ve been involved with for the past few years and I came to understand that the two psychological blocks that I still struggle with most when it comes to accepting my body are, “I’m too sexy” and “Authority figure”. During the master class, one incident came through to me loud and clear. I relived it as though it had just happened:
It was the summer after my Freshman year of high school. I was meeting up with some friends and was wearing my absolute favorite outfit: White overall shorts with black folded up cuffs that had little flowers on them, their blossoms turned toward the sun. White FILAs with black trim. A white cropped shirt with a high neck – I guess it would be called a ¼ turtle neck if there ever was such a thing – and ¾ sleeves. It was the mid 90’s, so best believe my bangs were teased a few inches up on top of my head and I had on a mess of earrings and a necklace or five. When I wore that outfit, I felt like I could conquer the world.
Someone who loved me and who I truly believe had my best interest at heart, stopped me and said, “If you keep walking around like that, one of these days you’re going to get raped and no one is going to feel sorry for you.”
At that point I had never told a soul, but I had already been raped two years prior, when I was twelve. She had no way of knowing that, and her comment was not meant to be cruel. But she knew something I also inherently knew – that girls who are raped aren’t always looked at as victims, but as seductresses. One of the reasons I hadn’t said anything was because I was afraid, first of all, that no one would believe me. But the hard and undeniable truth about why I stayed silent is that I believed that in some way, I had deserved what had happened to me. I was afraid that, deep down, I was a bad person and that God was somehow punishing me.
Now that I have children of my own, I panic when I try to figure out where that thought came from. Do my teenaged babies have similar thoughts? How long had I been grappling with that, so that when the 18 year old brother of my friend raped me, I thought less about what the hell was wrong with him and more about what I could have done to deserve it? It might have been a seed planted by my Catholic Grandmother, who threatened eternal damnation with the slightest out of turn behavior. Or maybe it was because I had erotic dreams at what felt like a young age – the first I can remember was in the fourth grade. Good girls don’t have those kinds of dreams, do they? Not in polite society, they don’t.
I wanted to be a Good Girl, worthy of Good Love. I never wore that outfit again.
I remembered that incident, but I guess I never realized what a profound impact it had on me. Looking back, I completely changed the way I dressed after that. Photos from that time period would show that I was almost always covered up. I remember buying a pair of size 10 jeans and deciding they were the perfect fit for my size 0 body.
After the master class, I’ve let my mind wander to incidents throughout my life where those two psychological issues have come into play. I meditate every morning, and so they tend to start flowing then, and progress throughout the day, like a flashback montage from a sitcom.
Over and over again I see it: The message that I need to make sure I don’t make others uncomfortable with my body, or with my muchness – the thing that makes me, ME – and if they are uncomfortable, it is my problem and I need to solve it. I am a people pleaser at heart, and deeply empathic, so you can imagine how easy it is for me to see when I make someone uncomfortable. By their facial expressions, their eyes, their body language… and of course, by the words that come out of their mouths – well intentioned or not.
Here are a few of my stories. The stories that shaped my view of my Self and of my Body. I don’t tell them in order to shame the people in them, at all – I understand, so deeply, that we all have our own beliefs, and our own body and food traumas. I know that they strongly influence the way we look at ourselves and the way we interact with and view others. I share these because I have to believe that I’m not the only one.
I can’t be, can I?
** In the fifth grade, my favorite female teacher pinches my chin and turns my head this way and that. She tells me that with my facial structure, I could be a model someday. I am over the moon. It’s the first time I recall that someone suggested that I was pretty. At my dad’s office Christmas party, one of his co-workers asks me that standard adult question for children they don’t really know: What do I want to be when I grow up? I lift my chin and say I want to be a model. The adults around me laugh, and one says, “Oh honey, modeling is for tall, pretty girls. You should really focus on something you can study.” Oh. My face falls and I look at my feet.
Years later, when I’m asked to do some modeling and appear in a few commercials, I always enthusiastically agree. I enjoy every moment of the work, but I never accept payment for my time. I tell them that the experience is enough for me. Somewhere, deep down, a voice whispers, “You are worthy!” But I know that only tall, pretty girls should get paid for that kind of work.
** I am a Sophomore in high school and one of my best friends writes “Ho” next to my name on the inside of my Science textbook. I ask her why she would do something like that. She tells me she’s just irritated at me, always walking around with a self-satisfied smirk on my face. I tell her I don’t know what she’s talking about – what self-satisfied smirk? She says she can’t quite explain it, it’s just the way I walk around. She apologizes for writing that in my book, but says that sometimes, there’s something about me she just can’t stand. Oh.
If one of my best friends can’t stand me, how must everyone else feel? So I try to shrink smaller and get quieter and be less irritating and look less self-satisfied. I try to make sure my smile never looks like a smirk.
I look in the mirror and wish I knew what it felt like to be self-satisfied. I ask my reflection, but she is as clueless as I am.
I become a very, very good listener and at parties, I’m always the sober one who makes sure everyone is safe. My senior year, a friend tells me I’m not invited to a sleepover we were planning to go to the next weekend. I ask what happened and it turns out, the host doesn’t really like me. She told my friend, “I’m not sure exactly what it is, but I feel like she just doesn’t have any personality. She makes me uncomfortable.” Oh. I have gone too far, and now I have disappeared, entirely.
** At nineteen, my significant other nicknames me, “Fat Ass”. Our friends all laugh because he’s obviously joking – I weigh only 98 pounds. But he is not joking. I’ve always been a picky eater, but the things I absolutely detest are mustard, pickles and BBQ sauce. Anything spicy makes me feel like my mouth is on fire and I can’t breathe. So, he makes food that should never be spicy, spicy. Mashed potatoes so spicy that even our friends who love hot sauce can’t eat them. When we grill, I beg him not to spice mine. Our friend catches him putting extra pepper on my steak and says, “Hey, isn’t that Dre’s? She didn’t want it spicy.” He laughs and says that’s why he’s making mine the spiciest. If I’m having a sandwich, he puts mustard on it. If we’re having chicken, it all gets doused in BBQ sauce. Pickles get put on every plate, extra on mine, so that the juice soaks into my food. Eventually, everything I try to eat at home either makes me gag or is so spicy that I can’t swallow. Work becomes my sanctuary, because I can eat lunch without him ruining my food.
On my 20th birthday, I weigh in at 93 pounds. I don’t know that I can get any smaller.
We get a new computer and scanner, with dial up internet. He decides to make me a present with his new toys. He sneaks into the closet while I’m changing out of my work clothes and takes a photo of my Fat Ass. When I turn around, he acts as though he just wanted to say hi and welcome me home. It is the 90’s and we’ve never heard of a digital camera or smart phone – in order to see that photo, he has to fill up the rest of the roll of film, drive to the local Walgreens and wait to get the film developed. Then, he scans the photo onto our computer and searches the web for photos of models with the nicest rear ends. He downloads them, one by one – via dial up internet. This is a significant investment of his time. He arranges them just so on the screen – a blown up photo of my Fat Ass in the center, fully surrounded by gorgeous women, each with a Nice Ass for comparison. He prints it, wraps it up, and presents it to me at dinner. He says I should hang it up in our bedroom for inspiration. “You’re welcome!” he says, smiling. He seems very proud of his handiwork.
I don’t say thank you. I don’t know how to say anything. I go to bed hungry, again.
We have a party and I hide in our room, crying. I can’t live like this. We go to couple’s counseling and he only attends the first session. He believes that since he’s happy and I’m not, it’s me who needs therapy. When I decide to leave the relationship, he is devastated and tells everyone that it came out of nowhere. Our friends call me a bitch for breaking his heart – he’s such a great guy, how can I be so heartless? I’m afraid that eventually, I will kill myself if I stay, and the thought terrifies me. It doesn’t matter, though, because he is the one with a broken heart.
They have a bonfire and burn all of my things.
Later, when I fall in love with a mutual friend of ours, I take him to lunch so that he hears the news from me, first. He laughs and tells me, “You’ll never keep his attention. You’re too bookish and anyway, he’s so fit and you’re, well….” He gestures to the food on my plate. Oh.
** I am 26, and I guess I have managed to keep his attention. We are married and have our first child, a baby girl. I’m able to stay at home with her and she is the center of my universe. I have never experienced such bliss. We join a mommy and me play group and go once a week. My daughter has so much fun. I know I don’t quite fit in, but I try. After a few months, one of the ladies I’ve made friends with asks me to lunch, and I can tell she has something on her mind. I ask her if there’s anything she’d like to talk about, thinking maybe something is wrong. There is. She squirms in her seat, looks away from me and begins to speak, “The other ladies in the group asked me to talk to you.” I take in a breath and say, “Ok. What’s up?” They don’t want me to come back. There’s just something about me, they’ve agreed. She looks me in the eye and says, “You’re just so…” she gestures at me with her hand, up and down. “You know? It makes them uncomfortable. I’m so sorry.” Oh.
I know she really is sorry. It doesn’t hurt any less, though, especially when my little girl doesn’t understand why she can’t see her friends.
** I’m in my early 30’s now, with two delightful children. Our youngest has been sick a lot since he was very small. I’ve had a hard time recovering from the hemorrhages I experienced after his birth and I don’t know it yet, but the 7 pints of blood I received during emergency surgery are wreaking havoc on my endocrine system. My husband and I are struggling to connect. I plan a surprise trip to Las Vegas for his birthday, and invite along a couple who are good friends of ours. In the weeks leading up to the trip, I’m helping my mom clean out her closet and come across a sparkling red dress she’s planning to get rid of. She’s quite a bit taller than me and a few sizes bigger, but the dress just calls to me, so I try it on. The way it fits makes my nerve endings tingle and I know, with some alterations, this dress will be a stunner. For the next two weeks, I spend nap times altering the dress in secret. The more it takes on my shape, the more excited I am to surprise my husband with it on his birthday.
We are staying at the Bellagio and have dinner reservations at a nice restaurant on the ground floor of the casino. My girlfriend and I get ready in our room, and the guys get ready in theirs. She does my make-up and hair, which has never been my strong suit, and I slip on the dress. She steps back and says, “Oh, Dre. You have never looked more beautiful.” I look in the mirror and can’t help but agree. We step out of the elevator to meet the guys and I see the shocked look on his face.
I smile so hard my face hurts.
I do a little twirl and by the time I have spun back around, the surprised look on his face has become something else. I feel the color drain from my face as I see, first, a look of horror and then one of disgust. He leans toward me and hisses into my ear, “How could you do this to me on my birthday? Everyone will be looking at you, and they’ll all think I’m here with a hooker. Did you even look in a mirror?” I can’t get words to form. This was not what I expected. Before I can respond, he looks at his watch and says we’d better go, or we’ll be late for our reservation.
At first, we walk together in front and our friends follow behind us as we make our way across the casino toward the restaurant. I try to keep my head down, but he is right – heads are turning. People are looking. I cross my arms across my chest and try not to let my tears fall. I can feel the hostility rolling off of his body. Finally, he decides to walk in front of me so that people can’t see me coming. My sweet friend walks closely behind, to shield me as best she can.
Once seated at our table, she reaches underneath to squeeze my hand, and while the guys are looking at their menus, she mouths to me, “I’m so sorry”. I quickly choose an entrée and excuse myself to go to the restroom.
I head straight for the door, and as soon as I am out of view of the table, my shoes are off and I am running full speed across the casino, one arm across my chest. People are certainly staring now, but I don’t care. I take the elevator up to our room, trying so hard to fight my tears. I rip off the dress and throw it in the garbage. I wash the make-up off my face, let my hair down and change into something else – anything else. I honestly can’t even remember what.
When I get back to our table, he still won’t even look at me, until my friend says, “Oh, how’d you do that so fast?” Seeing my change of clothes, he looks relieved. On our way out of the restaurant, he puts his arm around me and says, “Thank you. This is much better.” Oh.
We decide to go to counseling and he is reluctant at first, but eventually begins to share. He says he is terrified of losing me. It never occurred to him that I could die until I hemorrhaged after our children’s births. It made him realize how much he had to lose. I say I can understand that. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might die, either. It certainly wasn’t part of our plan.
He confesses that he’s also afraid some man who likes books and the theater might swoop in and steal me from him. I ask why this is suddenly an issue, more than 10 years into our relationship. He says that before, he thought I was a 4 and he was a 10, and why would a 4 cheat on a 10? He never thought he had anything to worry about.
I am stunned.
He tries to backpedal, to explain that he was just young and dumb, and NOW he realizes I’ve been a 10 all along. He says that really, it’s a compliment because he thought I was just beautiful on the inside and now he knows I’m beautiful inside and out.
It doesn’t feel like a compliment.
He says, “I just need you to help me, please. I can get a handle on this if you can just help me feel secure.” I have always told him that there’s nothing we can’t get through, as long as we get through it, together. So, I agree.
At first I gain 5 pounds, and then 10. Soon it’s 15 and finally, 20. It’s not enough. People still look at me. He needs them to not look – just until he feels more secure. I dye my hair dark brown and stop wearing contacts, only glasses. The clothes I buy for my new size are loose and shapeless, and I fill my closet with a sea of black, grey and brown. I get into the habit of dressing like a hobo most days, and it lasts a very, very long time. I only wear make-up when we’re going somewhere together. I stop making eye contact with strangers.
Eventually, I stop making conversation with the grocery store clerks that I have known for years. They give me gentle looks of concern, but don’t push. I feel so alone. One night I am lying awake in bed as he sleeps beside me. In the shower that morning, I couldn’t recognize the feel of my own body beneath the soap. I begin to panic and a voice deep inside me whispers, “What have I done to myself??” He rolls over and wraps his arm around me. He snuggles his chin into my neck. He sighs and whispers into my ear, “You’re perfect.” Oh.
I try so hard to stay his version of perfect. But I am suffocating my Self in what feels like someone else’s skin. I can save this marriage if I stay and become someone else, but I know that if I do, I will lose my Self forever.
There is no turning back.
From all sides I am told to Stay. Stay. Stay. But this cage is just so small and my Self just does not fit. In the end, I choose to set my Self free, and all I can do is have faith that she will find a safe place to land.
** I have a new job, and I’m incredibly excited. It’s such an amazing opportunity for me. My boss texts me and asks what I’m wearing, and I tell her. I’m touched at how thoughtful she is, texting to make sure I’m comfortable. I spent an hour picking out my dress, and I feel beautiful, stylish and confident. She asks me to send her a photo, and I do. She tells me she approves, and informs me that I will need to send a photo of myself prior to going to work, anytime I’ll be in contact with customers. I ask her why. She says she needs to make sure I don’t look too sexy – that men tend to look at me, and she’s concerned it will upset their wives or girlfriends and we’ll lose customers and sales. She doesn’t want me to make anyone uncomfortable. She just can’t risk it. Oh. My shoulders drop and my confidence seeps into the cold floor beneath my feet.
** I’m at an industry event with the man that I love. It’s winding down, and people are heading home, but the band is still playing. A new friend and I are cleaning up, and find ourselves dancing to the last song of the night. She is sweet and kind, and I’m thrilled to be here with her beneath the starlight. She tells me I look fabulous in my dress – just stunning, really. I smile and laugh. We feel connected. She grabs my hand and twirls me around, and says, “I’m so glad my husband isn’t here!” I look at her quizzically, smile and say, “Why?” And she responds, “If he saw me dancing next to you, he’d never want to see me naked, again!” Oh! Oh.
** I’m serving a group of women, and we have a wonderful rapport going on. We are vibing, big time. The room is getting busy, and so I step around the bar to pour for them and one of them comments on my outfit. I thank her – it’s one of my favorite thrift store finds and I always feel good when I wear it. I step back around the bar and can tell that they’re discussing me. I find myself a task that takes me out of hearing range – I don’t know that I need to hear what they have to say. On the next pour, another woman in the group says, “You look so amazing! I want to ask for your secret, but I don’t think I want to know. I just love living life too much. I could never have the kind of dedication it takes to look like that. Life is too short not to enjoy it!” Is that what I look like? Like I don’t enjoy life? Oh.
** I am 39. I’ve been living with Rheumatoid Arthritis, an Autoimmune Disease, for several years now, but I’m still in the throes of processing my grief. I’m handling the disease naturally, so I manage my symptoms and flare ups through my gut health, and that means a very strict diet. I’d say, in the stages of grief, at this point I’m firmly in the denial phase, with bouts of anger.
I don’t understand why my body has turned on me – on itself. Sometimes I punish it by eating things I know will cause it pain, and that makes absolutely no sense at all. It is me, and I am it. But I do it, anyway. This malfunctioning, broken body is the physical manifestation of the young girl I banished to the dark and empty basement of my heart, so long ago. The woman I continued to kick every time I made another person uncomfortable. Why couldn’t she just be the Goldilocks that everyone was looking for? Why did she always have to be so MUCH? Her Muchness has always been just TOO much.
I realize now, that for my entire life, I absorbed message after message, telling me that my body was unworthy of love and acceptance – that I was unworthy of love and acceptance, unless my poor body found a form that made everyone comfortable.
Everyone but me.
I commit to healing my mind, body and spirit and it is the most incredible journey of my life. It takes a lot of time and dedication, but I begin to heal my body traumas, and learn to stop punishing myself so harshly. I begin to understand my own journey.
On day 3 of a 5 day water-only fast, I ask my body why it turned on itself and caused itself such pain. It answers so clearly that it feels etched eternally in stone, “My love, my heart, my spirit. I was only following your example.”
Oh. Oh no, oh no, oh no. What have I done to myself?
In that moment, my head buried in my hands as I sit on the Earth, my body empty and pure, I feel suddenly at peace. I, who had long ago walked away from God, and religion and the church, feel the unmistakable presence of my Creator. Suddenly I feel intensely comforted as though I were a newborn child, lovingly cradled in my Creator’s arms. The world looks so beautiful from here. A gentle voice whispers, “You are perfect.” I take the deepest of breaths… Oh.
Even so, it takes some time to start truly believing it.
** I’m 43, now. I have been doing an awful lot of work on myself. My kids fear that my full-grown hippie wings will be sprouting any day, now. My grief has progressed now to acceptance, and I feel like I’m teeter-tottering on the edge of the newest stage of grief, recently added to the 5 stages by a protégé of Elizabeth Kubler-Ross: Purpose. I listened to an interview where he discussed the major decision to add on to Kubler-Ross’s ground breaking grief research and he said that if he hadn’t experienced the death of his son, he never would have known that a final stage even existed beyond acceptance.
Purpose. What is the purpose of my disease? Well, it’s certainly taught me A LOT about myself, and about what my body does and does not like. I feel like my body has been whispering to me for the entirety of my life, but I’ve ignored it. Sometimes maybe because I’m being obstinate, but most of the time because I’ve trusted other people’s whispers or shouts over my own. In truth, that happened a lot of the time because I truly can’t help but want others to be happy and comfortable.
I ignored myself until my body screamed bloody murder, but I don’t do that anymore. We can whisper again, now. Because I have finally accepted that my happiness and comfort doesn’t come last. It never should have, but I didn’t know that. I just wanted to be a Good Girl, worthy of Good Love. What I’ve finally realized is that I, too, am worthy of the kindness and compassion that I was so intent on showing everyone else, all this time.
And that’s what THIS is all about. This very long and drawn out story about my body, and whether or not it makes other people uncomfortable. Someday, I hope a very long time from now, my joints will be so twisted that I won’t look like myself anymore. I won’t be able to walk, or hold a pen, or maybe even type like I am now. I may not be able to feed myself. I don’t know what my smile will look like, or if I’ll still be able to laugh without it causing pain. I try not to think about that future. But I do know that some people will look at me like that and feel uncomfortable. And that is not my problem.
When that day comes, I don’t want to look back and wish I’d loved my body, and appreciated it for what it’s done for me. I don’t want to look back at pictures and see how I hid myself and my accomplishments, how I hid the beauty of my body in case someone found this magnificent work of art uncomfortable. I want to look back and know that I honored it, that I loved it, and that I allowed it to be loved.
My body was created, lovingly, in my Mother’s womb. Just as my children were created in mine. What an incredible miracle life is.
This beautiful body of mine is a glorious gift. And every time I hide it, feel ashamed by it, or treat it as though it is not good enough, I am rejecting that gift. I am telling my Creator that it is NOT GOOD ENOUGH. And I will not do that anymore. I don’t want you to do that, either.
And so, If My Body Makes You Uncomfortable… I Will No Longer Apologize.
I won’t shrink, or hide, or cover up, or divert your attention, or try to show you how smart or funny or worthy of respect I am. I won’t be self-deprecating in order to help you feel better about yourself, or your beliefs.
It has taken me so many years to realize that if my body makes you uncomfortable, if *I* make you uncomfortable, just by being myself, it’s not about ME. It’s about you, your beliefs and the culture you subscribe to. I will no longer try to ease your discomfort because that is not my job – it’s yours. Your discomfort is your own body, mind and spirit’s way of saying, “Look inward!” So, I will no longer rescue you from that discomfort, even though it’s my nature to ease the suffering of others. I won’t save you, but I’m certainly here and willing to help you along in your journey.
These are some of my stories. There are so many more. I’m not asking for sympathy. I’m also not trying to vilify anyone – if you see yourself in these stories, I’m not judging or shaming you. I’m happy to talk with you, if you’d like. If you feel strong emotions, I invite you to look within and examine the beliefs that led you there. And then you get to decide – do you want to keep them, exchange them or get rid of them? I also invite you to share, as you feel comfortable. Because I know I’m not the only one, and neither are you.
We are all such beautiful creatures. It’s about time we celebrated – don’t you think?
