The Body Within, the Body Without
This one was hard to write.
Hard to think about. Hard to want to click publish.
I’ve been flip-flopping week after week. I kept broaching the subject and then thinking maybe there’s something else I want to write about. Something else to say.
But the truth is it’s been on my mind every day since coming home from Thailand, a lingering pressure in the body, weighing on my heart. And what is the purpose of this blog but to have a look at the environment that is my mind right now? To examine what is worth keeping, and what is not?
What is this thing I call my body, and why am I so attached to it?
When I was learning musical theory I was drawn to the word “dissonance.” The harmonious chords sounded fine, but the dissonant ones were what caught your attention. Our brains inherently know something isn’t right, and anticipates its correction. It’s like listening to someone practice an instrument, a new song they’ve not yet mastered. There’s a discomfort, waiting to be assuaged.
The dissonance between what I know and how I feel has been deafening the past three months. Knowing my worth is not based on my weight, and yet feeling imminent dread with the shifting of the number on the scale (I stopped stepping on the scale). Knowing the gratitude I owe for all my favorite things that my body allows me to do - teaching, weightlifting, long walks with the dogs - let alone everything it allows me to feel - the relief and warmth of walking through the door as the dogs run up and Noah calls out, “Hi baby!”; the levity that is awash every time I’m with my sister; the inspiration that’s literally breathed into spirit from time spent in nature; the release and renewal from a good laugh with a friend. And yet, in the moments outside of these moments, still feeling like I’ve failed when my old clothes don’t fit (I’ve bought new ones). Knowing that food is nourishment, and yet, since quitting alcohol, there are times (pretty frequent times) where I’ll use food as a dopamine hit, making poor choices that tend to make me feel energy crashes and even mood fluctuations after. Knowing that I want to keep getting stronger, lifting heavier, which means getting bigger, and yet having my ego so desperately wanting everything to stay the same. To forever be a size I perceived as acceptable, to fear expansion, growth. I would never think like this when it comes to my mind - that I must keep it small, rigid, controlled - so why do I do this with my body?
I distinctly remember the moment when, at age 12, I was talking to my mom in her bathroom and she looked at me in the mirror and asked if I’d been eating more. And maybe, after school, I should skip that dish of fried rice or noodles my grandma always prepared for me. I looked forward to that after-school snack every day. It’s a Hong Kong custom, afternoon tea, brought over by the British, and included a sweet milk tea, or hot almond beverage, or Ovaltine, and a rich carby snack, like condensed milk and butter on toast, soupy noodles, or something stir-fried. Thinking back now, I realize how my grandma did it out of love, and how much I took it for granted. She was a woman of bitter words. She used her actions to speak love. And young as I was I could not reconcile the two.
My mother’s comment did nothing to stop it. I craved carbs all the more as puberty hit, and I think as it became increasingly “forbidden” in my mind. Then more comments came, from the other adults in my life, related or otherwise. One of the less kind customs in Chinese culture is how often and openly someone feels they can comment on your weight and body. I was having lunch at a restaurant one of my uncles worked at and as he passed by the table he took one look at me and said, “Wow, when did you become a pig?” as he casually walked on. I dreaded seeing anyone who’d known me before the weight gain. Without fail at some time during a visit with relatives or friends of the family, the fact that I’d gained weight would be either posed as a question or statement. Some summers I’d lose the weight by going running everyday. Then I’d gain it all back when school started and the days got darker and the stress of school work and loneliness made food the only thing to look forward to. Body dysmorphia and eating disorders, something unfortunately most of us have come across if not in ourselves then someone we know, something that can affect us for years, decades, even a lifetime. How could it not? I remember looking at a magazine while waiting for my mom at the salon and learning the word “flawless.” I knew immediately what it meant, based on its pairing with the word “skin,” and the photo in the spread. Had I not, would I have ever thought that there was such a thing as flawed skin? When I lived with relatives in Hong Kong for a summer one year, no less than 75% of ads I saw on TV and in print were for weight loss or skin-whitening (and yes, many comments were made on my weight and dark skin).
My sister calls me “the lover of imperfect things,” and I wonder if I can apply that to myself. When I looked in the mirror I’d see what the people making those comments saw, hear what they’d say before they said it, and work to diminish all these areas so there’d be nothing to see, nothing to say. This blog was incredibly hard to write because I’ve never wanted to discuss my weight. My mass. How much space I’m taking. Bringing attention to something I wish had never received attention for in the first place. How fucking distorted is that. What the fuck is a “problem area” and why do I subscribe to it? Why do my eyes go there first? What is so broken in me that I used to feel the need to torture my body, both mentally and physically, into submission? If we need proof that the divine exists all we need to do is see this self-healing vessel that carries our soul. A heart that beats without us asking, lungs that breathe without us praying for it. This divine being that is us, already. The love that is provided, that we take for granted, because we don’t understand it.
We all have our own stories of why we have the relationship with food the way we do, the relationship with our bodies. The people that I’ve talked to, the accounts that I’ve read, all resonate a version of generally the same message. At one time in their life, they were made to feel less than, less seen, less accepted, less loved for how they ate or how they looked. And it became a personal vendetta against oneself, to never let that happen again. The truth is we have to ask ourselves who benefits when we think these thoughts? The cosmetic, clothing, and “medical” industries? Who do we need to answer to the most? Who stands to lose the most, if we act against ourselves?
I carry a piece of my grandmother in my body. I carry a piece of all my ancestors - every decision they ever made, every step that was taken that saw them survive until my generation. If they could see me now, using my energy to pick apart my body rather than doing something worthy of the sacrifices they made, the hardships they endured, what would they say? When I honor my body, I honor them. One day this body will be part of the earth again, part of a plant, part of someone’s food, part of the dust in the air they breathe. We’re all just atoms exchanging with one another. This body is just something else I borrowed, took out on loan, for a very short time. One day I’ll get an overdue notice, and I’ll have to return it, for the next person, and the one after that. How could anything this temporary be taken personally at all?
Self-hatred, destructive thoughts, insecurity, blame, doubt, all the cards we keep shuffling over and over from hand to hand as if this pain is meant to be carried. It’s not. Allow your fingers to release its grip on this collection of hurt. Our beautiful, intricate hands and bodies were meant to create, to touch, to heal and discover and move like nothing else on earth. They are not meant for this game of self-destruction; rather, the work and art of reinvention, and resurrection.
How do we begin to love ourselves? Maybe first, we need to ask the question, “What do I love about myself?” on a regular basis. If I’m willing to look in the mirror daily and demand the parts that are “unacceptable” change, I think I can also look in the mirror and name at least one thing that I’d like to keep, that doesn’t need changing, that’s perfect the way it is. And allowing these sounds and images to be repeated, to become louder than the ones that still show up because we never felt safe enough to let it go. That if we didn’t self-police and criticize then what could happen outside of us, outside our control, would be exponentially worse. But is it? Is one comment that could possibly happen that would affect five seconds of someone else’s life when they said it to me really that much worse than the comments I say about myself 24 hours of the day?
When I look in the mirror, my eyes are searching for me. My eyes are asking me to look them in the eye, to see the soul that’s underneath, the purpose that is being called forth, the life that is waiting to be lived. The heart beats, waiting to be heard, its rhythm ever steady, ever ever. Until it won’t be. And we never know when that is. My lungs, asking to be expanded, more consciously, to be filled, more lovingly. I choose the air I breathe, because all matter carries intention. I choose the air I exhale, because all energy asks to be moved.
When I’m conscious of what I’m choosing to live within, I’m choosing what I can, and want to, live without. I don’t want to live within the confines of fear and restriction, and can no longer live within criticism and expectation, those of mine and those of others, so I’m choosing to live without. And that means releasing and forgiving the words and thoughts and ideas that have held me back from the joy that my body has been offering, and waiting for me to accept. And, when I really choose to live within, in that warmth and affection and endless support of those I truly call family, in that energy of creation and unshakeable vulnerability, in that vastness of devotion and possibility, I come to see that there was nothing I was ever without.
