I know you think you’re a failure, but you’re not.
I know you think you’re fat, but you’re not.
Your reality, the one you’re living right now, is perceptive. What you see as truth is really nothing more than a shadow of fact, one that is sifted through the filters of your mind and heart.
In other words, your life is what it is because you choose to see it that way.
(don’t get mad and quit. keep reading.)Read More
A couple months ago, I went grocery shopping at Walmart in my black, Lulu yoga pants.
Commando.
BEFORE YOU EVEN ASK, “No.” This is not a common occurrence. I do not generally run around without underpants. I am, in fact, a lover of underpants, and almost every pair of my underpants are of the granny variety. I think they’re technically called “boy cut,” like men’s briefs only a bit slimmer through the hip, but still. I have as much fabric in my underpants as I do in my sports bra.
[Sad, but absolutely true. Itty Bitty Titty Committee founding member, call sign “Skittles.”]
Have you ever played poker?
I love to play. My dad taught me at a young age, and I grew up playing cards with uncles and cousins.
In the game of poker, there’s a term called “pot committed.” All things considered, between the hand you’re holding, the other players you’re betting against, the stack of chips in front of you, and the amount of your stack you’ve already pushed into the pot, “pot committed” means one thing.
You HAVE to play.Read More
I am a Body Dysmorphic.
In scientific terms, that means I am “characterized by persistent and intrusive preoccupations with an imagined or slight defect in my appearance.” It means I struggle with anxiety and obsessive-compulsive thoughts about the way I look.
According to the American Psychiatric Association, it means I have a chronic mental illness.
(That should probably bother me, but it doesn’t really… I always knew I was a little bit crazy.)
In layman’s terms, Body Dysmorphia means “I don’t like my body.” There are parts I would even say I hate. I don’t hate all of the parts, just some. And, those parts I hate, I spend a heck of a lot of time thinking about them. They’re always there. Whereas most (normal) people exist in their skin without giving their body much thought, I think about my body all. the. time.Read More
So… I’m kind of a perfectionist.
[I can hear the people who know me best, snorting and laughing. My brother’s guffaws are loudest. JUST SHUSH, BROTHER. I KNOW.]
Really though, JUST KIND OF. I’m kind of a perfectionist.
My brother’s laughter is not without warrant. I used to be an over-the-top, anal retentive, angry, bossy, OCD, anxiety ridden, control freak perfectionist. I’m not anymore. [Seriously guys, really.]
After years and years of driving myself into the dirt, setting personal goals to deliver the world and then feeling like a failure if I didn’t OVERdeliver the whole effing universe, hating myself for never living up to what I could be instead of what I AM, I got tired of it.
Sure, there are still things that I get clenchy about.
Like making my bed. I can go from zero to bitchface in the same amount of time it takes a small child to jump into my halfway-made bed, which (I have found) is less than one second. I like straight, tight sheets and covers, pillows plumped just right, cases clean and all facing the same direction. Once the bed is made I don’t expect it to stay that way, but while I’m making it, BACK OFF.
I like my closet arranged “just so.” I arrange all the shirts on matching hangers, facing the same direction, in order of sleeve length and sub-categorized by color, partially because it makes me happy, but also because I can tell simply by looking which shirts are in the laundry, and what color laundry needs to be done next.
This last weekend, I attended a personal development workshop.
There were 25 of us in attendance. We filled one small meeting room. For the duration of the event, I was seated next to and paired with a delightful woman. Her name is Kate. She offers personal coaching, owns her own business(es), and is raising a BE.YOOTIFUL. little girl, all by herself. Kate is a powerhouse of a human being, independent, strong, outspoken, and she lives her life louder than any other woman I’ve ever met. I was in awe of her at first sight (and a little intimidated, to be honest), and my awe deepened as I got to know her over our few days together.
Kate’s sense of style cannot be overstated. For the event, she was wearing a little black dress and super cute, wedge heels. We worked together as partners throughout the day, and every time I was asked to turn and look at her face I was impressed. I would turn toward her, take in her genuine smile, the frenzy of intelligence behind her eyes, and the don’t-let-the-serious-topic-fool-you-I-am-a-bad-ass gold, hoop piercing in her nose, and I had the same thought every time.
“Damn.”
EVERY TIME. Same thought.
“Damn.”
(I also thought “great rack, amazing eyelashes, I love the bangs,” and every time I hugged her I immensely enjoyed her curvy goodness, but yes. Mostly just “…DAMN.”)
At one point in my not-so-distant past, sitting next to Lovely Kate would have made me want to hide. (Seriously. She’s so amazing.) She is confident. She is absolutely GIRL. She is intelligent, feminine, sexy, strong. She is, in my mind, what I should probably want to be. The put-together, intentional, presidential persona she so successfully displays is what every professional, confident woman should strive for.
…yeaaaaahhh………
I’m so, so, so, SO SO SO not like Kate.Read More
August 19.
When you look at your body, what do you see?
I have hated my body almost all of my life.
Today, looking back, I see that I was (more than a little bit) nuts for feeling that way.
Seriously. Just look.
This was my 16 year old self, and in this picture I was one hundred fifty bajillion percent convinced that I was disgustingly fat.Read More
August 5.
So, I’ve got long legs.
I’ve got REALLY long legs. For my height, 29.7″ is the average inseam length.
Mine is 34″.
[And because I know you’ll ask, average inseam for a female is about 45% of her total height. I am 66″ tall, .45 x 66 = 29.7″. I geek out now. Math is good.]
I’ve spent a lot of time over the last month thinking about my body. I’ve dissected it apart, taken photographs, talked about all the things I’ve found. I’ve done some great introspection as to the parts of me I don’t like, and I’ve learned more about why I don’t like those parts.
For the most part, the only parts of me that are left to talk about are the ones I actually like.
As it turns out, writing and examining the parts of me I like is almost harder than dealing with the parts I don’t.
I would guess that for most of us habitual body-haters, talking about our good parts is hard. I spent a lot of years hating myself, and during the darkest parts of self-disgust I did not one time praise myself for my …well, for anything.
Why is that, do you think? Why do we do that?
I’m sure I could have found SOMETHING nice to say about myself. I’m sure, if I’d looked, I would have found one physical attribute to praise.
I didn’t even look.
I didn’t even TRY.Read More
July 29.
Girly bits.
You know… girly bits.
Labia. Vagina. Clitoris.
Privates.
Meat curtains. Ham sandwich. The Beaver. The Wet Cave. Poontang. Hair Pie. Box. Bunny. Cootch. Cooter. Lower Lips. Muff. Patch. Jelly Roll. Juice Box. Treasure Chest. Pink Taco. Trench. Split Tail. Bird’s nest, homemade slit pie, pelt, Happy Valley, poke hole, love tunnel, Lady Jane.
(I could keep going, there are, like, a billion of them.)
(“NO, I’m not that well versed in girl part euphemisms.” I had to look them up.)
(On a loosely related note, be careful when you search “female genitalia” online, the results are …violating. I feel like I need to wash my eyes out with soap.)
(And before you freak out, “No.” I’m not going to put a picture of my bits in this blog post.)
Of all the parts of the female anatomy, genitalia are the most female. Duh, right? It’s THE THING that makes us “girl.” It’s the part that defines our womanhood, it’s the area of our body used to grow and deliver more people into the world.
Ironically enough, it is also the part we speak the least about, and the part that is hardest to look at and get to.
I bet I offended people just with that list of words up there, and I haven’t even really SAID anything yet.
Sad, right?
I could write volumes about the female genitalia and the impact it has on our lives. VOLUMES. We could talk about gender identity. Or sexual empowerment. We could talk about masturbation. We could discuss the beauty of birth, the biological function and purpose of our labia (major and minor), how to get the most out of your vagina, or why you should be thankful for your clitoris in all its glory. We could explore the ideas of sexuality, culture, marriage, shame, intimacy, hormones, menstruation, sexual development, rape, suffrage, discrimination, feminism, or female sexual response.
See, volumes.
We could write volumes and volumes on female genitalia, because each of the issues above is linked to and triggered by the presence of girly bits. When I say “let’s talk about girl parts,” we really could go anywhere with the conversation and still be within the confines of the topic at hand.
Amazing.Read More
July 26.
If you had to pick five words that best describe you, what would they be?
Most of us would be tempted to answer that question with the five things we WISH we were. “I’ll say the five things I want to be true the most. Then they can just BE true. Everyone else will buy it, they’ll see me like that. I just know it. SEE, I’M CHANGED, all I had to do was change what everyone else saw. They’re buying it, I’m sure of it.”
Maybe, but usually not. When we lie about who we are the only person we truly deceive is ourselves.
Not too long ago, the five words to describe the person I wish I was, and the five words to describe the person I actually am would have been different. Depending on how honest I was being with myself, the answers would be VERY different. I wanted to be strong and capable, powerful and intelligent. I wanted to be confident.
I don’t know that I told anyone I WAS those things, so you might think I wasn’t a liar, but I was.
I was a liar, and I was a liar of the worst kind.
I lied to myself.
Every day, all the time, I lied to myself about who and what I was. I told myself I was strong, but I wasn’t. I told myself I was brave, but I wasn’t.
What I REALLY was, was afraid. Insecure. Doubtful. Self-destructive. Angry. Self-hating.
Sad.
I was really, really sad.Read More
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