08
Jun

Addicted to Love – When People are Your Fix

If you’re anything like me, I had heard the term “codependent” hundreds of times.

Whenever I’d hear that word, I’d picture two people who neeeeeeeeeeed each other, like a pair of mutually parasitic leeches sucking the life out of one another, “plus drama.”

Thelma and Louise, driving off a cliff.

tumblr_inline_mlb78gETg61qz4rgp

[how powerful and profound.  i almost forget they’re driving off to kill themselves.]

Romeo and Juliet, as she stabbed herself while clinging to his lifeless body.

Two weak, whiney, teenage kids making sad, crying suckface with each other, covered in emo makeup, grasping black fingernailed hands.

“I can’t live without you, I LOVE YOU SO HARD that I have to kill you and then kill myself.  I DIE ONE THOUSAND TIMES”

Me, to myself:  “Lame.  No way I’m THAT.  I’m stronger than that.  I’m independent and smart.  No way, no way.”

In 2014, I found a therapist.  I was fighting my way back from rock bottom, recovering from addiction, and healing from a marriage that uprooted truckfulls of rotting garbage when divorce yanked it from my life.

At the time, I was pretty proud of myself for seeking help. Now I think, “omg DUH, mental garbage all over the furniture, I needed a crew of help.”Read More

26
Feb

How to Love Your Body – photos and fear

For those of you that follow, you’ll know all about this.

The Body Image Project

goal

Through this Project, you will construct a deeper level of comfort with and acceptance of your body.  When executed as intended, the Project will help you to develop a relationship with your body that is positive, welcoming, peaceful, and harmonious.

procedure

To participate in The Body Image Project, take photos of your body every day, according to the schedule below.  Once you have taken your daily picture, look at it.  REALLY LOOK.  Think about the part of your body you’ve photographed, then sit in meditation or write out answers to the questions that follow.Read More

22
Jul

The Body Image Project – “baby cows”

July 22.

Of all the parts of my body, my legs take the cake for confidence.

I have always liked my legs.

Also, saying that out loud feels weird.

Culturally speaking, we women have been taught (we have taught us, sadface) that talking about ourselves in a positive way is a no no.

…well, wait.  FIRST we’re not supposed to talk about ourselves at all.  Not directly, anyways.  We can talk about how we react to those around us, but not JUST us.  SECOND, we’re supposed to talk about everyone else.  And what they’re doing and who they’re with and how they parent their kids and how fat they got after the baby, and who their husband is sleeping with and how unhappy the marriage is and how bad their cooking is and every other negative we can think about someone else so we feel better.

THEN, finally, if we run out of things to talk about, before our conversation with whoever-it-is-whatever-person slips into scary silence, we talk about ourselves.

When we do, we’re supposed to pull ourselves apart.

SELF-DESTRUCT SEQUENCE:  LAUNCH.Read More

21
Jul

The Body Image Project – “lap it up”

July 21.

I love kids.

LOVE LOVE LOVE.

Someone once asked me “What’s your impossible dream?”  In other words, outside of reality and the confines of human existence, what would you want to do?  What would you BE?

Before I had kids, I answered this question only one way.

“SUPERPOWERS.”  (Duh.)

Batman’s bravery plus Superman’s …everything, plus Wonder Woman’s combat and weapon training (and amazing boobs and tin foil bracelets, super duh), plus Optimus Prime bad-assery, plus Nightcrawler’s ability to teleport, plus Jean Grey’s telekinesis, Flash’s speed, Aquaman’s under-water-ness (because I’m a mermaid in my dreams) and the ability to turn will into reality like Green Lantern.

omg that would be so amazing.

(I am totally geeking out right now.  WHY DO I NOT HAVE ALL THOSE THINGS.)

Except then I had kids, and my answer changed.  Read More

21
Jul

The Body Image Project – “chin up”

July 20.

Not many of you may know this, but I am a semi-professional photographer.

(In other words, “I get paid to take pictures,” but it is not my primary source of income.)

I have always loved taking photos.  Maybe it’s because it was my dad’s favorite hobby (“Dad, stop taking pictures of me eating my lunch.  Ew.”), maybe it’s because I’m Japanese (“Oooh, tay-koo peek-cha?”), but when I finally picked up my first SLR at age 23, I felt a quickening.  Something inside of me MOVED.  In my head, the voice that had screamed into stale, empty silence for years sensed a gasp of fresh air, the dense, black emptiness was sliced open with a fragment of blinding light, and in the startled shock that followed, that voice found freedom.

It escaped.

*I* escaped.

I won’t say that I’m a great photographer.  I have a lot of technical learning to do, and I do not spend as much time behind my camera as I should.

I WILL say that I am proud of the best pictures I take, when I press the button I can make my camera capture the image I picture in my head, and most of the time my work doesn’t suck.

And, if the thing I’m photographing is something I truly love?

Well, then my pictures look like this.

kidsRead More

20
Jul

The Body Image Project – “the eyes have it”

July 19.

It’s tough to tell by looking at me, but I am half Japanese.

Most of the time, people can tell I’m “something else.”  I don’t look Japanese, but I don’t look particularly Caucasian, either.  As a teen and in my early twenties, the go-to-guess of my heritage was Native American.  Women generally didn’t ask me why I looked the way I did (it doesn’t seem we ask each other such questions, out of intelligence, respect, or fear of comparison), but men did.

“Hey, you look like Pocahontas.  Are you Indian or something?”

Classy.

And tactful, right?

**rolling eyes**

My answer to their boorish question:  Yeah.  “Or something.””

Despite the occasional rudeness and clumsy question, I have never been offended when people ask “what are you.”  We were raised with great pride in our culture.  We wore kimonos and danced Obon.  I learned to eat with chopsticks before I learned to use a fork.  I make sushi as easily as I make a sandwich.  I learned to write and speak Japanese (although I’m terribly out of practice).  My lunchbox held strange treats, and I had a great deal of fun sharing them with my classmates.

As Japanese-Americans, we were encouraged to fulfill the best Japanese stereotypes.  Intelligence, high level academic achievement, respect, hospitality, and honor were part of our family culture.  We were encouraged to take the best part of what it meant to be Japanese, and be that.  BE THAT, and be that as hard as you can.  I don’t know that it was ever said out loud, but we were raised to lean into the differences that set us apart from everyone else.  We were taught to stand out, stand up, and do what we were taught was right.

For the most part, an excellent lesson.

Except then I grew up, I attempted to become my own person, and I realized that neat and tidy suitcase of stereotypes, the one I unquestioningly picked up and took pride in because it was part of our culture?

It wasn’t just full of good things, there was some bad stuff in there too.Read More

19
Jul

The Body Image Project – “she’s completely mental”

July 18.

This will be the first Body Image Project post that does not include a picture, but of all the parts of me that make me who I am, this one does the most.

My brain.

I’m not kidding when I say this – I believe one hundred million percent that my brain is my best feature.

I suppose that could be kind of a sad thing.  In the same way people say “she’s got a great personality” to cover a perceived physical deficit, saying “my brain is my best feature” could appear to be an aesthetic cop-out.

It is, kind of, but I don’t think that’s sad.

For the majority of my life, I did not feel attractive.  On bad days I STILL feel unattractive.  Even now, even after all the therapy and growth, there are still days when the PMS freight train rolls into the station, unloads baggage and bloaty self-hate, throws tampons at my head, sprinkles body odor on everything, then leaves me to clean up the mess.  I do not feel pretty on those days.

On those days, and on all the days I felt the same sense of disgusting worthlessness before, I chose to define my worth through the one thing I could control, and the one thing that made me unique:

my brain.Read More

17
Jul

The Body Image Project – “shoulder the burden”

July 17.

Hi.  My name is Erin, and I am my dad’s first born son.

This isn’t really a joke.  Although I was born female, I have never considered myself as such.

I was not raised as such.

I don’t mean this in a super-famous-right-now, Bruce-is-Caitlin Jenner kind of way.  I am not having a gender identity crisis.  Although I haven’t considered myself female, I haven’t considered myself male, either.

I’m not “girl.”  I’m not “boy.”  I’m just ME.

In the same way a frog doesn’t consider that he’s a frog, clouds don’t know they’re clouds, and in our daily life we don’t usually consider that we’re breathing (because we just DO IT), my gender is a non-issue.  It just IS.  It exists without my consideration, without need of acknowledgment or attention.

Yes, my gender is like that.

For the most part, my nondescript gender has been great.  I have never felt confined to any specific role due to the plumbing between my legs.  I have never felt limited in choice based on my sexual grouping, and I have never butted my head against any genital-induced ceiling.  (Ew.)  I am me ONLY AND JUST, not defined by any category, designation, class, or division.

Except for those times when I’m not.Read More

17
Jul

The Body Image Project – “stay abreast”

(Just a heads up, this post contains some explicit images.)

July 16.

Most parts of the human body remain gender neutral.

Hands, for example.  Both boys and girls have them.  Legs.  Arms.  Wrists, knees, neck, collar bones, stomach, back, buttcheeks.  Almost all parts of the body are common to both male and female of the species.  When I compare myself to my male counterpart, there are a lot of ways we are similar.  Although the length and size and girth and strength of our equivalent parts differ due to my feminine designation, the parts are the same.  Thighs are thighs, mouths are mouths, hair is hair.

All parts are the same, save two – genitalia, and breasts.

And, since genitalia are tucked neatly and privately away inside our clothes, breasts are most obvious distinction between male and female anatomy.

Breasts are, as our culture tends to show us all the time, the part of our body that makes us women.

Yep, breasts = women.

Also, breasts can be round and soft.  Voluptuous.  Attractive.  They are feminine at any size.  In our culture, breasts are considered sexy.  They are stimulating both visually and physically, and regardless of perspective they are considered sexual organs, part of our reproductive process.  On a level of awareness that most people miss, they are loving and nurturing, almost divine in their ability to produce manna-like nourishment from nothing but water and breath.

Growing up, as it is for most girls, the arrival of my breasts was an anxious, exciting, butterfly-metamorphosis experience.  I waited so eagerly.  So impatiently.  Whenever I would walk through the mall or the clothing section at the grocery store, I’d drag my feet through the lingerie department.  “Hey, there’s bras over there, maybe we should look.  You know, just in case.”  I was READY.  I was ready to need a pretty undergarment.  I was ready to do that fancy clip-it-behind-your-back thing, and the strip-it-off-without-taking-off-your-shirt thing from Flashdance.  I wanted boobs, and all the other fancy, womany, grown-up things that went with them.

Finally, after waiting FOREVER, my breasts started to come in.  At the start they were little lumps pushing against the inside of my shirt, not visible from the outside of the fabric, but visible from the inside when I tucked my face inside the neckhole of my t shirt.  (And yes, in the beginning I did that a lot.  I was super excited, duh.)  They grew slowly, they moved from little lumps to modest bumps,

then they stopped growing.

oh. my. goodness.

Hi.  My name is Erin, and I am one of the founding members of The Itty Bitty Tittie Committee.  (call sign: skittles)Read More

15
Jul

The Body Image Project – “grab that ass”

July 14.

About two weeks ago, I bought new underpants.

Some of you may think “what’s the big deal, it’s just a pair of underpants, everyone has them.”

True.  Everyone (hopefully) has and wears underpants.  (And if they don’t, I hope it’s by choice.)  Probably not a big deal.

For me, though, the new underpants were a super huge big deal, because in order to BUY underpants, you have to THINK about underpants, which means you have to think about what goes IN the underpants.

“My ass.”

I had to think about my ass.

As an anorexic, there are a few parts of my body that I try hard to NOT think about.  My stomach.  My hips.  The thick-skin-fat roll that smooshes out just under my bra strap along my back, south off my armpits along my shoulder blades.  My inner thigh, my inner knees,

and my rear end.

In order to buy underpants, just like buying a new pair of jeans or a swimming suit (both of which I detest shopping for equally as much), you have to think about the size, shape, and necessary confinement of your backside.  You have to consider what it looks like now, and what it will look like in your new clothing.

You also tend to consider what it should look like.

What you wished it looked like.

And aaaaah…   there’s the problem.Read More

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