the mirror, my body, & me

I walked into the bathroom, finishing my painstaking deconstruction of the day's messy bun, before tearing off my clothes, desperate to clean off the grime of the day. I'm not sure what made me stop to look in the mirror, but like Narcissus, I couldn't help but fall deep in love with myself.

Okay, maybe not like Narcissus, because I didn't kill myself or turn into a flower, and my love was definitely not the, well, narcissistic kind.

But, when I looked in the mirror, I saw everything I used to hate so much about my body, and was in awe of it.

Freckles I used to dreamed of covering with a layer of makeup until I learned the small constellation decorating my face was a trait shared with my grandmother.

My curls that I had cut and straighten for so many years before I took the time to learn how to care for it properly. (It's a lot of work, but so worth it in the end.)

Breasts...oh, how I hated them, especially when they became the reason for leering men. In fact, with cancer running through both sides of my family, I already knew I was getting them removed, and gladly so.

My thighs too. In my mind, they seemed humongous like tree trunks, when the reality was they were. They were strong, helping to hold me upright as I stood up and faced the world.

And then my stretch marks, ones that I, in that moment, followed with my finger as if I was taking a journey down memory lane, remembering how I hated how my body so much more when I started to gain weight. How they served as a reminder of how "fat" I was getting. Now I looked at them, proud of how my body had changed with me through thick and thin, the hard and good times.

I cried.

It wasn't very long or loud, but happy tears trailed down my face, because it had been such a long time since I loved every part of my body. Yes, there were moments when I tolerated certain parts, but loving them was a far different story.

Let me explain.

I stopped loving my body when I was about nine, maybe ten. In fact, it was part of the reason I started to struggle with suicidal thoughts. My body was changing, transitioning from girl to woman, and as I mentioned before, I noticed that certain assets were given more unwanted attention than before.

The mirror became my enemy, showcasing every flaw and mocking me with it. There were so many times I would dream of smashing the mirror, but instead, it fractured it into a million different pieces on the floor. All of them continued to torture me with horrible statements about my body.

Eventually, I only viewed the mirror as a necessity, something to check my appearance. There weren't any moments like you see in the movies, a girl dancing and lip syncing in front of the mirror.

Have you ever heard of the phrase, "the camera adds ten pounds?" When I started gaining weight, I felt the mirror did the same. (Actually, I felt the same about cameras, but I've never really liked getting my picture taken, even as a little girl.)

There was a book I read a while back, "Big Boned Girl" by Jo Watson. I, honestly and unfortunately, don't remember much about it. (Probably works out great for those who don't like spoilers.) There was one thing I remember though, a scene where the main character's therapist told her to look at herself in the mirror while she was naked. Then, and this is where it gets a bit hazy, I believe, though research tells me different, the therapist tells the main character to say everything she liked about her body out loud into the universe.

Yes, I am planning on reading this again this year, because it is a good book.

I did look into it some. It's called mirror exposure or perceptual retraining, something to break the cycle of negative body image. The linked article goes into the process (which is part of the reason I think I got the therapist's instruction wrong), and how it can help someone.

I tried it and let me say, it was one of the hardest things I ever did. Having to stare at my negative views about my body in the face was terrifying. There were many times I sobbed because I wanted to view my body differently, but I couldn't seem to do so. Every time a bad thought my body popped up, I felt like I was failing.

Eventually, it did help, starting with acceptance of certain aspects of my body. This sparked a change in how I dressed, doing it in a way that flattered my body rather than hide it. On top of that, I picked clothes that made me feel good about, regardless if it was going to be seen by others or not.

It has only been recently that I've truly loved my body again, after nearly fifteen, give or take, years of struggle. The initial story I told in the beginning - that happened almost a month ago.

I still, and I'm sure I'll never, be one hundred percent. I think that one lesson I've really learned in all of this. There isn't a fix all for something like this. No matter how much you stitch yourself together, there is always going to be scars that show the ugly truth. I know this may sound defeatist, but it is the reality.

The saying "you may fall down a thousand times, but what matters is you get back up," comes to mind. When a negative thought comes up, acknowledge it, but don't view it as a failure. Doing that will only send you into a downward spiral that's difficult to get out of. Instead, deal with it. For me, I'll go outside and go for a walk, or wear an outfit that helps me feel good about my body.

Another lesson, and the one I view as the hardest one was to be patient with myself. This isn't a chapter or two, but a life-long journey. I couldn't very well expect that the things I tried would work right away, I had to give it time, even if it meant the rest of my life.

***

As of right now, I smile rather than glare at my reflection. I take time to say how thankful I am for my beautiful body and apologizing to it as well. It never deserved to be hated.

And yes, I do dance and lip sync in front of the mirror from time to time.

The movies don't do it justice. It's much more fun when you do it yourself.