And everyone is so easily aghast when confronted with the morbidly obese and assuming the physical restrictions and limitations it must place on its host. And then feeling empathy for them. Well I am as equally aghast at the mobidly self-rejecting and morbidly self-denying, morbidly self-depriving female and the PSYCHOLOGICAL limitations and restrictions this places on its hosts - sapping the crea...tivity of young girls and just as equally restricting and limiting their mental and emotional and spiritual health. True progess stulted by morbidly self-rejecting psyches about their female body. And the more thoughts and emotions take on these anxieties and morbid self-rejections - the less room there is there for personal growth and true creative achievements. You can be "aghast" in the presense of morbid obesity if you care to - But at least that is visible. What is more pervasive and more pronounced among females in our culture, is 'morbid self-rejection' over your bodies. And it's time to challenge this cultural pathology.I mean how can we possibly continue this madness? Maybe you need to be the mother of a daughter to get it, but NOTHING made me sit up and take notice of my off-kilter thinking more than becoming a mother. And lately as I'm doing some reading about TRUE hunger, TRUE starvation, TRUE hand-to-mouth existence juxtaposed with this abundance (and excess) that we have in North America, things become even more clear.
Even physique competitions were not about self-loathing for me, they were about self control/mastery and striving to balance my head and my heart. And to be honest, my stage body always felt like wearing someone else's clothing. I was quite happy to put on some fat after every show.
My daughter shares so much of my genetic material. How can I POSSIBLY loath my body? It would mean loathing HERS as well. And I love my children more than life, but I also love life a great deal, so I choose to be grateful for mine and live it not in loathing but in love.
Does any of this make any sense? Perhaps not. But the words "There are no victims, only volunteers," just run through my head over and over and over when I read again and again and again about women's battles with their body image and self worth. It's not a REAL battle. It's not a REAL problem. Well, it is a "real problem" nowadays, but it's a first-world problem and, in that sense, it's more than a little indulgent.
If what you see in the mirror is not enough to convince you of your worth (and god knows it should be enough no matter what size pants you wear), then it's time to stop looking at your reflection and see yourself through someone else's eyes. Your child's? God's? Your parents'? I don't know. Whatever works. But you really need to get your head out of your ass (sorry... being a little harsh here) because it's awfully dark in there.
We know nothing of real hardship in North America. Yes, there's no denying it's really bad for some people and some people have experienced abuse and a lifestyle I can only imagine. But something strikes me about a lot of people I've come to know who've known real hardship, not suburban-I-can't-afford-a-new-car-yet and I-can't-get-rid-of-these-ten-pounds hardship, but real nasty poverty and abuse: what does not kill them has made them stronger, and more importantly GRATEFUL. Those who've walked through fire and come out singed but alive to tell the tale are a different breed. If they suffered enough to take them from victimhood to having truly overcome, they're simply on a different plane of existence. I find these people really easy to love. They tend not to suffer fools easily, they offer perspectives I don't always have, and they exhibit very, very little self pity. And very, very few of them seem to "suffer" through life.
We're better than these modern, first-world afflictions. When there's true suffering happening in the world, right this very moment, doesn't it feel a bit odd to adopt the mantle of victimhood because you don't feel like your thighs are the right size?
