Who am I?
I,
I’m my thoughts,
My dreams,
My aspirations.
I’m my name,
My looks,
My imagination.
That’s what I see,
When I stare,
Into my reflection.
My reflection,
Ripples in the river of life,
The shallow,
Shallow river of life.
To the world,
I am my reflection:
I am only what the world sees,
Only what the world decides I am.
My body is but a vessel;
Why must the world ignore me,
But acknowledge the vessel?!
Books, merely objects
Are still judged
By only their covers,
So who am I to demand
They not judge me
By only what they can see.
The inside of a book
Is where the value lies
But most people don’t bother;
It’s easier to judge
From the outside
My body is a part of me,
It embodies my soul
My personality,
But it is not all I am.
I am not my scars,
My disability,
I am me,
A completely separate entity.
I, Me,
Not just what you see
body image
My Mom (& her BMI)
Keto,
Maybe that’ll help
Paleo,
Couldn’t hurt to try
So many failed attempts
To lower her BMI
How can I tell her,
That a number
It doesn’t define her!
The scale, the scale
What does it say?
FAT, it says
But in numbers,
It judges.
Why must we care
What a metal box
Has to say?!
Why do we care
About the numbers
At the end of the day?!
The world says
Those numbers matter
The world says
Those numbers decide
They have more say
Than we do,
In our own lives
It shatters my heart
The look on her face
As we snack on chocolates
While she eats ice chips
Sugar-free,
Fat-free,
And low-carb
That’s her life
My BMI,
That number
It’s way too high
UGH
How can I tell her
That number is futile
Tell me now,
Does the BMI know
Of the babies
You’ve born?!
Does the BMI know
Of the PPD
You’ve overthrown?!
A number cannot measure beauty
So why,
Why does it bring tears to your eyes?
A number cannot measure beauty
So why,
Why must the matter
Overwhelm your mind?
I tell you you’re perfect;
But my words
They are fruitless,
It is only numbers
That get through to you,
The same numbers,
That judge you
Stuck in my Body
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Upward Spiraling Out of My Body Dysmorphia
trigger warnings: body dysmorphia, suicide, mentions of disordered eating, illness
If you remember what your body looks like, I think you’re one of the lucky ones. If you don’t, then I’m not so glad this is what we have in common. Coming from an older West Indian family, my body was always a discussion. No matter how many soccer practices I showed up to, salads I ate, nor how well I did in P.E. class, whenever an aunt approached me it was always “You’ve gotten bigger!” Even throughout my adulthood my body has gotten bigger. I know I’m big, but I wish they knew that I didn’t need to be reminded every second of my life.
I think it’s important to note that I wasn’t always fat, but I still struggled with food and dieting at a young age. Having to deal with cholesterol issues during elementary school was the start of my long, relentless relationship with food. I remember sitting in the doctor’s office with my uncle, his eyes glazed over, listening to every word my pediatrician said. My relationship with food not only originates in this moment, but also with my family’s history of heart disease, diabetes, and many other debilitating diseases. By the time I reached high school, my uncle had a coronary angioplasty, stent insertion, triple bypass heart surgery, and several other surgeries for various kinds of cancer. He never wanted me to suffer like he did.
For as long as I can remember, my uncle micro-managed everything that graced my plate. There were even times we fought at the dinner table so he could see whatever takeout I’d brought home. The stress of bringing home any form of food that he would scrutinize started to transfer into other aspects of my life. In middle school I discovered how uncomfortable it made me feel to eat in public spaces. In high school I even went as far as to become the library aide so I could escape the daunting task of consuming food in the adolescent-filled cafeteria and tried my best to retreat back to the library every lunch break. The library was my safe haven, a place of structure for the moments where I felt the most vulnerable. This is still a habit I have today, I always look for security.
It wasn’t until my senior year of high school that I started my first romantic relationship. He was beautiful, smart, and even had a piercing on one ear that was the jackpot of my teenage girl fantasies. Being with him was the first time someone told me I was pretty. For someone that had only dreamed of having a boyfriend, that meant the world to me. I naively thought that feeling would last forever. As the pandemic raged on, and quarantine forced us into our isolated nests, there became an evident strain on our relationship. Still, we continued to stay with each other. I never noticed when his demeanor changed or that I couldn’t fit into half of my jeans anymore, or even that I was getting bigger than him. I made a huge mistake. You know that horrible mistake people make when they get lost in a relationship because they already have constant bodily validation? Yeah, that one. I gained the “happy weight”, I let myself go. People hate happy weight because being fat makes you feel empty and alone after a relationship. Nobody thinks that you’re attractive anymore and it feels like now there’s this huge responsibility that you have to get back to when you were skinnier. I fucked up.
Coming out of that relationship I became extremely depressed. I moved back in with my family, back to a space I never felt secure in. Endless nights spent scrolling through Tinder, a space where your body is always being perceived, felt completely invalidating. I was a completely different person. And I didn’t feel that way because I had loved and learned valuable lessons about navigating relationships, but it was because I was fat. Everytime I looked into the mirror, a devil appeared on my shoulder pointing out every flaw on my now monstrous body. It’s like my ego had turned against me.
I didn’t want to live in my body anymore. I thought I was nothing without the comfort of another person telling me I was good enough. I can’t say that I never feel that way today, but I’ve worked on it. I’m not about to go on a spiel about how much it matters to love yourself, nor about how self-love is a journey and not a destination… but would love really be worth it if it meant that I had to be skinny, athletic, or fit any of the aesthetic qualities guys on dating apps wanted? Probably not. But I want to be better, because I know that the moments in between these feelings of doubt and despair are much more important than these superficial views of my body. Though, how I never saw myself changing is still a phenomena to me.
In the end, I’m still trying to upward spiral out of this feeling called body dysmorphia.
“The Body I Wear Is Not Perfect”
When thinking about the beauty standards of today it’s hard to ignore that bodies within magazines and television are rarely realistic goals for the general public. With bodies that range from what some may consider skinny to what others may consider thick, it’s important that we acknowledge all bodies contain a life within them. Looking at myself in the mirror can be difficult sometimes as I don’t believe my body is what society deems as attractive. Attractiveness is different for each gender as what is subscribed for males and females are different though this is changing it still holds today that men should be muscular and that women should be small and hairless. Focusing on the physical aspect of the
Continue readingBodybook™
If you spend time sifting through the hundreds of shitposting meme pages that have monopolized Facebook content, you may be able to find the occasional gem. Facebook groups have established online communities that often foster emotional support, validation, and advice from online strangers and internet friends. Many of these groups have “secret” security settings, meaning the group can only be accessed if one is personally invited, allowing for a sense of trust and community among its members. These groups exist in many different forms that fulfill a variety of purposes, one group being a place for members to share photos and stories that all pertain to their bodies. Continue reading
Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder?
Nowadays, we often find ourselves letting society define what is acceptable/not acceptable, or what is beautiful/ugly, e.t.c. So a while ago I was speaking with my friend and she tells me that she wants to go for a swim, but that she can’t go because of the fact that she has a lot of stretch marks on her thighs and stomach. She is not the first person that I have come across that talks about how they feel ashamed and ugly because they have stretch marks. I have also come to realize that this thought process is often associated with women.
In my opinion, this is absolutely nonsense/absurd, just like scars I find stretch marks to be rather beautiful and I feel like it’s one of the things that defines you as a person. This to me also shows our cultural differences because in my country (Nigeria), a woman having stretch marks is actually celebrated. To Nigerians it’s a sign of wealth and healthy living. Society (mostly men) needs to do a better job in giving people the opportunity to be themselves. No one should be insulted/attacked/harassed for having stretch marks because if anything, stretch marks enhances a persons beauty.
“I Liked Your Hair Better Straight”
I’m getting tired of hearing that….
Body Problems on Live TV
Television can sometimes be the most reflective form of cultural mirroring that can show what society truly thinks of certain people, and the behavior that they find suitable for those types of identities. Dramas and comedies often reveal stereotypical tropes of characters that can often be unrealistic and uncomfortable to experience, while live-action news programming can show the true thoughts that organizations from around the world are attempting to pump into the minds of humans in our society. The least drastic form of television that I would expect catastrophe from would definitely be a game show. I mean, really?
Is it more than just a costume?
It’s that time of year again. When all the “ghouls and goblins” come out to play. Or, should I say “sluts and sex–crazed men” come out and frolick about. Slut shaming has become a very negative stigma centered around Halloween time. Continue reading
Unruly Bodies 