it’s my body and i’ll cry if want to

I don’t think I’ve met a woman that doesn’t have an issue with her body, from a size 0 to a size 22+, it doesn’t seem to matter much, there always seems to be something that could be tweaked, swapped or improved upon (regardless of what other people think, skinny people have issues too). For some women, it’s a minor thought, something in the back of their consciousness, something that they might like to be different but nothing that really affects them in their daily life. For others, it’s a constant biting critique, an ugly voice that assaults them from inside any time they confront a mirror, a shopping trip or a stressful occasion.

I vacillate between the two. On a good day, I am fine, I have accepted who I am and how I am built and go about looking cute without much a thought of things. Dressing and make-up can be almost mechanical, a bunch of motions that I have been doing since puberty, things I don’t really have to think much about anymore. On a bad day? It’s really hell. It’s a collection of voices that have been putting me down my entire life. It’s the stretch marks on my upper hips and thighs that I got picked on for when I was 14 and had swimming in PE, the reason I have never (until this past trip to Mexico) gone without board shorts to the beach. It’s the rib cage that sticks out so far as to garner me attention for having 4 boobs during that same time-frame. It’s the break-outs I still have even though I am closer to 40 than I am my teens. It’s the fact that one of my breasts is so much smaller than the other that it’s called the runt and that isn’t an exaggeration. It’s the cellulite I have even though everyone gives me crap for being too skinny.

Beyond that and believe me that should be enough…it’s the fact that in my body I see my parents. I figure most people look at themselves and identify which features they got from which parent, it’s a pretty natural thing to do. I do it with my son, all the time. But when you don’t like your parents? I mean truly don’t like your parents, been scarred by them and haven’t had any sort of relationship with them for many years, you don’t want to identify with them. You don’t want to see them in you. Especially not when the majority of your torment came from them. When all your skin sensitivity issues came from a mother that would point out your zits in front of the cute waiters, loudly, at whatever restaurant you happened to be at or would critique you on your lack of make-up, clothes or hair in front of the staff at your job. I’m not even going to go into how messed up I was because of what my father did to me, suffice it to say…the damage runs deep.

For the most part I don’t look enough like my parents, in the face, for it to bother me. I mean yes I have thin lips like my mother but hers are much thinner than mine so I can remove the association. I probably have my father’s nose but his had a moustache attached for my whole life so it’s not as if it looks the same, you know? Anyway. The thing is, I have my mother’s stomach. Like EXACTLY. Every time I look down at it, it creeps! If I am having a bad day? It’s seriously upsetting to me. I have my father’s shoulders. They are so squared off, I may as well be a hanger and they even freckle the same way. UGH.

I don’t want it to get to me for the rest of my life. I don’t want them to get to me for the rest of my life. I have, for the most part, been able to deal with everything else they have done to me….I would really like to get past this last bit and move on already. So the other day I posted a picture of myself on flickr in a bikini. It was a big step for me. It was seriously freaky, even though it was locked down to only people that are in my contacts list but I am glad I did it, just like I am glad I am writing this post and glad I was on the beach without my board shorts. One more thing put behind me, one step closer to free.

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