An apology to my body
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been self-conscious about my body. I thought for a while that this was common - that my earliest memory of disliking my body at five years old was normal - but I’ve learned recently that negative body image doesn’t typically start that early.
“You are imperfect, permanently and inevitably flawed. And you are beautiful.”
I’ve found that, surprisingly, in these times of severe isolation, where my body isn’t subject to the same social scrutiny it once was, I’ve become more insecure. It’s hard to look in a mirror or even take a shower because I dread seeing my body.
Regardless of when or how or why it started, negative body image has been detrimental to my life - but also serves as excellent fodder for good writing.
It’s been a constant struggle of determining how to write about my body, though. It's easy to write about the self-hatred, but it’s also not helpful. Writing about loving my body despite the past hatred is disingenuous.
This week, one of my writing prompts suggested writing a piece apologizing to your body. Trigger warning - there is mention of suicide and self-harm. I’m including it below:
I’m sorry to my right leg. I’m sorry for the bruises that bloomed like peonies that I treated like trophies but were really just battle wounds.
I’m sorry to both my forearms and the way I would trace kitchen knives from wrist to bicep, up until the point of drawing blood, fresh against forgotten skin, and I place artwork over the worst of it so maybe I can give worth to the worst of me.
I’m sorry to my face and my stomach and my thighs. I’m sorry to every inch of me that has known violence. I’m sorry for the screaming and pulling apart and putting back together, and I’m sorry for the way I still want to rip skin from bone from tendon and muscle.
I’m sorry I didn’t protect you from men.
I’m sorry for the pacing and the pain, and I’m sorry for understanding the tangible thing that is a slap to the face or a punch to the stomach. I’m sorry for the names. Ugly. Fat. Slut. Whore.
There’s no room for forgiveness in a body that doesn’t believe itself.
I’m sorry I haven’t tried to listen until now.
I’d love to hear your thoughts on this piece - let me know in the comments!
