My Body
Ever since I was a young girl, like many girls, I hated my body. I was either too fat or too skinny or too muscular or too weak. I wished I were taller, shorter, slimmer; I wished my eyes were bigger, my nose smaller, my ears more tucked flush next to my face. I wanted my skin clearer and brighter, my nails longer and stronger, my stomach more defined, my arms more tight. I felt I had some control over this as I tried different eating habits and exercises as a teenager, but for the most part, my wish list was unattainable.
After I was sexually assaulted, I truly learned how to hate my body. I hated my thighs for being forced open; I hated my hands for not delivering strong enough punches; I hated my arms for not being strong enough to push him off of me. I hated my vocal cords for not being louder, my nails for not being pointier, and for my eyes being unable to remain shut. I hated my liver for processing the alcohol in my system that night, and making me confused, ashamed, and blame-ridden. Afterwards, I hated my body for giving up and trying to make the experience less painful; I hated my thighs for continuing to show bruises that ironically became more painful to look at as time went on, even after the physical pain subsided. I felt weak and invaded. I felt like my body had betrayed me, given me up to the power of others. My body was broken.
I didn’t like to look at myself. My body was a constant reminder of my failure. As the months went by, I felt that my body continued to betray me. Once I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that rapidly changed my appearance, I saw it as another way my body had let me down. Now not only did I see a weak body in the mirror, I saw a sick body, a changed body, an ugly body.
To deal with these changes, I tried to look inward. I tried to focus on my strengths to gain self-confidence back. Oftentimes I relied on the thoughts of others who showered me with affection, positivity, or even indifference to my struggles. It was harder for me to believe the compliments than believe those who did not offer solace or warmth to me during this time. When I looked inward and tried to “like” myself and rid myself of this hate, I focused on my job, school, and tangible things I had seemingly succeeded at. Most of the time, all of the time, these weren’t physical characteristics, they were mental characteristics. This just led me to hate my body more. My mind did not let me get assaulted, my body did. My mind didn’t make me sick, my body did.
I tried meditation, aromatherapy, talk therapy (okay, only one day, I hated it), distractions, etc. The only thing that seemed to heal me was time. I slowly became less afraid and more confident. However, my dislike of my body did not fade as some of my more traumatic memories had.
I decided to return to yoga one day in college. My hair had just completely fallen out, so I wore my self-proclaimed “cancer scarf” and walked into a nighttime vinyasa flow class and sat in the back hoping no one would look at my ugly, weak body. I was severely out of shape, huffing and puffing through each asana. However, I did feel slightly calmer. I kept going, more so to relieve my mental anxiety than to improve any physical capabilities. What I noticed besides the mental focus that yoga provides you with that seemingly allows you to drift away from your thoughts for an hour and a half, is the increase of power and heat I felt in my body. I felt strong and powerful and capable as I shifted from one pose to the next. Even when I couldn’t do the fancy handstands or other poses as the more skilled yogis, I was okay with the limitations my body had. I started to like these feelings of self-acceptance and strength, and maybe a small amount of respect returned to my body for the increases in power, flexibility, and strength that I felt and saw improving with each class. However, time and work and life all got in the way and I stopped going.
Two years later, I returned. This instructor had a powerful voice that pushed me to my limits. Again, I felt an increased awareness and connection to my body. Then I moved cross-country and had to leave yet another yoga studio behind. As a grad student, my finances are limited and my junk food intake increased, so I decided to try a free activity to lose some weight, running. The first few runs, I felt weak and out of shape and defeated. But then, like yoga, I felt strong as I pushed through. However, instead of blaming my body for not being stronger, I actually started to feel grateful for my body for being able to do a full day’s work and also run. Slowly my mindset began to change. It wasn’t an instant thing; it had been years in the making. It wasn’t because someone told me to feel that way, or that I should feel that way, I just noticed these feelings one day.
I loved my thighs for being strong and powerful and holding me up all day, whether or not I was running, walking, or stretching. I loved my arms for being able to express my emotions when I talked; I loved my hands for writing endless papers and papers for grad school. I loved my vocal cords for speaking with confidence in class or singing in the shower, my nails for staying strong after washing dishes for an hour, my eyes for being able to witness the beauty of the Pacific Northwest. I loved my body for allowing me to stand, and sit, and walk, and talk, and sleep. My body was holding me up. My body didn’t let me down or give up; it helped me survive. My body got me up morning after morning when I didn’t want to. My body found a way to enjoy sex again. My body healed as the bruises faded. My body continued on. My body is a survivor.
I do not and probably will not ever have the body that I desired as a young girl, or even desire as an adult. I am certainly not a fitness addict or am one of those people that will encourage everyone to work out. I still complain about physical activity like most people. I am not completely over my assault and I’m not sure if I ever will be. However, yoga, running, walking, etc., they allowed me to see what our bodies are capable of. It allowed me to see my body in a new light; as something that was not broken, but something that had immeasurable strength and perseverance. I might not feel this way every day, but just as I continued to return to these activities, I will remind myself to return to these thoughts. I don’t blame my body; I’m grateful for it. Even if it took me awhile to learn to love it, and even if I have to keep reminding myself to love it, I won’t give up on my body again.
