If I only had her thighs

Who was this enemy, telling me I was fat and ugly?

The Shrieking Cactus is an email newsletter for people learning to be less prickly in life, particularly for those of us who have experienced trauma, but all readers are welcome. Sign up here:

Photo by Janosch Lino on Unsplash. One of the few non-sexualized stock images I found when searching for “thighs” or “legs.”

May 2021: The studio condo I was staying at for a few days by myself was perfect, except for the full-length mirror placed in the center of the room. I had not owned one for decades and preferred it this way. Now it was unavoidable, unsparing, ruining my tranquility. On my way to the beach, I’d rush by it, knowing I’d immediately pick out what I hated about myself, many of the same complaints I had heard my mother express toward her own body: The upper arms. The small potholes of cellulite across the back and front of my thighs. The crow’s feet of my early 40s. The puff of belly that can’t be contained. A size 12 pushing 14.

I was tired of this self-hatred yet felt imprisoned by it. Before I had left on this trip, my therapist had recommended a book to bring along with me, Self-Compassion by Kristin Neff, PhD. Eventually this book — and this trip to Manasota Key, Florida —- would prove a life-changing combination, serving as the springboard I needed to process a decade of trauma. But for now, I was stuck in my head. I put on my swimsuit and gave myself a pep talk. I slowly walked by the mirror, taunting it, but not glancing its way. At the beach, I sat down on one of those awkwardly low beach chairs, stared out at the horizon, and exhaled. Here, the flaws evaporated, a safe space.

But then a dog trotted past, followed by a woman. She had on a purple paisley tank with no signs of a muffin top yearning to breathe free. Her perfectly short, perfectly frayed denim shorts hugged her perfectly muscular, tanned thighs. Her floppy hat looked charming, not silly.

My good mood unraveled.

I felt gross, irrelevant, dumpy. I stared at her, so jealous.

She smiled at me and it made me want to cry.

It’s depressing and yet validating that so many women know exactly this self-hatred I speak of. I’m far from the first to express feeling trapped by my poor body image. Nora Ephron’s book title, I Feel Bad About My Neck, really says it all.

It’s no way to live. And there is no easy way out of it. There is always another layer to unpack. There is the feeling bad layer. There is the feeling bad about feeling bad layer, the one that whispers, Don’t you know there are women around the world who have it so much worse than you? Don’t you know you are lucky? Who do you think you are feeling bad about something so frivolous? Must be nice!

On this trip, I finally said ENOUGH. I asked out loud: Who is this invisible enemy? She was abusive. She was inside of me. She was me.

And I needed to slay her.

Three years later, what a journey I’ve been on. It took reading the right books. It took two years of once-a-week therapy. It took several trips alone. It took writing, what I call writing my way out of my head, writing on my phone notes in tucked-away moments, writing on my arm, writing in coffee shops, writing while I should be working. And, if I’m being honest, it also took surgery and finding the right hormonal cocktail to prevent the toxic mood swings of PMDD, a disorder that is as stigmatized as it is invisible. (As an aside — I hadn’t looked at IAPMD’s page in a few years and am heartened by all the new findings.)

When I look back at my notes of this trip to Florida, I want to hug the woman I used to be. She hurt so much. She hurt from years of her mother’s later-in-life mental illness, she hurt from her own internalized shame and anger, she hurt from the unfairness of life. She knew she didn’t want to pass all this on to her own daughter, but she didn’t know how to stop.

Now she does. She has slayed the self-critic. The invisible enemy has been replaced with an invisible friend. This friend remembers the golden rule. Not just for others, but for myself. Treat yourself like you want to be treated: Kindly, compassionately, patiently.

Three years later, I am still getting older. I am also getting wiser.

---

Fascinating read:

Selfless: The Social Creation of You
Social psychologist Brian Lowery’s essential premise is that the “self” is constantly in flux and heavily informed by our relationships and culture. Of course, certain aspects of our selves may remain relatively stable (like temperament), but we are not nearly as self-contained as we like to think.

I’m in a process of exploration of “self” — who am I, exactly? — so this book comes at a good time, a reminder that who I am actually changes all the time, is far from fated, yet also determined by many social constructs. We have the power to change our sense of self (see: my struggle with my inner critic), but we can’t really do it alone (see: the people and books who helped me slay the critic).

BTW, lovely reader, I’m always on the lookout for fascinating books dealing with psychology, especially social psychology. Please feel free to let me know about any favorites of yours. They don’t have to be “new,” just intriguing.