Way back when, when I was in therapy bitching to my therapist about my body issues, she explained that the only reason I was picking on myself was that I was, at the time, depressed. “No, I’m fat,” I told her, feeling petulant. She explained that most people have one deep-seated but shallow criticism of themselves that defies all logic, and like an office assistant pulls a file, we pull the file and pore over it when we’re feeling down with no reason at all. Thus instead of thinking “I just feel like crap today,” I would abuse myself by calling myself fat, thereby extending and strengthening the link between my depression and body image.
It doesn’t help that mainstream culture further pushes their market creations on our insecurities, making otherwise intelligent women buy and do ridiculous things. At times one almost feels guilty for rejecting all this beauty nonsense outright, as though one is betraying a duty one has to simple social standards. I too am guilty of buying crap like hair removal lotions that left me with a rash, miracle makeup off an infomercial, and ass cream that left me slick enough to oops! slip out of my jeans on accident and be arrested for public exposure on a city bus (long story). After my pregnancy I was so disgusted with what I saw in the mirror that I embarked on an exercise campaign that left me looking like a sinewy bag of bones. I spent three hours a day at the gym and when offered a meal, glibly said, “No thanks, I’m trying to quit.”
I wasn’t kidding.
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