During a recent conversation with a good friend I realized how badly we treat ourselves everytime we get in front of a mirror. We, women, are so mean to ourselves. We’re quick to tell our friends they’re full of shit when they’re putting themselves down, but then we turn around and cripple ourselves with the same awful rhetoric. God forbid we practice the same kindness towards ourselves first. I know I don’t.
Now more than ever there is a movement that aims at transforming how we see ourselves: proponents of “body positivity”, particularly for postpartum bodies, are popping up everywhere, from social media to TV series to books and beyond. It’s high time to change the way we see ourselves; it is a welcome change of pace.
But the whole “your body made a miracle so it’s ok for it to look the way it does now” doesn’t work for me.
I don’t love my body.
I am fully cognizant of its power and the wonders it is capable of every day. I am breastfeeding my daughter and, before her, I breastfed my son. It’s amazing that I was able to do so, and that they have grown healthy and happy because of my breast milk; because of me. It’s crazy phenomenal. But my boobs also look like sad, droopy papayas that have fallen off the tree and have been left there to die after being sucked dry by rabid raccoons.
My body was my children’s first home on this earth, too. It is a divine thing, housing little humans inside of you. Now my body is an empty nest: worn out by its previous tenants, unkept, abandoned and void of that divine potential that inhabited it. Like a frat boys college room: all that’s left is the clean up, with weird shit creeping out of every corner.
My body hasn’t been “my own” for almost 4 years: it has either been carrying another human on the inside, or it has been feeding and nurturing a human on the outside. These little humans have brought so much joy and love to my life, but, like the saying goes, nothing comes for free.
The worst part of it all for me is that I can’t wear any of my old clothes, those I was able to fit into before pregnancies ravaged my body.
When I was packing for our family vacation a couple of months ago, I was anxious about what I was going to wear. Since the birth of Spawnita, no clothes fit properly. None of them. I rotate between the same 3 or 4 (maternity) outfits, while my regular clothes just sit in my closet, taking up space, unworn. Because I keep wearing the same exact clothes, day in and day out, they’re starting to get worn out, adding to my sense of inadequacy and making me feel as frumpy as a homeless Mrs. Doubtfire. After my first pregnancy I was able to get back to my “me” clothes at around the 5 month mark; I’m 7 months postpartum now, and nowhere even remotely close to fitting back into my old clothes.
Yet, I refuse to go on a shopping spree, for two reasons: I have a closet full of clothes that I refuse to let go and I’m too cheap to do so. More importantly, I refuse to invest in this size. Because then I will have to keep those clothes too, but I don’t want to stay where I am right now. Like I said, I don’t like my body right now. I don’t recognize myself.
My wardrobe is more than just clothes for me. It’s an outlet of self-expression; I wear who I am for the world to see. I love playing with clothes to suit my mood, or to help me get into a specific mindset. Right now, with the limited options available to me, I feel repressed, as if I can’t choose “me” anymore.
There is so much already that, as a mother, we need to put ahead of ourselves, especially in the early months following a birth. These are wonderful, special times that I will cherish forever, but I refuse to believe that it has to be at the total and utter expense of my individuality.
I feel separate from my body, intruded upon by its shape, its injuries, its scars and the overall lack of control I seem to have over any of it (hello little pee accidents when you sneeze). I have sacrificed plenty of who I was already. What I truly yearn for is finding a balance between my individuality, and the space my children need to develop their own. Nowhere is this battle more visible, more jarring, than when I am standing in front of a mirror. My body has become the physical battlefield of this tug of war. Perhaps this is the reason I have such difficulty in accepting how it looks. It is the inescapable reminder that I have a long ass way to go before I can both feel and look like ME. I can’t even mask it with my clothes; it’s raw, looking at me straight in the eyes every morning, every minute of every day.
I know my challenges are not unique; they are entrenched in the way we talk to each other. How many times, as a woman, have you received a compliment about your appearance from another woman, and felt the need to downplay it? We dismiss the comment, or redirect it and balance it out with a diss about another part of our appearance. “Your hair looks amazing!” “Thanks, yeah I looked like roadkill before”. Or, “That dress looks so good on you!” “Oh thanks, it’s the only thing that fits me right now”.
I don’t have an answer to fix this. I don’t know if and when I will feel comfortable in my own skin again. I hate feeling like this. It goes against everything I am; or, at least, I used to be. I don’t want to keep wasting my precious energy and time worrying about my appearance. Yet, unlike so many would have you believe, it’s not an immediate switch you flick and BAM, your body issues disappear. It takes hard work and dedication to change your perspective on something so deeply ingrained in yourself; but time and energy are precious resources of which I don’t have a surplus right now. Running after two kids under the age of three doesn’t leave you with a whole lot of breathing room to practice self love toward your body. You are exhausted, all day every day. You are quite literally a clean up rag for your baby’s and your toddler’s messes. Leaving the house takes five eternities, yet there is never enough time for you to stop in front of a mirror and practice some kindness toward yourself.
The best I can do, then, is damage control and make sure that the buck stops with me. I am painfully aware that I cannot allow my own struggle to overflow into my children’s sphere of perception, especially not my daughter’s. I despise this feeling of inadequacy and I will do whatever is in my power to make sure she always loves herself, no matter her shape, no matter her pant size.
That is about all I can control right now. That, and buy myself more shoes, jewelry, hats and a ton of red lipstick: because that shit fits no matter what.
Mi hai fatto piangere.. (strano no..?) descrivi perfettamente la sensazione di estraneità del corpo post partum e tutto quanto ne consegue. Un corpo usato e che non senti appartenerti più, forse non allo stesso modo. Una sensazione che credo ogni mamma senta, ma mi dispiace che TU in questo momento ti possa sentire così, seppur lo capisca. Sono sicura che con il tempo e la tua determinazione( che c’è sempre e comunque, è solo distratta dall’enorme stanchezza di essere mamma e dedita ai tuoi 2 patatini), uscirai da questa « impasse », perché nulla è statico e tutto si muove. Anche il tuo corpo tornerà a muoversi e a farsi sentire. Quando sarà il tuo momento, quando ti sentirai pronta sono sicura che tornerà la leonessa che c’è in te anche per riprenderti il corpo e la tua vita. Sii paziente con te stessa, ancora un po’. E continua a tenere i tuoi vestiti, ci mancherebbe, sono te stessa e ti aspettano! Love you, sei bellissima ( e scrivi benissimo)