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Mediated me
October 11, 2004
I developed early. Period at age 10. C cup boobs I couldn’t ignore by age 11. I hated my body then, felt betrayed by it. Bound my breasts with an ace bandage, my dad’s flannel shirts draped over me. Didn’t want to accept the ugly, weird visage of womanhood, the pubescent tricks my body was playing on me.
By the time I was 14, I had full on, banging curves and a bit of a tummy. I was so obsessed by that tummy. I started to starve myself.
I wasn’t starving myself to look like the girls in the magazines. I wasn’t a cheerleader or a dancer. I was a tomboyish, gothy punk kid, full of the self hate. I was starving myself to fight the emergence of this freaky womanbody that I didn’t ask for, didn’t want.
I gave up my virginity just before I turned 15. I’d already been starving myself for a few months, and refused to get completely naked. I never got naked with a male partner until my college boyfriend; I got naked with my girlfriends though. That was different, less like war.
The dude I fucked was 28. I told him I was 17.
I hated sex. It hurt.
It made me feel powerful, desired.
But I hated my body so much, hated my femaleness, it was like a weird, alienating joke - this desire others had for me. I loved being casual about sex, saying that I’d fucked someone. “Fuck” - a great word. I claimed it as a feminist act, but now I realize that it was more about fucking like a man than being a liberated lady. I fucked out of anger and self-hatred, wanting to be wanted.
By the time I got to college, I had fucked more than 20 people. I didn’t enjoy it physically, but it gave me a sense of… Something Big.
I don’t quite know how I got healthy about sex. A lot of it had to do with having a boyfriend for four and a half years who I was very comfortable with, who encouraged me to grow and explore sexually, who loved my body more after I broke out of the pattern of my eating disorder a few years into college. Ironically, my sexual appetite and bodily comfort level grew beyond what he could deal with.
But sex aside, I killed that thing inside me that worried so frantically about controling my body’s size and shape, that thing that hated being a girl. If I don’t embrace all of femininity, I’ve at least learned to like my parts, my hips and tits.
But then.
Last spring, I became lactose intolerant. I went to Europe for a month over the summer and between the limited diet and the walking, I lost probably 20 pounds. I’ve lost at least another 10 since returning from Europe.
My body is pulling some more anarchy. Just when I thought body and brain were cool with each other, everything is fucked. I liked my round and chubby body - I don’t mind this thinner version either. But the thinner version brings weird things with it, especially because this body is getting sick when I feed it, and it’s not just lactose anymore.
I’ve gotten to the bad brain place where I’ve lost the ability to see how thin I’ve gotten from inside my skin. But when reviewing pictures with Jane last night, I said aloud, “Where the hell did my ass go?”
My perception of me, mediated through the fucked up places in my brain, mediated in a different way by seeing images of myself.
I was sure that I liked my body either way. Now I don’t know. I’m afraid to eat.
I escape into sex, where I understand my body. Its a different escape this time around, not built on hate. I’m not afraid of being naked, I actually feel more at ease naked than in clothes. But those triggers are there.
I wrote this post earlier this afternoon, and then decided to sit on it a while. Initially I wanted to write about my relationship with my body and my eating disorder. This evening I tried to get the sex bits out. Then I tried to leave the sex bits in but get the eating disorder stuff out. Then I realized how silly that is because it’s all a connected jumble.
Posted by Dacia at October 11, 2004 09:32 PM
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