The twists and turns of the human psyche are sometimes truly weird. Today I was about to put lotion on my right calf when I noticed I had a rash. Later, as I mentally inventoried my closet to select appropriate clothing for a panel presentation, I dismissed a skirt without a second thought because of this rash.
I have scars all over the place including my legs and I never think twice about shorts or skirts. One small, temporary rash and I'm reaching for concealing pants. Objectively, it's... screwy.
I think it's fascinating what we integrate into our self concept and thus do not question versus the things that throw us for a loop. Often the little things are the mountains while the truly huge
things have shrunk to molehills.
Known as schadenfreude, humans can take great joy in the fact that they are not enduring the tragedy of another. How come we cannot find the same solace when it comes to our own lives? Sure, I have a rash on my leg, but in comparison to the other things I've managed to integrate into a positive body image, a few red bumps are nothing.
Yet even as I write this and see the logic behind my words, I cannot help but think, Yuck. Nobody wants to see such an ugly thing." I've definitely proven I am a mere human with the same perversities as the rest of our species.
Showing posts with label body image. Show all posts
Showing posts with label body image. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Getting My Mad On
For the past two weeks, I have been trying to avoid the terrifying thought that the last dose of anesthesia zapped the writing part of my brain. The mechanics were possible with words forming sentences and sentences becoming paragraphs, but the unnamable quality making words into more than the sum of their parts was beyond me. Fortunately, as the past tense indicates, I got my mojo back. In the middle of a concert.
I should probably thank the musician who caused me to lose my temper waking the writing part of my brain from its slumber, but I'm not sure it would have the desired results. "Time after time, I have heard you put down your looks and while I assumed you were probably making it seem worse than the reality, I concluded you were probably of average looks. Then my friend informed me that you are adorable. I sort of lost my temper which finally woke up the writing part of my brain that I thought had gone into a permanent coma. Thank you so much for helping me get it back." Yeah, that would backfire.
On the surface, my anger seems simple to explain. This man puts himself down in order to get positive feedback from others. Immature, but he's twenty-seven and male, so it's understandable. The fact that he is making people feel sorry for him reinforcing our society's obsession with appearance equally justifies my anger, but also doesn't quite cover it.
No, I got my mad on because he seemingly hates his body more than I dislike mine with far less reason. Every day in a myriad of ways I am told that how I look is unacceptable. I invested and continue to invest a great deal of time and energy in counteracting that message. In the past year, circumstances have forced me to integrate loss of eyes and the advent of prosthetics into my body image and I can even see the light at the end of that tunnel. I work my backside off to have feelings about my body separate from what I'm told to think. The effort is completely worth it because most of the time I walk through life happy with myself.
Then there's this adorable twenty-seven-year-old who referred to himself as ugly. How ungrateful and lazy bringing new meaning to the term 'self-deprecating.' I truly would like to shake some positive body image into him. Jump up and down until he understands what he has and starts valuing it.
Please don't misunderstand. This isn't about one of us having it 'better' or 'worse' than the other. Simply put, I am proof that you don't have to accept societal beliefs about appearance. Why, then, is he doing it? For that matter, why does most of the human race do it?
Maybe I'm incredibly fortunate to have lived at the edge of socially acceptable appearance. It allowed me to clearly perceive the subjectivity of our standards of beauty and how they are imparted to us. Then again, there are tons of people who also inhabit that extreme edge and they pursue changing their appearance with single-minded determination. Perhaps the combination of blind and unusual looks offers the answer. Whatever the case, I am truly lucky to have found a way to not hate my body.
Back to the musician. What can I say to someone like him? Offering my own experience up as an example of "It can be different" would probably engender pity not elucidation. Telling him he's adorable would simply re-enforce his behavior of putting himself down.
Guess I'm stuck listening to his put-downs and offering up prayers to whatever higher power is out there that he one day gets it, puts the sentiments into a song, and changes the world by playing it everywhere.
I should probably thank the musician who caused me to lose my temper waking the writing part of my brain from its slumber, but I'm not sure it would have the desired results. "Time after time, I have heard you put down your looks and while I assumed you were probably making it seem worse than the reality, I concluded you were probably of average looks. Then my friend informed me that you are adorable. I sort of lost my temper which finally woke up the writing part of my brain that I thought had gone into a permanent coma. Thank you so much for helping me get it back." Yeah, that would backfire.
On the surface, my anger seems simple to explain. This man puts himself down in order to get positive feedback from others. Immature, but he's twenty-seven and male, so it's understandable. The fact that he is making people feel sorry for him reinforcing our society's obsession with appearance equally justifies my anger, but also doesn't quite cover it.
No, I got my mad on because he seemingly hates his body more than I dislike mine with far less reason. Every day in a myriad of ways I am told that how I look is unacceptable. I invested and continue to invest a great deal of time and energy in counteracting that message. In the past year, circumstances have forced me to integrate loss of eyes and the advent of prosthetics into my body image and I can even see the light at the end of that tunnel. I work my backside off to have feelings about my body separate from what I'm told to think. The effort is completely worth it because most of the time I walk through life happy with myself.
Then there's this adorable twenty-seven-year-old who referred to himself as ugly. How ungrateful and lazy bringing new meaning to the term 'self-deprecating.' I truly would like to shake some positive body image into him. Jump up and down until he understands what he has and starts valuing it.
Please don't misunderstand. This isn't about one of us having it 'better' or 'worse' than the other. Simply put, I am proof that you don't have to accept societal beliefs about appearance. Why, then, is he doing it? For that matter, why does most of the human race do it?
Maybe I'm incredibly fortunate to have lived at the edge of socially acceptable appearance. It allowed me to clearly perceive the subjectivity of our standards of beauty and how they are imparted to us. Then again, there are tons of people who also inhabit that extreme edge and they pursue changing their appearance with single-minded determination. Perhaps the combination of blind and unusual looks offers the answer. Whatever the case, I am truly lucky to have found a way to not hate my body.
Back to the musician. What can I say to someone like him? Offering my own experience up as an example of "It can be different" would probably engender pity not elucidation. Telling him he's adorable would simply re-enforce his behavior of putting himself down.
Guess I'm stuck listening to his put-downs and offering up prayers to whatever higher power is out there that he one day gets it, puts the sentiments into a song, and changes the world by playing it everywhere.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
The Body Complicated
I am my body and my body is me, no more distinguishable as two "parts" than water's components can be perceived as hydrogen and oxygen by the tongue. This body that is me, that I inhabit fully, is at the center of a multitude of complicated relationships. There is the body I dwell in and the distorted image reflected back to me from others as if viewed in a fun house mirror. There is the body I know and there is the construct that has seemingly constant medical issues. There is the body I occupy and the shape the symptoms of my illness outline. There is even this body I inhabit and the form revealed to me by the hands of a lover.
The friend of my body finds the strangers of image, construct, shape and form to be alien. Yet still they tangle together in my mind hard to distinguish from one another.
Sometimes even my fingers forget who is friend and who is foreign. They may slide over the same skin, but they sense a radically different typography. One is the familiar smooth skin over muscle and bone that contains strength, determination, passion, and playfulness. Depending on the circumstances, my fingertips will encounter something else. Sometimes it's scars, asymmetry, and flab that compose an ugly, damaged image. Sometimes they feel that which is underneath the skin and constantly going awry. Sometimes they sense all the aches and pains, stiffness and tenderness of a sick shape. And sometimes they even discover the swells and valleys, softness, warmth, and sensitivity of a sensual form. And though one is friend and the rest alien, I mistake one for the other more often than even I know.
While it is clear that the reflected image, medicalized construct, and sickened shape are unwelcome in my head, you would be surprised at how often I do not welcome the sensuous form. It acts as a reminder that no eyes are looking upon it with desire, and no hands enjoying its contours. There is no wanting, no intimacy, and no affection. When this stranger comes to me, the loneliness that wells up pushes tears from my eyes and sorrow deep down into my soul.
Unlike the reflection, construct, or shape, I would make friend of this stranger if only it wasn't a painful reminder of that which I do not have. In the moments when I think maybe, just maybe I can call it friend, something acts as a reminder that it's not possible. At best, we are acquaintances having extraordinary trouble becoming closer. At worst, the companion I long for hurts me in a way unable to be soothed.
The friend of my body finds the strangers of image, construct, shape and form to be alien. Yet still they tangle together in my mind hard to distinguish from one another.
Sometimes even my fingers forget who is friend and who is foreign. They may slide over the same skin, but they sense a radically different typography. One is the familiar smooth skin over muscle and bone that contains strength, determination, passion, and playfulness. Depending on the circumstances, my fingertips will encounter something else. Sometimes it's scars, asymmetry, and flab that compose an ugly, damaged image. Sometimes they feel that which is underneath the skin and constantly going awry. Sometimes they sense all the aches and pains, stiffness and tenderness of a sick shape. And sometimes they even discover the swells and valleys, softness, warmth, and sensitivity of a sensual form. And though one is friend and the rest alien, I mistake one for the other more often than even I know.
While it is clear that the reflected image, medicalized construct, and sickened shape are unwelcome in my head, you would be surprised at how often I do not welcome the sensuous form. It acts as a reminder that no eyes are looking upon it with desire, and no hands enjoying its contours. There is no wanting, no intimacy, and no affection. When this stranger comes to me, the loneliness that wells up pushes tears from my eyes and sorrow deep down into my soul.
Unlike the reflection, construct, or shape, I would make friend of this stranger if only it wasn't a painful reminder of that which I do not have. In the moments when I think maybe, just maybe I can call it friend, something acts as a reminder that it's not possible. At best, we are acquaintances having extraordinary trouble becoming closer. At worst, the companion I long for hurts me in a way unable to be soothed.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
It's in the Eyes
[This is a follow-up to Eyes and I.]
Having matching prosthetic eyes has been both what I expected and anything but what I predicted. Though I know I made the right decision for me, I have yet to feel comfortable with this new version of myself. And there's absolutely no forgetting they are there because they make themselves known in countless ways. For example, over the holidays I discovered that your eye lids don't like touching the freezing surface of acrylic. It's like touching any mucus membrane to cold plastic. Ugh.
There are moments when I forget they exist and go through my life pretty much as I did prior to all this eye craziness. It's peaceful to just be the me I've always known. Then some physical reminder will transpire and I'm back to consciously knowing I'm different from before. I pause during the day and take deep breaths trying to inhale a new self-concept that includes these eyes that I try to not view as other. They might come out, but they are me. Trying to wrap your mind around that is not exactly easy.
The other mind-bending aspect of this is other's reactions. Actually, it's the lack of reaction. Friends who have known me for years have literally not been aware of the change. Apparently the ocularist made eyes that so fit me that they look like they've been there my entire life. Since I'm not sighted, I can't exactly judge what superficially seems to be a deficiency in observational skills. Not noticing? It blows my mind each and every time it happens.
Based on who has and has not noticed, I have come up with a determining factor – how the person felt about my appearance before. I suspect those actively disturbed by it are aware of the change because they are aware of how I look in general.
Part of me worries that those who do not see changes in how I look may have gotten to a point where they don't really see me anymore. Did that "not seeing me" happen as a coping mechanism for being around me? The idea that people must not truly see me to be comfortable around me is upsetting and all too familiar.
Then we have changes in behavior. One man who I know in a wait staff capacity suddenly became much friendlier, making certain I knew his name, tossing off "good night" or "take care" when I walked past him out the door, and trying to strike up conversations. I'll admit it freely. My response has been polite indifference. Personally, I think he's lucky I haven't given him a lecture on not treating people differently based on how they look.
And of course there was the "beautiful" incident. I encountered an acquaintance who hadn't seen me in months. While it took a minute for the difference to register, when it did her reaction was the most intense thus far. She said, "Oh, wow, your new eyes. They look great." Then her voice changed as she cupped my cheek in her hand and said, "You look beautiful." I held back, "I looked beautiful before, too. Glad you finally noticed."
Finally, the other day I am pretty sure my request for the Cheese Man to go above and beyond was met because I asked in a funny way, tossed my hair, and smiled. Never has that happened to me before. There's a certain heady power in it that I hope I never exploit.
So has this changed my thinking about anything? Yes. It dawned upon me recently that I am walking around with less about me that gives people pause. I have long posited that physical differences such as scars, abnormal features, or deformed eyes loom so large in other's perceptions that they are unable to see the individual. Not only are my physical charms beyond their ken, but they don't really notice my intelligence, sense of humor, or quirky personality. My physical difference blinds them to who I am.
Now with my "normalized" appearance, there is less to kidnap other's awareness. This will shape my interactions in ways I cannot ever know for such a thing is impossible to assess. Its impact on dating does seem clear to me. With less obscuring me, people will have a better chance to know me which I find disturbingly wrong, but nonetheless my new reality. On one hand, I will never know if a person would have found me attractive before. On the other hand, I won't object to an increased chance of romantic entanglements.
I mourn the loss of my old appearance. It taught me so much about society and human nature. With my new eyes, I am now experiencing the world in a different way. Much of it makes me even more convinced that societal standards of appearance are wrong and need to change. If anything, I am more motivated to change the world.
Having matching prosthetic eyes has been both what I expected and anything but what I predicted. Though I know I made the right decision for me, I have yet to feel comfortable with this new version of myself. And there's absolutely no forgetting they are there because they make themselves known in countless ways. For example, over the holidays I discovered that your eye lids don't like touching the freezing surface of acrylic. It's like touching any mucus membrane to cold plastic. Ugh.
There are moments when I forget they exist and go through my life pretty much as I did prior to all this eye craziness. It's peaceful to just be the me I've always known. Then some physical reminder will transpire and I'm back to consciously knowing I'm different from before. I pause during the day and take deep breaths trying to inhale a new self-concept that includes these eyes that I try to not view as other. They might come out, but they are me. Trying to wrap your mind around that is not exactly easy.
The other mind-bending aspect of this is other's reactions. Actually, it's the lack of reaction. Friends who have known me for years have literally not been aware of the change. Apparently the ocularist made eyes that so fit me that they look like they've been there my entire life. Since I'm not sighted, I can't exactly judge what superficially seems to be a deficiency in observational skills. Not noticing? It blows my mind each and every time it happens.
Based on who has and has not noticed, I have come up with a determining factor – how the person felt about my appearance before. I suspect those actively disturbed by it are aware of the change because they are aware of how I look in general.
Part of me worries that those who do not see changes in how I look may have gotten to a point where they don't really see me anymore. Did that "not seeing me" happen as a coping mechanism for being around me? The idea that people must not truly see me to be comfortable around me is upsetting and all too familiar.
Then we have changes in behavior. One man who I know in a wait staff capacity suddenly became much friendlier, making certain I knew his name, tossing off "good night" or "take care" when I walked past him out the door, and trying to strike up conversations. I'll admit it freely. My response has been polite indifference. Personally, I think he's lucky I haven't given him a lecture on not treating people differently based on how they look.
And of course there was the "beautiful" incident. I encountered an acquaintance who hadn't seen me in months. While it took a minute for the difference to register, when it did her reaction was the most intense thus far. She said, "Oh, wow, your new eyes. They look great." Then her voice changed as she cupped my cheek in her hand and said, "You look beautiful." I held back, "I looked beautiful before, too. Glad you finally noticed."
Finally, the other day I am pretty sure my request for the Cheese Man to go above and beyond was met because I asked in a funny way, tossed my hair, and smiled. Never has that happened to me before. There's a certain heady power in it that I hope I never exploit.
So has this changed my thinking about anything? Yes. It dawned upon me recently that I am walking around with less about me that gives people pause. I have long posited that physical differences such as scars, abnormal features, or deformed eyes loom so large in other's perceptions that they are unable to see the individual. Not only are my physical charms beyond their ken, but they don't really notice my intelligence, sense of humor, or quirky personality. My physical difference blinds them to who I am.
Now with my "normalized" appearance, there is less to kidnap other's awareness. This will shape my interactions in ways I cannot ever know for such a thing is impossible to assess. Its impact on dating does seem clear to me. With less obscuring me, people will have a better chance to know me which I find disturbingly wrong, but nonetheless my new reality. On one hand, I will never know if a person would have found me attractive before. On the other hand, I won't object to an increased chance of romantic entanglements.
I mourn the loss of my old appearance. It taught me so much about society and human nature. With my new eyes, I am now experiencing the world in a different way. Much of it makes me even more convinced that societal standards of appearance are wrong and need to change. If anything, I am more motivated to change the world.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Eyes and I
I am now the (proud? confused? overwhelmed?)owner of two prosthetic eyes and for the first time in my life, my eyes not only look normal but also match. Very intense experience.
Choices had to be made about the way my new eyes would look. I could have instructed the artist to copy pictures of my old eyes. I could have instructed him to do just about anything. Instead I chose to have "normal" eyes in my face. It was a terrifying thing to choose because I knew it could change absolutely everything.
For quite some time, I have believed that plastic surgery has risks that at least for me far outweigh any potential benefit. In my own life, I have paid dearly for my "normalized" appearance. In fact, I pay a price every day because of chronic pain etc. More reconstructive surgery to "improve" my face seems like a worse idea than jumping off a five story building.
I know I have given people the impression that I don't care about how I look, but that's not quite the truth. In actuality, I care about the impression I create, but not in the typical way. I want my outside to feel like my inside. While I have rejected traditional standards of beauty, I do have my own desires that boil down to me visually embodying the sassy, witty, animated, quirky woman I know myself to be. Freed from societal beliefs about what beauty should be, I have been able to be how I want to be and pay only the price I deem reasonable.
Deciding to have "normal" eyes was a tough decision, but I came to realize that intentionally looking different was a deliberate choice to violate appearance norms. It felt like being different not because different happened to coincide with what I wanted but merely for the sake of being different. That's not the type of person I want to be. As you know, having an abnormal appearance does have costs especially in terms of how others treat me. Any decision to continue looking "abnormal" would be the equivalent of choosing those bad annoying behaviors. It would bring a degree of negativity into my life that I do not want and would feel responsible for its continuation.
Total honesty dictates I also admit to wanting to have "pretty" eyes. Maybe it's internalized social norms. After all, my eyes were the most "abnormal" part of my appearance. Maybe that type of eyes fits my internal image of myself. Maybe I'm a complete hypocrite. You decide. All I know is that deep inside I wanted them.
My reasons here seem very clear and logical. There's a cleanness to the whole process that, trust me, wasn't present while I was working through it. Even now I have a sense of betraying my own beliefs with this choice.
No matter the decision I made, I knew I would never feel quite the same. Yet again, I would be faced with adjusting to another version of myself. As a child, surgery after surgery, I wrapped my mind around the new face molded from flesh and bone. Now I must expand my reality to encompass this new version. Can't quite count it, but I think maybe Jen version 5.2.
[A follow-up to this entry can be found at
It's in the Eyes.]
Choices had to be made about the way my new eyes would look. I could have instructed the artist to copy pictures of my old eyes. I could have instructed him to do just about anything. Instead I chose to have "normal" eyes in my face. It was a terrifying thing to choose because I knew it could change absolutely everything.
For quite some time, I have believed that plastic surgery has risks that at least for me far outweigh any potential benefit. In my own life, I have paid dearly for my "normalized" appearance. In fact, I pay a price every day because of chronic pain etc. More reconstructive surgery to "improve" my face seems like a worse idea than jumping off a five story building.
I know I have given people the impression that I don't care about how I look, but that's not quite the truth. In actuality, I care about the impression I create, but not in the typical way. I want my outside to feel like my inside. While I have rejected traditional standards of beauty, I do have my own desires that boil down to me visually embodying the sassy, witty, animated, quirky woman I know myself to be. Freed from societal beliefs about what beauty should be, I have been able to be how I want to be and pay only the price I deem reasonable.
Deciding to have "normal" eyes was a tough decision, but I came to realize that intentionally looking different was a deliberate choice to violate appearance norms. It felt like being different not because different happened to coincide with what I wanted but merely for the sake of being different. That's not the type of person I want to be. As you know, having an abnormal appearance does have costs especially in terms of how others treat me. Any decision to continue looking "abnormal" would be the equivalent of choosing those bad annoying behaviors. It would bring a degree of negativity into my life that I do not want and would feel responsible for its continuation.
Total honesty dictates I also admit to wanting to have "pretty" eyes. Maybe it's internalized social norms. After all, my eyes were the most "abnormal" part of my appearance. Maybe that type of eyes fits my internal image of myself. Maybe I'm a complete hypocrite. You decide. All I know is that deep inside I wanted them.
My reasons here seem very clear and logical. There's a cleanness to the whole process that, trust me, wasn't present while I was working through it. Even now I have a sense of betraying my own beliefs with this choice.
No matter the decision I made, I knew I would never feel quite the same. Yet again, I would be faced with adjusting to another version of myself. As a child, surgery after surgery, I wrapped my mind around the new face molded from flesh and bone. Now I must expand my reality to encompass this new version. Can't quite count it, but I think maybe Jen version 5.2.
[A follow-up to this entry can be found at
It's in the Eyes.]
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Body Image Rears Its Ugly Head
This is hard to write, not because I'm unearthing unfamiliar feelings but because I hate contemplating what it all means. Bottom line is that I feel like I've been incredibly wrong and failed. Both make me a wee bit crazy. Okay, fine, crazier.
It all began with a man and a crush. A few times in my presence, he very obviously noticed other attractive women, once almost turning completely around to keep the beauty in his sights. Because the crush had moments of it being mutual, I knew he was at least alright with my appearance, but each time he ogled another woman, I felt particularly ugly. Obviously what he was staring at was somehow superior to gazing at me.
Fast forward to this past spring. Two people – they're best friends – came into my life. Both have this habit of talking about other women with major emphasis on her beauty, her wardrobe, and the impact it has on them. It's like this constant barrage of reminders that appearance is noticed by everyone every second of the day. As a result, I am constantly aware of the fact that others notice me and since I know the majority of people out there have issues with how I look, it becomes a continuous prod at one of my vulnerable places.
An odd side effect of their constant noticing of other women is that when they say nice things about how I look, I discount them out of hand. They say it about everyone, diluting believability to almost nothing.
Then, of course, there's my lack of eyes. I've spent the majority of this year missing at least one eye-like entity from my head. At the moment, I have one prosthetic and one socket with a sort of blank in it. Dark glasses have been Ditched, so it's all there for anyone to see. And evaluate. Probably not all that favorably, because I doubt most think, "She's made a choice to not cover up anything. Good for her."
If you've read My Brain Hurts, you know that at least one person has vocalized their thoughts about my eyes, their disconcerting nature, and the strong opinion that I should hide them until I have prosthetics.
Before all of this happened, I was good with my appearance. Although I knew others had issues, I had a clarity that that was not my opinion and thus secondary to what I felt. With what seems like daily reminders of how much people notice appearance, my positive body image is cracking. It's not so much that I suddenly dislike how I look, but rather it's that my approval has been drowned out by a flood of other voices.
This has not been helped by things like the ophthalmic reconstructive surgeon asking, "Are you having more reconstructive surgery?" implying there was something needing fixing. No small children have run screaming, but my brain argues it's a fluke.
I have gained a new found love of my blindness. Constant visuals of how others look in relation to my own image would be making this far worse. Actually, it's highly likely that my positive body image was possible only because I lacked the vision to see how much my appearance diverged from what's acceptable. Maybe what I proclaim about self-acceptance and body image can't fairly be applied to sighted people. Maybe if I could see myself clearly I'd be horrified.
I like to think I have this great body image and I'm finding it hard to admit right now I feel out of touch with those positive feelings. My approval is buried under this thick layer of muck composed of a continual awareness that everyone is evaluating me and a certain knowledge that most aren't staring out of a desire to gaze upon something attractive.
I abhor the fact that my body image is being so twisted. There's a self consciousness within me that I've never experienced in quite this way. The thing I hate most, though, is the fear that my body image can only be positive because I have built a world that allows me to be oblivious to other's perceptions. If I lived in reality, I couldn't possibly maintain anything close to a positive body image. Therefore, denial becomes an essential component of liking my appearance. Denial isn't healthy making me not healthy. Peachy.
It all began with a man and a crush. A few times in my presence, he very obviously noticed other attractive women, once almost turning completely around to keep the beauty in his sights. Because the crush had moments of it being mutual, I knew he was at least alright with my appearance, but each time he ogled another woman, I felt particularly ugly. Obviously what he was staring at was somehow superior to gazing at me.
Fast forward to this past spring. Two people – they're best friends – came into my life. Both have this habit of talking about other women with major emphasis on her beauty, her wardrobe, and the impact it has on them. It's like this constant barrage of reminders that appearance is noticed by everyone every second of the day. As a result, I am constantly aware of the fact that others notice me and since I know the majority of people out there have issues with how I look, it becomes a continuous prod at one of my vulnerable places.
An odd side effect of their constant noticing of other women is that when they say nice things about how I look, I discount them out of hand. They say it about everyone, diluting believability to almost nothing.
Then, of course, there's my lack of eyes. I've spent the majority of this year missing at least one eye-like entity from my head. At the moment, I have one prosthetic and one socket with a sort of blank in it. Dark glasses have been Ditched, so it's all there for anyone to see. And evaluate. Probably not all that favorably, because I doubt most think, "She's made a choice to not cover up anything. Good for her."
If you've read My Brain Hurts, you know that at least one person has vocalized their thoughts about my eyes, their disconcerting nature, and the strong opinion that I should hide them until I have prosthetics.
Before all of this happened, I was good with my appearance. Although I knew others had issues, I had a clarity that that was not my opinion and thus secondary to what I felt. With what seems like daily reminders of how much people notice appearance, my positive body image is cracking. It's not so much that I suddenly dislike how I look, but rather it's that my approval has been drowned out by a flood of other voices.
This has not been helped by things like the ophthalmic reconstructive surgeon asking, "Are you having more reconstructive surgery?" implying there was something needing fixing. No small children have run screaming, but my brain argues it's a fluke.
I have gained a new found love of my blindness. Constant visuals of how others look in relation to my own image would be making this far worse. Actually, it's highly likely that my positive body image was possible only because I lacked the vision to see how much my appearance diverged from what's acceptable. Maybe what I proclaim about self-acceptance and body image can't fairly be applied to sighted people. Maybe if I could see myself clearly I'd be horrified.
I like to think I have this great body image and I'm finding it hard to admit right now I feel out of touch with those positive feelings. My approval is buried under this thick layer of muck composed of a continual awareness that everyone is evaluating me and a certain knowledge that most aren't staring out of a desire to gaze upon something attractive.
I abhor the fact that my body image is being so twisted. There's a self consciousness within me that I've never experienced in quite this way. The thing I hate most, though, is the fear that my body image can only be positive because I have built a world that allows me to be oblivious to other's perceptions. If I lived in reality, I couldn't possibly maintain anything close to a positive body image. Therefore, denial becomes an essential component of liking my appearance. Denial isn't healthy making me not healthy. Peachy.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Body and Soul
We have been acculturated to think of our physical forms as separate from our fundamental nature. Religion does it by talking about the body as a glove that a hand representing our soul fills. Makeover shows tout altering the outside to match the inside. Expressions like, "she's pretty on the inside" litter our speech. We have co-opted the meaning of 'inside' to be something spiritual as opposed to the literal blood and bone.
I used to consider my body to be a distinct and separate entity from myself, hideous and deformed whereas I was smart and shy. (This is known as making the body other.) Although intended to be comforting, being told "It's what's on the inside that matters" simply strengthened my perception of the physical form I inhabited as unsightly and deepened the chasm that detached me from it. There is no way to know for certain, but I suspect all the surgery provided further reasons to consider body as other. If nothing else, I could keep the physical experience and resulting pain at bay by allowing it to happen to something that was not me.
AS a coping strategy, dichotomizing myself into "me" and "that body" served the purpose of getting me through choppy waters. In college and afterward, I did the necessary work to first like then inhabit my own skin. Now my physical form is a natural extension of me and I can no more think of my body as another entity than I can separate my heart and soul. It's all one giant work in progress.
Today, when I encounter that which implies the body is other, I become somewhat annoyed. Unfortunately, this duality is everywhere. "He's an oreo" is used to denote a black person (outside) who behaves like a white person (inside). The expression "the mind is willing but the flesh weak" is used to remove us from the equation of blame for what are bodies cannot do. We say, "she is young at heart" or "he's five going on twenty-five."
All the examples I have given share one commonality: the impression engendered by the physical form is not in sync with the perception of the inhabiting spirit. I would have no objections to this if I could find adequate evidence to prove that it is equally likely to happen when the inside fails to live up to the outside. Of the examples I've given, only 'oreo' could be considered a negative assessment of the self. Sometimes people talk of somebody being a pretty package with nothing underneath. Mostly, though, splitting the two is reserved for times when the tangible fails to meet a subjective standard. Often society defines this standard by how it assesses a physical form. The external must be ugly, old, or otherwise fall short of the mark, then it is compared with the perception of the physical form such that a ugly body with a nice inhabitant becomes somebody who is "pretty on the inside."
When this segregation is a commonplace way of thinking, it becomes simple for an individual to consider their flesh as distinct from themselves – the body as other.. Once the physical form is a separate entity, it is easier to hate it, find it unsightly, or blame it for shortcomings.
As mentioned, I think this segregation of body and spirit is detrimental to human beings. Central to my objections is the standards used to judge the physical form. Who defines attractive? Who said old was a bad thing? Why do we feel a need to explicitly identify our bodies as the source of a shortcoming? It's all about societally-defined standards and I tend to dislike them on principle. No entity, whether person government, or 'society,' should dictate what I think or by extension the criteria by which I judge.
Take a moment and consider how you think about your own body. In your mind, are you one thing and it another? Is the dislike you may have of your physical form keeping that form separate from that which you perceive as yourself? Do you look in a mirror and know the reflection to not be a representation of yourself? Have you said something like, "The mind is willing but the flesh weak" instead of simply saying, "I wish I could, but I'm too tired"?
I believe, from long personal experience, that the nature of the relationship we have constructed between body and self directly impacts our body image. In a world where more than half the women hate their own bodies, I deem it high time we start consciously finding healthier ways to think about the body that carries us through this life. Until we shed it at death, it is the only one we have and liking it will make the journey more pleasurable.
I used to consider my body to be a distinct and separate entity from myself, hideous and deformed whereas I was smart and shy. (This is known as making the body other.) Although intended to be comforting, being told "It's what's on the inside that matters" simply strengthened my perception of the physical form I inhabited as unsightly and deepened the chasm that detached me from it. There is no way to know for certain, but I suspect all the surgery provided further reasons to consider body as other. If nothing else, I could keep the physical experience and resulting pain at bay by allowing it to happen to something that was not me.
AS a coping strategy, dichotomizing myself into "me" and "that body" served the purpose of getting me through choppy waters. In college and afterward, I did the necessary work to first like then inhabit my own skin. Now my physical form is a natural extension of me and I can no more think of my body as another entity than I can separate my heart and soul. It's all one giant work in progress.
Today, when I encounter that which implies the body is other, I become somewhat annoyed. Unfortunately, this duality is everywhere. "He's an oreo" is used to denote a black person (outside) who behaves like a white person (inside). The expression "the mind is willing but the flesh weak" is used to remove us from the equation of blame for what are bodies cannot do. We say, "she is young at heart" or "he's five going on twenty-five."
All the examples I have given share one commonality: the impression engendered by the physical form is not in sync with the perception of the inhabiting spirit. I would have no objections to this if I could find adequate evidence to prove that it is equally likely to happen when the inside fails to live up to the outside. Of the examples I've given, only 'oreo' could be considered a negative assessment of the self. Sometimes people talk of somebody being a pretty package with nothing underneath. Mostly, though, splitting the two is reserved for times when the tangible fails to meet a subjective standard. Often society defines this standard by how it assesses a physical form. The external must be ugly, old, or otherwise fall short of the mark, then it is compared with the perception of the physical form such that a ugly body with a nice inhabitant becomes somebody who is "pretty on the inside."
When this segregation is a commonplace way of thinking, it becomes simple for an individual to consider their flesh as distinct from themselves – the body as other.. Once the physical form is a separate entity, it is easier to hate it, find it unsightly, or blame it for shortcomings.
As mentioned, I think this segregation of body and spirit is detrimental to human beings. Central to my objections is the standards used to judge the physical form. Who defines attractive? Who said old was a bad thing? Why do we feel a need to explicitly identify our bodies as the source of a shortcoming? It's all about societally-defined standards and I tend to dislike them on principle. No entity, whether person government, or 'society,' should dictate what I think or by extension the criteria by which I judge.
Take a moment and consider how you think about your own body. In your mind, are you one thing and it another? Is the dislike you may have of your physical form keeping that form separate from that which you perceive as yourself? Do you look in a mirror and know the reflection to not be a representation of yourself? Have you said something like, "The mind is willing but the flesh weak" instead of simply saying, "I wish I could, but I'm too tired"?
I believe, from long personal experience, that the nature of the relationship we have constructed between body and self directly impacts our body image. In a world where more than half the women hate their own bodies, I deem it high time we start consciously finding healthier ways to think about the body that carries us through this life. Until we shed it at death, it is the only one we have and liking it will make the journey more pleasurable.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Is It Just Hair?
Haircuts. I hate haircuts. Every step of the process – making the appointment, talking to the stylist, washing it afterwards – is rotten. Yet my ends like to split and tie themselves into knots, so I endure the scissors and consequent Haircut Blues.
Before I schedule an appointment, I have to decide if I want it to be with the last person to tame my locks or with someone knew. Devil I know versus Devil Who Might Do Better. Once I have made my choice, it's on to the type of haircut I will request.
Do I want something new? Just a trim? When it comes to my curls, there are two distinct camps: those who like my hair longer and those who like it shorter. I've been told, "Jen, you don't know how it looks, so you can't know what looks best" just often enough to never quite trust my own judgment. The conflicting perspectives along with my own self-doubt cause internal chaos.
Next up: trying to communicate with the stylist. They are always very nice and try their best, but how does a blind person relay her wants? I relate to my tresses in a way distinct from the visual aesthetics of the hairdresser. Words never quite work. Pointing isn't an option. Blind faith? Pretty much.
There are a few things unique to me and my head. Reconstructive surgery has made the top sensitive to pressure of any type. Random head shaving (not by choice) has left me with distinctive types of hair with different properties such as curl quality. Scarring has resulted in some weird thin areas. So, not only is my inner emotional typography complicated, but my head is literally the same.
Of course my personal preferences do not simplify this muddle. I refuse to use anything in my hair that you can't rinse out before leaving the shower. My tendency is to wash my hair, brush it, and go without further thought. Thus, my style must work in a zero maintenance situation.
Having communicated what I could and leaving my destiny in the stylists hands, it's time for the actual haircut and yet another thorny area – the conversation. While listening to the snip, snip, I am suppose to engage in prolonged small talk with a near stranger who knows next to nothing about me. The simple question, "So, what do you do?" leads to explanations of chronic illness. Even mentioning this blog, with its unusual title, results in necessary clarification. Salon chair chatter is not easy when you exist outside of the reality most occupy. Loud music might be disorienting, but it's also my salvation.
When the cut is done, I have to judge it by touch. Should it feel "wrong" to me, I need to find the right words to elucidate the problem. If I haven't been able to convey my wishes by then, what are the chances the right verbiage will magically appear in my mind? Infinitesimal.
Finally, I pay the long-suffering stylist and go home to wash the fragrance of salon products out of my hair to prevent sneezing. I do my usual wash, condition, towel dry, and brush, then leave it alone.
Hopefully I like the results and usually, I don't. In fact, I have a Post Cut Policy. I am not allowed to form a final opinion until four days have passed. Not only does this give me time to adjust, but also it gives my hair time to calm down. At the sight of scissors, my hair seemingly shrinks back into my head. After a few days, it comes out from hiding and I suddenly discover there is more length than I originally thought. This is the literal truth. I'd swear on a stack of...something.
In case you couldn't guess, I had my hair cut last week and am now in a Haircut Funk. Soldiers are dying in foreign lands, children are fighting cancer, thousands of Mexicans are living in shelters because of Sunday's earthquake and yet I am depressed over hair. It's just HAIR. But, my curls.....
Before I schedule an appointment, I have to decide if I want it to be with the last person to tame my locks or with someone knew. Devil I know versus Devil Who Might Do Better. Once I have made my choice, it's on to the type of haircut I will request.
Do I want something new? Just a trim? When it comes to my curls, there are two distinct camps: those who like my hair longer and those who like it shorter. I've been told, "Jen, you don't know how it looks, so you can't know what looks best" just often enough to never quite trust my own judgment. The conflicting perspectives along with my own self-doubt cause internal chaos.
Next up: trying to communicate with the stylist. They are always very nice and try their best, but how does a blind person relay her wants? I relate to my tresses in a way distinct from the visual aesthetics of the hairdresser. Words never quite work. Pointing isn't an option. Blind faith? Pretty much.
There are a few things unique to me and my head. Reconstructive surgery has made the top sensitive to pressure of any type. Random head shaving (not by choice) has left me with distinctive types of hair with different properties such as curl quality. Scarring has resulted in some weird thin areas. So, not only is my inner emotional typography complicated, but my head is literally the same.
Of course my personal preferences do not simplify this muddle. I refuse to use anything in my hair that you can't rinse out before leaving the shower. My tendency is to wash my hair, brush it, and go without further thought. Thus, my style must work in a zero maintenance situation.
Having communicated what I could and leaving my destiny in the stylists hands, it's time for the actual haircut and yet another thorny area – the conversation. While listening to the snip, snip, I am suppose to engage in prolonged small talk with a near stranger who knows next to nothing about me. The simple question, "So, what do you do?" leads to explanations of chronic illness. Even mentioning this blog, with its unusual title, results in necessary clarification. Salon chair chatter is not easy when you exist outside of the reality most occupy. Loud music might be disorienting, but it's also my salvation.
When the cut is done, I have to judge it by touch. Should it feel "wrong" to me, I need to find the right words to elucidate the problem. If I haven't been able to convey my wishes by then, what are the chances the right verbiage will magically appear in my mind? Infinitesimal.
Finally, I pay the long-suffering stylist and go home to wash the fragrance of salon products out of my hair to prevent sneezing. I do my usual wash, condition, towel dry, and brush, then leave it alone.
Hopefully I like the results and usually, I don't. In fact, I have a Post Cut Policy. I am not allowed to form a final opinion until four days have passed. Not only does this give me time to adjust, but also it gives my hair time to calm down. At the sight of scissors, my hair seemingly shrinks back into my head. After a few days, it comes out from hiding and I suddenly discover there is more length than I originally thought. This is the literal truth. I'd swear on a stack of...something.
In case you couldn't guess, I had my hair cut last week and am now in a Haircut Funk. Soldiers are dying in foreign lands, children are fighting cancer, thousands of Mexicans are living in shelters because of Sunday's earthquake and yet I am depressed over hair. It's just HAIR. But, my curls.....
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Can you pack your soul in bubble wrap?
Shock of all shocks, the face fascinates me. Composed of four of the five senses – sight, smell, taste, and hearing – the face is arguably the most important part of the external body. (I guess it could be disputed that ears are part of the head not specifically the face, but I see with my ears so.....) Communication is one area in which the face is crucial for the mouth usually produces language, the ears hear it, and the eyes gage facial expressions. Food is consumed by the mouth with both the tongue and nose involved in not just enjoying the experience but providing warnings of the presence of toxic substances. Eyes are also key in detecting dangers from the environment and their position in the front of the head is either the chicken or the egg explanation of body orientation. Looking at it like this I am not surprised faces are given so much attention and importance by human beings. I have some issues with the degree to which this significance has been magnified beyond the biological, but that's a topic for another day.
My face and I have gone through quite a bit together. (Details can be found in "What My Classmates Never Knew.") For years I hated it considering it to be separate from the rest of me: from the neck down, I was marginally acceptable, but my face was a different story. I loathed it, thought it was hideous, and if wearing a paper bag had been an option, I would have happily done so. The unacceptable nature of my face was the cause of all the surgical pain as well as the problems I had fitting in with my peers. In my mind, it was a separate entity that existed outside of who and what I was as a person. Known as disembodiment, this is a common mental construct for many disabled people who cope with internalized hatred of the "disabled" part of themselves by making it completely distinct from what they consider their essence.
In college I realized I didn't have to do this. Eventually I found a way to inhabit my body with a bone-deep certainty that for better or worse nothing can shake. It goes beyond merely living in my own body for I know I am it and it is me. By necessity part of that process involved addressing my body image issues because being a form you loath is not particularly pleasant. Though I managed this, it is a far more tenuous thing. Loss of the rest of my sight, the ending of romantic relationships, and surgery to remove infected implants have shaken it for a time only to emerge sooner or later typically stronger for the experience. Looking back I know the steps I took to get to this place and the effort involved, but I cannot quite understand how I wound up here. Actually, of late, it's more like there.
About 18 months ago, I started having issues with my facial relationship when I began wearing dark glasses to protect my eyes. People responded to me differently and some who knew me went so far as to tell me the covering of my eyes was a big improvement. One cashier actually looked between me and my photo ID then suggested I get a new picture. When I took off my glasses and said, "I think it's just the glasses," she became very quiet. All of has messed with my mind in countless ways. Who wants to be considered attractive while wearing glasses only to have the person flip out when they come off? Not me. Ever.
Because of the reconstructive surgeries and removal of implants, my face hurts constantly. For a long time it was only an issue of pain, but since the glasses it has become a constant reminder of how unacceptable my appearance is to most folks. Even though I've stopped wearing the glasses, I cannot seem to get my facial relationship back on track.
Rarely does my face receive positive attention either verbal or physical. For years I sat as doctors lectured about my face's failings which had a definite impact on my body image. More significantly my face was touched by detached, clinical hands that caused pain. By comparison there has been little positive physical attention given to it. Beyond the fact that people are afraid of hurting me, I know we just don't touch each other in that way except when being intimate. Given the dearth of that sort of thing in my life, my face has been neglected. I feel that lack as an ache so deep down inside I have no idea how to touch let alone tend it.
Sometimes I have an urge to hide my face because I feel vulnerable either purely emotionally or in terms of attractiveness. Oddly enough, if I happen to be naked and somehow feel either of these things, I don't dive for my clothes but fight the yearning for a paper bag.
Fortunately I can mostly separate how I feel about my face from my actions. I haven't reached for a paper bag yet, but there has been an increasingly intense urge growing to wear my dark glasses. The other night I almost lost the battle. I know sooner or later I'll get a grip, but right now I feel as though my face is this misused creature yearning to be wrapped up in a soft blanket and stroked gently like we do to the backs of upset children. While I must be protective of it on a physical level – getting my face hit is painful and potentially significantly damaging – I feel its vulnerability on an emotional level with a sinking, knotted feeling in my gut. Knowing this feeling will pass does nothing to alleviate the fragility I feel inside.
Right after I wrote the rough draft of this entry, I began to read Emily Rapp's "Poster Child: A Memoir," which explores similar issues better and with more art than I can. Worth reading.
f
My face and I have gone through quite a bit together. (Details can be found in "What My Classmates Never Knew.") For years I hated it considering it to be separate from the rest of me: from the neck down, I was marginally acceptable, but my face was a different story. I loathed it, thought it was hideous, and if wearing a paper bag had been an option, I would have happily done so. The unacceptable nature of my face was the cause of all the surgical pain as well as the problems I had fitting in with my peers. In my mind, it was a separate entity that existed outside of who and what I was as a person. Known as disembodiment, this is a common mental construct for many disabled people who cope with internalized hatred of the "disabled" part of themselves by making it completely distinct from what they consider their essence.
In college I realized I didn't have to do this. Eventually I found a way to inhabit my body with a bone-deep certainty that for better or worse nothing can shake. It goes beyond merely living in my own body for I know I am it and it is me. By necessity part of that process involved addressing my body image issues because being a form you loath is not particularly pleasant. Though I managed this, it is a far more tenuous thing. Loss of the rest of my sight, the ending of romantic relationships, and surgery to remove infected implants have shaken it for a time only to emerge sooner or later typically stronger for the experience. Looking back I know the steps I took to get to this place and the effort involved, but I cannot quite understand how I wound up here. Actually, of late, it's more like there.
About 18 months ago, I started having issues with my facial relationship when I began wearing dark glasses to protect my eyes. People responded to me differently and some who knew me went so far as to tell me the covering of my eyes was a big improvement. One cashier actually looked between me and my photo ID then suggested I get a new picture. When I took off my glasses and said, "I think it's just the glasses," she became very quiet. All of has messed with my mind in countless ways. Who wants to be considered attractive while wearing glasses only to have the person flip out when they come off? Not me. Ever.
Because of the reconstructive surgeries and removal of implants, my face hurts constantly. For a long time it was only an issue of pain, but since the glasses it has become a constant reminder of how unacceptable my appearance is to most folks. Even though I've stopped wearing the glasses, I cannot seem to get my facial relationship back on track.
Rarely does my face receive positive attention either verbal or physical. For years I sat as doctors lectured about my face's failings which had a definite impact on my body image. More significantly my face was touched by detached, clinical hands that caused pain. By comparison there has been little positive physical attention given to it. Beyond the fact that people are afraid of hurting me, I know we just don't touch each other in that way except when being intimate. Given the dearth of that sort of thing in my life, my face has been neglected. I feel that lack as an ache so deep down inside I have no idea how to touch let alone tend it.
Sometimes I have an urge to hide my face because I feel vulnerable either purely emotionally or in terms of attractiveness. Oddly enough, if I happen to be naked and somehow feel either of these things, I don't dive for my clothes but fight the yearning for a paper bag.
Fortunately I can mostly separate how I feel about my face from my actions. I haven't reached for a paper bag yet, but there has been an increasingly intense urge growing to wear my dark glasses. The other night I almost lost the battle. I know sooner or later I'll get a grip, but right now I feel as though my face is this misused creature yearning to be wrapped up in a soft blanket and stroked gently like we do to the backs of upset children. While I must be protective of it on a physical level – getting my face hit is painful and potentially significantly damaging – I feel its vulnerability on an emotional level with a sinking, knotted feeling in my gut. Knowing this feeling will pass does nothing to alleviate the fragility I feel inside.
Right after I wrote the rough draft of this entry, I began to read Emily Rapp's "Poster Child: A Memoir," which explores similar issues better and with more art than I can. Worth reading.
f
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