Beautiful Cynicism III

It started unwittingly during my first year of university. I was very busy, stressed out, rushing between classes and jobs. As such, I frequently didn’t have time to eat, or sometimes simply forgot to eat. It wasn’t on purpose; I just had a lot on my plate (no pun intended ) and on my mind. I started to notice that I was missing meals, realising it had been hours since I had eaten. I found it amusing at first, but then began to deliberately skip meals, challenging myself to see how long I could go without eating. When I would reach the end of the day without having ingested anything but water and coffee, I felt victorious. I felt proud of myself, like I had accomplished some great feat. I remember my record was almost 3 full days. But the good feelings only lasted as long as I wasn’t eating; when I finally “broke down” and ate (as I always did eventually), I felt horrible. I felt like a failure. I felt weak. I felt like I lacked in resolve, in determination, in will. I actually cried when I ate: I felt ashamed. Although I knew what I was doing was unhealthy, I didn’t see it as particularly negative or dangerous. I felt more energetic when I wasn’t eating – a function of my improved self-esteem thanks to my “self-control”. (Drinking lots of coffee on an empty stomach probably also helped in the energy department.) If I ate in public, I felt shame. I tried to eat as little as possible, to keep the feelings of guilt to a minimum. It was only after a good friend had come back home for Christmas holidays and threatened to go to my parents because he was so worried about me, that I gradually returned to more normal eating habits. I can see that I shared many behaviours and attitudes with those suffering from anorexia nervosa. But I still am reluctant to say I actually was suffering from it myself – not out of shame or naïveté, but because I have this image of anorexics as emaciated bodies, mere heaps of bone and skin. My behaviour went on for only a few months, so I didn’t lose vast amounts of weight. But I recognise that it isn’t the end result, it’s the process that matters, and the path I was following would have eventually led to my own heap of bone and skin, had I continued on it. An important thing to realise, though, is that body image is not where this all began; it was about feeling powerless and unsure in my life, and seeking something that I could have power over – not in a domineering way, just a way to feel I had some control over my own life. My physical appearance was merely secondary (but still played a part, for sure). This happened quite a few years ago, and obviously I no longer have this problem. (In fact, there are so many foods that I so thoroughly enjoy that I almost can’t believe I successfully managed to erase food from my life for a time!) But I am aware of what I am capable of.

« Notre corps est notre jardin, et notre volonté en est le jardinier. »²

In looking at childhood photographs, I can plainly see that I was not overweight; rather, I was on the slim side. And yet… J’ai des souvenirs des jours et nuits passés chez mes grand-parents quand j’avais 6, 7 ans. Mon grand-père, un homme écossais et un peu sévère, avait des idées rigides au sujet de la nourriture. Je n’étais jamais de poids excessifs en tant qu’enfant, comme j’ai dit; mais mon grand-père était strict – je pouvais manger au petit déjeuner, au repas du midi, et au dîner, mais pas du tout dans l’intervalle; les casse-croûtes étaient interdit, également les boissons (sauf de l’eau, bien entendu). J’ai des souvenirs d’avoir faim; mon grand-père bloquait physiquement le réfrigérateur, en disant que les filles ne devraient pas manger, sauf à l’heure du repas – sinon elles deviendraient des femmes grosses et laides. Et il ajoutait: et tu ne veux pas être grosse et laide, n’est-ce pas? Même maintenant, il y a une partie de moi qui pense qu’il avait raison, qu’un peu de nourriture trois fois par jour devrait être assez… Mais il y a une autre partie de moi qui dit: j’étais seulement un enfant! Sûrement un verre de jus ou des crudités ou même – quel horreur! – un biscuit n’aurait pas été extravagant.

Mon meilleur ami – mon corps – est mon pire ennemi:
Il me lie, m’entrave même s’il me veut du bien.
Je le hais et je l’aime, et au jour de nos adieux
Je m’arracherai à lui avec joie et avec peine.³

I am a peace-loving girl, but for most of my life I, like many other females, have been engaged in a war – with my body.

Mais au même temps, je réjouis de mon corps. Il m’apporte tant de bonheur et du plaisir; il me permet de marcher sur l’herbe verte du printemps; de sentir le parfum des fleurs, de goûter le sel de l’océan, de voir les couchers de soleil exquis. Mon peau est ferme et lisse, prêt à recevoir des caresses tendres de mon amour. Mes lèvres sont souples et charnues, prêtes à donner des baisers doux. I have strong legs, still muscular after years of dancing as a child and teenager. Je n’aurai jamais les mollets minces et délicats comme ceux réprésentés en les pubs pour le savon, la lotion de corps, les rasoirs, les chaussures… But my legs support me and carry me everywhere I could ever need or want to go, from busy city streets to the tranquility of the countryside; they let me dance and walk and play – and even leg press up to 182kg if I choose to go to the gym. À 1m58, on ne m’appellerait jamais “sculptural”. But my short stature allows me to fit rather well into the arms of almost anyone who wishes to hug me. Je n’étais jamais destinée d’avoir le corps longue et maigre des actrices et modèles. But my rounded hips and my curves give me an “hourglass” shape – une silhouette explicitement féminine. Mon corps – même imparfait – est unique et il est à moi. C’est par lui que j’éprouve le monde. Il me permet de voyager, de communiquer, de sentir le plaisir et la douleur. Il peut cacher mes émotions, ou les montrer à tous. Il peut me protéger. Il peut donner du plaisir aux autres. And however I may feel about its alleged flaws, I am still in awe of and have a deep appreciation for its strength, its resilience, and its loyalty.