My depression is bad this week. I have successfully *yay* made it to the gym, turned in grad school work, and smiled (sometimes) but I feel like I am rolling this gigantic stone up a hill. I am managing one.step.at.a.time. but I feel so utterly exhausted by the task. I am snappy and not fun to be around… unless you talk to me online or on the phone. I can totally fake it, then.
This is depression: Being trapped in your own head, utterly convinced that you have no worth or what worth you might have doesn’t count.
Body image. Body image. Jasmine image
I have left my house to go to the gym, take my kids to see Ice Age 4 (best nap EVAH!… seriously, slept through the whole thing), and to run to Walgreens (where I purchased more false eyelashes than one person needs *DAMN YOU BLOGHER EYELASH BOOTH!!!)
I’ve binged twice this week. I am a binge eater. It is a reaction I have to post traumatic stress disorder. I know why I have binged this week: Too much attention.
When I was sexually abused, as I have said before, I adopted a belief that if I could just make my body go away, become hidden under layers of fat. My body was the problem. Disengage. If I could be funny enough to distract you, you might not notice I had a body. You might think of me as more of a character.
Blogher ’12 was epic. I loved it.. and as soon as the depression lifts I will write about my experience, but one thing that was hard at Blogher were the comments about my body. I was with WOMEN… women are the worst. Women, I think, pay special attention to each other’s bodies in such unique ways. I felt sheer panic when strangers would stop me to tell me how beautiful I was (damn that sounds arrogant! But it happened…). Panic because: ” Do you know what happened to this body?!” I’ve been trying to escape this body for so long. Love this body for so long. Come to terms with this body for so long. Then I read Schmutzie this morning and cried. Damn it! I cried. There was a moment of connection where her words were speaking a kind of truth in to me that I can’t put words too. I didn’t realize it, but I am still dissociating. I am still viewing my body and Jasmine as separate. I am still afraid to lose weight because people notice my body. A large part of me still treats it like my armor. It protects me and makes me special.
So Schmutzie, without knowing it, threw me a little life line. In this vast ocean of my depression she paddled out on her excellent graphically designed boat and tossed out some truth…. and I’ll hold on to that truth, like an anchor until the waves aren’t choking me, until I am able to tread water again.
It isn’t about loving the body.The body and me are one. It is about loving me. Whole, un-fractured me.
It is all about small movements toward healing, I suppose. Thanks Schmutzie