Who’s That Feminist on My Beach?

I have 4 years of successful therapy under my belt, so I know a thing or two about how to to calm myself down when uber-stressed.  I’m also a very visual person, so I’ve always had visions of myself.  Before these 4 years of successful therapy, the vision of my life was that I was always drowning, heaving in air and water, working so hard just to tread water, stay on the surface, if not just under the surface.   The days that I was under water–depressed, anxious, numb, terrified–I threw in the towel, stayed home and slept, cried, tried to scramble together some kind of relief.

Ergo, the 4 years of therapy.

Now, my life very different–rather, my reaction to life very different–I found myself feeling uber stressed on the drive in to work this morning (E not eating, mom chemo, work project, hate work, late to work, I think so-and-so took advantage of me, did I come across too strong to this person, work is so ridiculous, mom’s chemo is set back, will the cells grow more, maybe we should stop trying to wean from bottles right now) and I had the old feeling of drowning, of the vise-like desire to throw it in once again, turn the car around and stay home.  But with 4 years of successful therapy under my belt (if I say it enough, the success should stick, right? ), I decided, no, I can do this.  I just need to change my visual. 

On I70 East, I created a vision in which I stood up out of the water, walked up onto the beach, sat on the beach, watched a beautiful ocean, felt warm sand under me, a strong breeze blowing my hair.  This vision was so peaceful, I began to feel better.  I can DO this, I’m not defeated, this stuff doesn’t have to be my burden.  I can sit on the beach, feeling the warm sun on my tan skin, the wind blowing my long blond hair, a big smile on my face, sand drying on my long legs and thin arms…

Sound of a record scratching.

Tan?  Thin?  Blond hair?  That’s not me.  That’s not me on my beach.  That’s not me on my beach, overcoming and at peace.  Who is that?  Who is this blonde, beautiful woman, maybe even model?

Shit.

I truly became an active feminist when I was 14 years old—that’s what going to a fundamentalist-ish christian private school will do to you, among other things.  (That and a mother that encourages critical thinking no matter the cost.)  For almost 20 years, I’ve been deconstructing, making my personal political, protesting, agitating, theorizing, unthinking all the sexist junk ad nauseam, and now teaching my own daughter feminist truths.

And my self agency expresses as Ms. Bombshell?  For the record, I’m 5’4, 160ish pounds (ugh, I’ve been losing and gaining the same 5 lbs for a year), curly, brown hair, long torso and short legs.  Sunshine reflects off my skin and when it doesn’t, I just burn.  This woman on my beach is nothing like me.

Or is she?  In that, is this what I want to be or feel I need to be?  After all that feminism has done for me and I for it…I’m still struggling with body image and comfort in my own skin.

Several weeks ago, we were watching E play and noticing that she’d grown and her jammies were getting a little snug around the toes.  I commented that I’m pretty sure she has my body type and sighed and said, oh sweetie, you’ll learn to accept it by your early 30s.  My partner looked up at me and asked, oh really?  You didn’t like your body type and now you’re just okay with it?  He then went on to say some sweet things about my body.

There are two issues here, right?  The first issue seems to be that I’ve internalized the beauty standard that culture’s taught me; so much so that it’s buried deep and I didn’t notice this other woman living inside me, wishing to get out, wishing to be, to represent me.  I’ve internalized the male gaze: I was noticing details of this woman, studying her and getting pleasure from it, satisfaction.

The other issue is that, though I had thought body issues where a thing of the past, apparently not.  Or not even that dramatic.  Maybe I just really need to purposefully study and embrace my body my self my skin, instead of treating it haphazardly.  To pay attention to the woman I am so that this internalized yearning and dream vanishes.

And I need to do this quickly.  This is not a truth I intend to pass on to my daughter.