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.

Calgon, Take Me Away

Bath salts, essential oils, eucalyptus and spearmint soap and I’m taking a relaxing soak.  To draw the stress toxins (that nasty cortisol) out of my body, to try to realign my spirit, self, mind, emotions.  I want this bath to be a step out of time, purely pleasure and restorative, purely sensory.

It’s not. (Most of you, I’m sure, were already laughing before the end of the paragraph: of course, it’s not, girl!  That would be too easy!)  I think about taking a week off of work this week, a whole week to be free, a slip of a woman, going in and out of my home, doing what I want, spending time with E, having to time for “activities of daily living” and enjoying those activities of daily living.  Planting flowers and weeding. Finishing 1Q84 and starting on the Hunger Games. Trying out all the Pinterest projects that I have backlogged: perfect-fit-waistband-for-jeans, clean-the-house-with-vinegar, all-day-cake-recipe, organize-your-toddler’s-closet….  Quitting my job and starting a free-lance career (sigh, but not in that particular order).

My thoughts seemed very profound in the bath, even life-changing.  Like I could be renewed.  I thought: I’m healed and I’m healing, both are true.  Both seemed very possible in the bath.  I love my life and I want more in my life.  My life can be shalom.  A vision I’ve had of my adult life is this:

large farmhouse or cabin on a hill out in the country, a home office that overlooks the woods at the bottom of the hill and a kitchen sink that overlooks our small (very small) farm.  My husband and I are outside (I don’t know, maybe unloading groceries, raking and mowing, putting down mulch) and start to run around with our children.  And then the sun begins to set and we go inside for dinner.  Something a little like this: Furr.

  The end.  

(We can all agree, right, that this vision is sentimental and utopian?  Okay.  Instead of a vision, then, let’s call it a glimpse.  Or context.  A space my husband and I can create in which to “raise our children up as gently as we please,” to at least attempt to live a life in balance and wholeness.)

But then I have to get out of the bathtub, put on my ratty robe and go about the rest of the evening, otherwise known as living.  Gulp down my now cold herbal tea, attempt to do some house work, attempt to do some blogging in the midst of toddler, cat, partner and TV, be sure to prepare clothes, lunch, and schedule for tomorrow.  

And it’s already changed, that profound time is already gone, I’m out of the tub and out of that time, no longer that woman.  The oh so profound thoughts now seem more like titles from the self-help bestseller’s list.  The night is gone.  Tomorrow is another day.

What do I do with my vision (er, glimpse)?  My life–wonderful as it is–is somewhat willy-nilly.  I’m making it work until what I want comes along or money drops into my lap from somewhere and I get to pursue what I want.  I’ve never been a 5-year-life-plan type of person; I barely even plan my weekends well.  But I’m now at a point in life (read: I don’t like my job and what it does to me and my family) where I need to make the decision.

What do I do with this vision for my life?  I guess I make a life-plan and work really hard at it…right?  Things to do:

• eliminate stressors
• take better care of my whole self
• quit my job (…wait, no, not quite, can’t do that yet.  Get therapy to help me deal with my job.)
• invest in friendships
• prioritize life around my family
• figure out how to make money as a writer
• hmmm, clean my house? (just throwing this in for good measure)
• um…work out (for real?)
• er, take supplements (In case the whole “take better care of self” thing doesn’t work out and I remain an emotional eater, which is a nice way of saying I eat crap when I’m stressed and lately I’m always stressed)
• go to bed early  (But then how do I get all of the above accomplished?)
• or, yes, here it is: drink heavily.

So not a plan so much as a goal…or not even a real goal, but something to strive for, right?  How does one embark on a new plan, path, journey, life?  Having just read the titles of self-help books and not the books themselves, I have no idea (like this one: No Excuses: 9 Ways Women Can Change How We think About Power or this one: The Custom-Fit Workplace: Choose When, Where and How to Work and Boost Your Bottom Line).

Instead, I’m just complaining about  it all in a blog post.  And seriously hoping that you have ideas.