Beyond “Real Beauty”: On Body Image and Being Vulnerable
I struggle with my body image. This is not a unique situation, and this is by no means a unique account.
As a female person in the world, it is an unavoidable struggle.
And while I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m obsessed with my appearance (because “obsessed”, as I perceive it, sits at the extreme end of the spectrum, manifesting as disturbances and disorders and body image dysmorphia), I would say that, like any other typical woman, I come face-to-face with negative thoughts about my body every. Single. Day.
It was probably around sixth grade when I last remember being unconcerned about my body image. But then, without any warning, the beginnings of puberty started, and it was like my body had abruptly turned on me.
My breasts grew suddenly and lopsidedly, as if overnight. In fact, my entire body seemed to suddenly fill out overnight, quickly becoming a tapestry of purple stretch marks.
I developed terrible acne, so bad that our family doctor prescribed Tetracycline and some kind of topical treatment that looked like a bingo dauber and made my eyes water.
I was desperately embarrassed of my skin, intensified by the fact that a younger student once asked me why I had so many pimples (this moment of shame rivalled only by the time I cut off all my hair in tenth grade and was mistaken in a mall for somebody’s husband).
I can’t say whether the antibiotics or topical solvent (or Clearasil pads or Oxy 5 ) I used daily made any difference. I think I eventually just grew out of the worst of it as my hormones finally stabilized (though, in my mid-30s, I’m suffering a brand new wave of hormonal acne that is triggering all the same insecurities as those of my teenagedom).
As far as my weight, I was always a big-boned child. Not fat, but definitely sturdy.
My mom was a vegetarian for as far back as I can remember. Being vegetarian was a lot more unusual in the 90s, and we ate our fair share of creamed spinach and curried lentils and carob brownies. Which isn’t to say she didn’t occasionally buy us Pop-Tarts and Kraft Dinner and instant iced-tea (which we’d scoop into our glasses so liberally, there’d always be a film of tart syrup…
