“If you think I’m hard on my body now, you should have seen me ten years ago.”
My new boyfriend looks at me with his eyebrows raised, uncharacteristically disbelieving. Then he says, with a slight edge to his tone, “but I didn’t know you then. I only know you now.”
I pause for a second to try to figure out why this irritates me so much, when he brushes off my explanations of my past as if it has no bearing on the person I am now. It’s always surprising to me when he does this, partly because to me it seems obvious that my past is a huge part of my current self, and partly because he’s usually so thoughtful and understanding, and this kind of invalidating reaction is unusual for him. I take a deep breath and try to articulate my frustration.
“You have to understand that where I was then is important…it informs where I am now. And for you to say that the person you know, the particular body image issues of the woman you’re dating here and now, are all that matter…for you to say that how far I’ve come is irrelevant…it discounts all the work I’ve put in and invalidates my entire journey.” I think I’ve finally found a way to stop stumbling and put it more concisely: “It’s like saying that the progress I’ve made means nothing because I’m still not perfect.”
He pulls back from me and his eyes widen a bit. I’ve shocked him by holding up a mirror to an unfeeling perspective he didn’t even realize he was espousing. He’s the type of person who doesn’t believe in perfect; or rather, he believes in finding perfection in people’s imperfections, especially when it comes to me. From the day we met he’s made me feel supported and safe, which is part of why I’ve been so surprised and confused by his constant misunderstanding of my relationship with my body. But now I think we’ve finally cracked the communication barrier and he’s starting to get it. I keep going.
“You know how I’ve told you that when I talk a bunch of shit while I’m driving, you shouldn’t worry that I’m getting ragey – that actually it’s when I go silent that you know I’m super stressed out?”
He nods, his brow knitted now. He’s stopped pushing back and is just listening. Hard.
“That’s what I’m like about my body these days. I mean, I try not to talk as much shit about it as I did before, partly because it’s a toxic practice, not to mention it makes me a really boring person to be around, but also because I don’t feel as much hatred toward it as I once did. It’s important for you to know just how bad it was, so you can see that this current mild dissatisfaction is really super innocuous and a huge step in the right direction. I mean, I used to stand in the mirror and pull on my flesh and wish to slice chunks of it off. It was truly scary how much I hated my body. And now I think I’m okay, even attractive, but yeah, I think my boobs could be better and I wish my butt weren’t so square. And when I make jokes about those things, or my thunder thighs or anything else, that’s me letting out a bit of the poison, because if I don’t say it out loud it’ll fester inside me and become something I can focus on. Too much airing of those grievances is a really bad thing, but if I bottle them up it’s equally as bad…it’s a balance, I guess. Does that make sense?”
He nods, then shakes his head.
“That does make sense. I’m really sorry, Anne. I didn’t mean to invalidate your experience – I just worry about you. But you’re right: the progress you’ve made matters, and I want you to keep telling me about this stuff. I want to know you, and your past is part of that, even if it’s hard for me to hear about.”
He pulls me in for a hug and I feel it again: that twinge under my sternum that reminds me of falling for my ex nearly a decade ago. It’s comforting and familiar and terrifying all at once, and I’ve been trying to ignore it for weeks. But with a guy like this, someone so caring and emotionally intelligent, it’s hard to stay cagey – trust me, I tried. So I keep having conversations like the one we just had, elaborating on my emotional history and holding out my past as if showing him my insides will make me less rather than more exposed. And I am exposed, more so every time we talk, but so far he’s taking very good care of all the pieces of my heart.
Which is important, because those pieces are all I have left, and their (rather epic) journey is super relevant to who I am now.
My new boyfriend looks at me with his eyebrows raised, uncharacteristically disbelieving. Then he says, with a slight edge to his tone, “but I didn’t know you then. I only know you now.”
I pause for a second to try to figure out why this irritates me so much, when he brushes off my explanations of my past as if it has no bearing on the person I am now. It’s always surprising to me when he does this, partly because to me it seems obvious that my past is a huge part of my current self, and partly because he’s usually so thoughtful and understanding, and this kind of invalidating reaction is unusual for him. I take a deep breath and try to articulate my frustration.
“You have to understand that where I was then is important…it informs where I am now. And for you to say that the person you know, the particular body image issues of the woman you’re dating here and now, are all that matter…for you to say that how far I’ve come is irrelevant…it discounts all the work I’ve put in and invalidates my entire journey.” I think I’ve finally found a way to stop stumbling and put it more concisely: “It’s like saying that the progress I’ve made means nothing because I’m still not perfect.”
He pulls back from me and his eyes widen a bit. I’ve shocked him by holding up a mirror to an unfeeling perspective he didn’t even realize he was espousing. He’s the type of person who doesn’t believe in perfect; or rather, he believes in finding perfection in people’s imperfections, especially when it comes to me. From the day we met he’s made me feel supported and safe, which is part of why I’ve been so surprised and confused by his constant misunderstanding of my relationship with my body. But now I think we’ve finally cracked the communication barrier and he’s starting to get it. I keep going.
“You know how I’ve told you that when I talk a bunch of shit while I’m driving, you shouldn’t worry that I’m getting ragey – that actually it’s when I go silent that you know I’m super stressed out?”
He nods, his brow knitted now. He’s stopped pushing back and is just listening. Hard.
“That’s what I’m like about my body these days. I mean, I try not to talk as much shit about it as I did before, partly because it’s a toxic practice, not to mention it makes me a really boring person to be around, but also because I don’t feel as much hatred toward it as I once did. It’s important for you to know just how bad it was, so you can see that this current mild dissatisfaction is really super innocuous and a huge step in the right direction. I mean, I used to stand in the mirror and pull on my flesh and wish to slice chunks of it off. It was truly scary how much I hated my body. And now I think I’m okay, even attractive, but yeah, I think my boobs could be better and I wish my butt weren’t so square. And when I make jokes about those things, or my thunder thighs or anything else, that’s me letting out a bit of the poison, because if I don’t say it out loud it’ll fester inside me and become something I can focus on. Too much airing of those grievances is a really bad thing, but if I bottle them up it’s equally as bad…it’s a balance, I guess. Does that make sense?”
He nods, then shakes his head.
“That does make sense. I’m really sorry, Anne. I didn’t mean to invalidate your experience – I just worry about you. But you’re right: the progress you’ve made matters, and I want you to keep telling me about this stuff. I want to know you, and your past is part of that, even if it’s hard for me to hear about.”
He pulls me in for a hug and I feel it again: that twinge under my sternum that reminds me of falling for my ex nearly a decade ago. It’s comforting and familiar and terrifying all at once, and I’ve been trying to ignore it for weeks. But with a guy like this, someone so caring and emotionally intelligent, it’s hard to stay cagey – trust me, I tried. So I keep having conversations like the one we just had, elaborating on my emotional history and holding out my past as if showing him my insides will make me less rather than more exposed. And I am exposed, more so every time we talk, but so far he’s taking very good care of all the pieces of my heart.
Which is important, because those pieces are all I have left, and their (rather epic) journey is super relevant to who I am now.
Comments
Thank you again. It really is such a comfort to my angsty writer's soul to get messages like this that remind me I'm not completely cut off from my reader friends xx
Haha I am indeed a real live person, and I do attempt to answer comments promptly, although my friends will tell you I am significantly less responsive to personal emails etc than I was when I worked in marketing ;)
I think your focus is right on target; I have the same attitude about my body. Would I like to weigh less and be smaller? Of course (although I do really appreciate your reassurance that it's not obvious I *need* to)! But is it worth tormenting myself? Absolutely not. I try to keep my efforts focused on yoga and vegetables and lean meats instead of self-hate or crash diets or dreams of plastic surgery. I'm glad your husband is in the right frame of mind too!
And thank you for the sympathy about the end of my relationship. It was absolutely devastating, and I would still erase that experience in a heartbeat, but I have learned a lot and am currently trying to write about it, and now I have a wonderful partner, so it's not all bad xx