Hello, my ferocious Interrupted Girlz! How are we today?
Look: I don’t know about all of you lovelies, but lately, I’ve been waging a war against my body.
“Ew. You are too fat to be on camera.” My Body Dysmorphia will sneer at me as I get ready to do an Instagram Live.
“You’re right.” I’ll whisper back to my Body Dysmorphia, my confidence deflating like a balloon freshly punctured by a needle.
“BUT ZARA YOU LOVE DOING LIVESTREAMS!” my Inner-Creative will bellow at me. “HOW CAN YOU LET SOMETHING SO SURFACE SUCK THE JOY OUT OF YOUR ART!?”
“Because no one wants to consume the art of someone so utterly hideous.” My Body Dysmorphia will taunt lighting up a cigarette right in my bedroom.
“YOU CAN’T SMOKE IN HERE!” My Lungs will scream, waltzing into the room, making a big scene by furiously swishing her trembling hands in the nicotine-laden air.
“Yeah, smoking is bad FOR THE VOICE. AS A PERFORMER your VOICE is your instrument.” My Inner-Creative will snap at me. “Didn’t you learn anything in art school?!” She’ll strut over to my Lungs and together they’ll stand in solidarity, staring at me, intently, with firm hands placed on hips.
Before I can even respond my Body Dysmorphia will catwalk over to me. She’ll saddle up real close, so close that I can feel her pouty lips brushed up against my cheek. She’ll affectionally swipe a misplaced hair out of my eyes. “Baby you’ll lose weight if you take up smoking again.” She’ll purr quietly. The vibrations of her sickeningly sweet voice will tickle the tiny hairs that live deep inside of my ear.
I won’t say anything, I’ll just nod at her, slowly. My Lungs will notice. Steam will emerge from her nostrils. “HOW. FUCKING. DARE. YOU! It took you a decade to quit. You’re going to choose addiction and disease in the name of being SKINNY over your physical health?”
“Of course she is. She’s nothing more than a body.” My Body Dysmorphia will sing-song across the room, the sunlight bleeding from my bedroom window perfectly highlighting her bony décolletage.
At this point, I won’t be able to handle the whole scene anymore. I’ll reach a breaking point. “CAN YOU ALL JUST SHUT UP!” I’ll weep as tears sting my eyes. “I’m going to bed. Fuck all of you and fuck Instagram Live. Get out of my room and leave me alone!”
“Do you see you did?” My Inner-Creative will growl, pointing at my Body Dysmorphia.
“OUT!” I’ll screech exhausted and drained from all the noise. I’ll pick up a black platform boot and wave it around, threatening to launch it at one of them.
My Lungs, my Body Dysmorphia, and my Inner-Creative will skitter out the door.
And I’ll be alone. I’ll take a deep breath, flop onto my bed feeling dead inside. I will waste the day hiding beneath the sheets, trauma sleeping as a way to avoid thinking about my body, my career, my art, my weight.
The same thoughts will play on repeat in my brain:
I don’t want to sleep through the best years of my life anymore. And guess what else? I’m fucking wiped out from all the in-fighting that takes place in the opinionated community that houses my poor body. I’m sick to death of trying to “love” my body every day. And I’m sick of trying to “change” my body every day. Mostly, I’m sick to death of all this wasted brain space.
I just want to live my life and make my art without letting numbers on the scale or the distorted reflection in the mirror define my self-esteem.
But then, just yesterday right when I was about to give up on LIFE — my higher-self, Sharon, paid me a visit. I emerged from the bathroom to find her standing in the corner of my bedroom. She smelled like stale cigarettes, cold air and Clinique “Happy” fragrance. She was wearing her signature navy peacoat from J. Crew and her frizzy hair was fastened into a tight, no-nonsense bun. She chomped on her Nicorette gum vigorously. It was clear from her wide, masculine stance and folded arms that she meant business.
“Bitch,” She crooned. “You wrote a book that talks excessively about how we women are MORE than their bodies. Comb through the book you wrote: GIRL, STOP PASSING OUT IN YOUR MAKEUP, remember? Find sixteen quotes in there and write them down to remind you that your fucking weight is the least interesting thing about you.”
“Sharon. It’s a lost cause. I don’t even take my own advice.” I dramatically threw my body on the bed and pulled the sheet over my head.
“Listen, honey,” Sharon said firmly. “You deserve to enjoy the fuck out of your life, regardless of what you look like or how you feel in your skin on any particular day.” She pulled the sheet off my head.
“Gahh!” I yelped.
“Get to work.” She ordered.
I squeezed my eyes shut to regroup. By the time I opened them, she was gone.
But I did as I was told. Because one must always do what their higher-self asks them to do, even if it’s tedious and annoying. I’ve learned the hard way that if you ignore the orders of your higher-self — that my darlings — is when you get into real trouble.
And guess what?! It helped!
So. If you — my sweet kitten — are getting wrapped up in the ole’ body dysmorphic game — refer to the quotes below from GIRL, STOP PASSING OUT IN YOUR MAKEUP, pretty please! Think of them as little gems of big sister wisdom that you can keep in your pocket like a crystal to touch whenever life is making you feel unsteady. (I made them all ~Pinterest~ friendly too — so please go ahead and pin that shiat!)
Also, be sure to check out my GIRL, STOP PASSING OUT IN YOUR MAKEUP quote round-up about shame and addiction (which we all know is like, one of our ~favorite~ subject matters, amirite?).
(And don’t forget to buy your copy of GIRL, STOP PASSING OUT IN YOUR MAKEUP and pretty, pretty please leave a review!).
Like what you read? Check out my other projects:
My debut book GIRL, STOP PASSING OUT IN YOUR MAKEUP: THE BAD GIRL’S GUIDE TO GETTING YOUR SH*T TOGETHER is available NOW on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, IndieBound, AUDIBLE, and BAM! If you send me a screenshot of your order, I’ll send you swag!
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