Focus on the Body

I'm not comfortable focusing too much on my physical being. I am not comfortable being "one of those people" that thinks too much about physical appearances. I don't want to be a gym freak. In fact, I hate the idea of going to a gym. (Just the idea, mind you. Once I'm there, it's really not so bad.) I hate the idea of exercise for exercise sake, though I like to be fit. I like to think that an active lifestyle can get you all the exercise you need. But these days, I spend far too much time in front of a computer. And I no longer live three blocks from the beach. No, in fact there's no beach at all here, and outside sports are limited to a few months out of the year. How is one supposed to stay active? I can't cover myself up all year round. Hey, hey, gym, I guess I need you after all.

I don't think I come across as particularly uncomfortable or physically insecure. At least I've learned to hide that. But do I hate my body? Oh, of course. But I hate to be such a girl! I don't talk about it, of course. That would be pathetic. I refuse to go there. I won't complain, and I certainly won't seek reassurance with self-deprecation. That ceases to be sexy past the age of 22 (if that). Though in general I do love self-deprecation -- just not to this end. No, this whole process of befriending my body must go by as unperceived as possible, or not go on at all.

My physical insecurities are kept below the surface. I'm not an honest person, you see. If you knew how insecure I was, then that much more I'd be. I have to keep things in balance.

So, the truth.. what I hide from you stays more hidden to me.
The more I focus on my body, the more it hurts, the more I hate it.

I like to think I'm not a part of it. I like to thing I can surpass it. I like to think it doesn't matter. But it does. And the discomfort creeps in. The neglected body screams back at the abandonment. Cracks break out across its very foundation, screaming to be noticed. And I can't help but notice. I can't help but notice when I'm confined to my bed. I can't help but notice when I feel pain every time I place my foot on the floor. I can't help but notice when I find my parts are in all the wrong places.

So, I must learn how to focus. I must deal right through the discomfort until I no longer feel it. I must force myself to look it in the eye, stand up to it, defeat it. I must learn to love myself. How ridiculous is that? I must at least learn to tolerate myself. Am I focusing on my body to get over it, or to make it better? Neither, I suppose -- only to befriend it. But to be its friends, I must let go the hatred. To let go the hatred, I must first force myself to nurture that which I do not love. I suppose it's quite like an arranged marriage of sorts. Resent it as I might, I must feign love in order to create the circumstances needed to incite love.

This is not going to be easy, my friends.