Ok in truth, it doesn’t stop me from living. It just stops me from recording those moments in life which have brung me joy. My existence in this world will be remembered by what images others retain in their minds.
A momentary recall as they retell a story of a time I existed in.
We live in an age where if it isn’t on Facebook it didn’t really happen.
There are two stages to my hatred. The first is seeing my reflection. I don’t recognise that person immediately but when my brain processes that the thing looking directly at me, is me I feel disgust. That big pile of messy flesh, that’s not me right?
I tend to cope with this by avoiding any reflective surface at all. I’ve covered my body in tattoos so that they break up the shape of what I see. Tattoos are my camouflage. They provide me with something to look at when I wash and brush my teeth in the morning.
Getting in to a lift I will look downwards or at my phone rather than check how good my ass looks in todays outfit.
My teams calls are closely choreographed with enough lighting to hide my faults, and always just my shoulders upwards. I cover the bottom part of my face with my hand, I pretend to nibble my nails. I hold my chin as in furtive contemplation.
I hide, so that I don’t have to see what others must see as something hideous because it can’t only be me right?
It makes it hard to enjoy burlesque classes. Dance studios are what hell will look like when I get there, but instead of funky beats, it will be ABBA and europop on repeat,
The second stage is photographs. This is what robs me of my longevity in the world. Once those memories of me fade from those still living, there will be no more Coochie Cakes. Distant generations will not be able to trawl through the memory banks of online images. I will cease to exist, the evidence of the life I have lived just isn’t there.
It means there are no photos or group selfies with friends. No backstage pics which perfectly capture the moments of exultation I have felt. The sheer joy of being surrounded by people who long ago accepted me for who I am to them. Yet I can’t accept myself for who I am to me.
There are many reasons why I am like this. Childhood trauma made me give my body away in order to mentally survive. My body was never a part of me, the person I have developed to be. I disconnected from it in order to preserve a life.
Gender dysphoria played a part too. My body was made wrong right from the start. What chance did it have.
It’s been a source of abuse from myself as well. A thing to process emotions I never learnt to deal with. I’ve cut, burnt, restricted, gorged and plied it with enough chemicals to make it feel as unloved as I have felt too.
Even now I write about it as a separate entity. It’s a lump of flesh I have dragged around for the past 50 years. A slave to my mental survival. But how to move out of this negative narrative?
First thing is awareness. Actually noticing when you start thinking it, which is a problem in itself. It’s been such a “normal” part of my life that it’s in my subconscious. I react emotionally and physically because I’ve conditioned myself to react that way.
These changes take time and I can’t expect that to change over night. You don’t change someone’s strong opinions overnight, you don’t de radicalise terrorists in a 13 hour window. It takes time and effort, tears and everything else that comes with realising you’ve been wrong for so long.
I’m at the start of that change. If you started to read this opening to get a “how to” guide I’m afraid this article isn’t going to deliver that. This is something you need to figure out yourself. It sounds pretty wanky, but it’s in you and all of us to change what isn’t working for us, whether it’s a job, a relationship, where are we see ourselves in the world, it’s your life to change.