A Long Overdue Love Letter to My Body
Content warning: body hatred, dysmorphia
Somewhere in January, I made a decision that, for me, is a major one.
It’s the decision that I wanted something permanent on my own body, one that I had decided upon by myself, and wanted for myself.
It’s something simple, really, and a lot of people would think and scoff, “That’s not really a big deal, isn’t it?”
But let me take you on a journey, and tell you a story behind why it isn’t. At least, for me.
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When you’re born, you’re subjected to a genetic lottery.
Your eyes, your hair, your skin, your sex, even the shape of your nails, not a single one of it is your choice.
Not even your own brain or your organs.
But I’m not here to tell you about what you already know.
It’s something that I believe not only I struggle with.
It’s a struggle of who you are. And I’m not just saying this as someone who identifies as genderqueer.
It’s the idea of self-hatred and struggle, the disconnect between what you are in your mind, and what you see in the mirror.
And you’re told that you only have one body, one form, so you must take care of it. So you must love it unconditionally. To take care of it no matter what.
…
But when you’ve spent a large portion of your life struggling with who you are, you struggle with self love.
When you struggle with self love, you struggle with caring for yourself.
Then, the notion of self care itself just becomes something that you are aware of, something that you do, but for what?
Sometimes it even feels like autopilot. Something you do just because.
But it doesn’t help patch the feeling of a gaping hole in the middle of your chest. It doesn’t deter the hatred. It doesn’t really have a meaning.
“What am I doing this for anyway?”
If you, like me, have always known that struggle, you know as well as I do that that’s where your self hatred takes root, it grows, it festers, and it seeps throughout your body, mind and soul.
Where you’ve stored and internalised all these contradictory ideas of who you should be, who you are expected to be, and who you want to be, who you believe you should be.
Then your heart becomes a barren battleground, one where the simple act of standing makes you feel wobbly and lose your balance, one where breathing alone feels like you’ve sucked in a lifetime of poison, and one where your voice is truly unheard and even the air itself is unwilling to carry.
Then every single time you look at yourself, you hate it.
At some point, you stop saying that you hate yourself, but you hate it.
No matter how many people tell you or encourage you to love yourself, all the body positivity posts, the good hair days or when a particular piece of clothing feels and fits really nice on you.
No matter what, that hatred of yourself becomes the default emotion when you see yourself.
It’s this sense of alienation where doing just the bare minimum for your body is far too much.
Couple that with a spoonful of major depression, and soon enough the toxicity goes so, so far beyond.
Thoughts where you could justify an early end to restart, where hopefully (if you do believe in it) in the next life, you could get a fresh start. Perhaps a body that you’ll love, one that truly represents who you are. A heart and mind both made of stone, strong and unyielding. A family that truly loves and sees you as what you want to be seen, free of the expectations and the fear of seeing disappointment in their eyes.
Yes, indeed — they’re scary at first. But over time, you get used to it.
Unfortunately, you get used to it.
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I’ve had friends come up to ask me, was it a no-brainer to get a tattoo? Was it an impulse thing, on one of the days where I felt the worst and just couldn’t help it, that I had to do something, I had to fight back?
Not really.
I spent three years thinking about it. Fretting about every decision.
What if I hate its position?
What if I hate the design?
If I take it from a game, a comic, or a series, and I end up hating the series or the creator later?
What if I get a tattoo allergy, maybe an unprecedented reaction?
What if I get poisoning?
Okay, so maybe it’s not just coupled with major depression. There’s that mix of an active imagination and anxiety.
I spent so long thinking about it, that up until the day that I came in, the moment that I had felt the needle pierce my skin, somewhere in my head I tried to remind myself to web search tattoo removal services.
Yeah, it really was not the best time and place to think that.
And when it was done, the aftercare began.
They handed me a pamphlet, suggested some ointments…
And I tried my best to focus. But really, the only thing that constantly went through my head was just one word.
“Whoa.”
In a good way.
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It’s something that I wanted, something permanent on my own body, one that I had decided upon by myself, and wanted for myself.
It’s something simple, really, and some of you have already made it this far, thinking that “It’s just a tattoo, really, not a big deal.”
Yeah, it probably isn’t. But I’m done denying that I really am just the kind of person where just a simple tattoo is a big deal.
Especially when you grew up hating yourself, every inch of your body, every form that your hair, face, eyes, hands take.
For me, and perhaps some others who could find this relatable, the first step to acceptance is a big and heavy one.
It just took me a tattoo to initiate the first baby steps.
…
It’s just that ever since then, through every episode of itching and through every bottle of ointment, I’ve never felt more encouraged to take care of myself — even if it was just one small part of my body.
And the care that I devoted to one small patch of skin began to transfer itself to everything else. My hair, my skin, my fitness…
Even my understanding that even though the self hatred is something that will be very hard to get rid of, I can at least control how I take care of myself.
It hasn’t been long since, but…
It’s just that every dose of self care is beginning to feel like it does have a meaning.
Maybe self love isn’t so unattainable after all.
