Tag: body dysmorphia

Lent

Confronting Body Dysmorphia in Your 30s and 40s

Alexandra Diane

Body dysmorphia sucks. It was obnoxious in my teenage years, nearly crippling in my twenties and as my 30s ended, I’m finding new and interesting ways to dislike the way I look. As 40 creeps up, I’m understanding why women go under the knife and inject things in their faces. Because the things that I dislike about myself now are still thinking I’m too fat (not giving myself any grace because I’ve had two children and had a car accident in my back and body don’t work the same way) and now learning all new fun ways to dislike my face. 

Most mornings when I wake up I don’t even put on my glasses, it’s just better that way. I won’t wear makeup because after I get used to hiding all my imperfections, it’ll take me weeks to months to look at myself without criticizing my appearance. I guess my natural resting bitch faces are catching up with me and all the lines are getting deeper. That doesn’t help that. I definitely scowl most of my days at work because of the dumb things my freshmen do. Captions leave marks. 

It’s probably also why I give up social media so often during lunch. Besides the mind rot of Doom, scrolling and picking apart every aspect of my life because it doesn’t What influences are filming and staging. I just look at other women who have multiple kids and all this free time to exercise. I keep telling myself maybe when B is older I will do it again. But the reality is I just need to find the time to work at myself again. 

And even when I get the time, things are going to be different. My body is different. How it holds extra water, weight, and fat is different. After having Adelyn, things returned to normal, but after Bennett, everything’s lingering. I don’t know if that has to do with having a boy or a girl. But I have seen so many other women that just look like they’ve never had kids before. 

I know this is a first world problem and vain to a core, but it’s an ongoing battle. 

One this month I’m losing.

We got these cool jerseys for our competition team and I accidentally ordered a medium. I didn’t think any big deal of it until I saw a picture of me standing next to the rest of my high school girls. And because my chest is so large, I looked pregnant all over again. That was a spiraling moment for me. It didn’t matter that once I pinned the jersey back; it fit just fine. No, every single thought was “you’re fat, you’re old.” 

Like when did old jump into my mental abuse. Not one bit of me feels old. Maybe it’s creeping into my thoughts as the calendar keeps peeling away. We have less than 50 school days left and the kids that are graduating this year of my graduation clones. I’m ‘05 and they are ‘25. I’ve always enjoyed this thought and never really felt old. I just thought it was cool. And then I took that picture and wished I could erase myself from it.

As I write this, I am more annoyed with myself. It’s all dumb thoughts. Thoughts that I never seem to beat. 

My body dysmorphia stems from a deeply unhealthy place. Celiac kept me under 100 lbs for most of my life. Doctors say my healthy weight should be between 110 and 115, and I’m 127. Not that much of a difference, but my body just feels wrong with all this extra weight. I regained my post-baby weight (135 pounds) and spent six months wanting to avoid people. I started working out and I felt good again, however, I got sick and everything stopped. 

Getting back into that routine is going to be a necessary evil; sacrificing time with the baby or with my husband is the only thing that will make my brain okay with what my the way my body looks. 

So cheers to being nearly 39 and still battling the same stupid thoughts from twenty years ago. 

Lent, Mommy Blogs

Day 11: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

Alexandra Diane

Body dysmorphia is a hell of a master. 
The lens that masks your eyes breaking you from the inside. 
It alters your mind and beats you down.

But you must fight. 
You can’t let the monster win.

Who knew the weapon against what crushes your soul is a miniature version of yourself?

One that loves everything about you. 
One that’s honest to a fault.

So when she tells you “you’re beautiful,”

Believe it.

Because the world hasn’t destroyed her yet.

She loves you with all her being.
You grew her inside of you.
Sacrificed your body and mind to bring her into this world.

Believe her when she looks at you and thinks you’re perfect. 

Lent

Day 8: Therapy 101

Alexandra Diane

Today I took the first step in actively working on my mental health. I had an hour-long session with a therapist. This isn’t my first time with therapy. The last time I sought help was to deal with my postpartum depression and anger. However, that ended quickly after the therapist said to me, “have you ever been to therapy before? Bec” Because this isn’t how it works.” The woman said, after I bared my soul… That may have been word vomit of emotions and feelings, but she wasn’t correcting me, just being rude.

Even though I had an awful experience with therapy, I have always suggested it to family, friends, and my students. My husband is alive because I pushed him to speak to those are the VA who were trained in his combat related PTSD. I have guided more than a handful of students into either talking with a guidance counselor or a mental health specialist. Even my own little clone is in therapy, learning how to handle her massive emotions. So when my husband told me I needed to get help, I didn’t fight him. I didn’t want to do it, but I did it. I would hate myself forever if I always suggested those to seek help while I became lost within myself.

Somehow I got lucky. My new therapist seems wonderful. She has a kind voice, and she genuinely seemed engaged when I spoke about the things I’ve lived through. I can’t explain why I went with the first therapist I contacted, but a tiny voice inside me said, “this one.” When she asked me to fill out the pre paperwork, she asked if I had any trauma. In that millisecond, I finally stopped running and decided I didn’t need to be strong. I said “yes.”

While I have documented my sexual assault by my boss on here before, I have lived through a lot of other extremely dark things. Situations that I don’t feel comfortable putting out in the world, I will say this: I’m essentially a statistic for many things that can go horribly wrong to a female.

One thing she was gauging me on was to see if I may suffer from PTSD because my scores were pushing me there. However, that I don’t avoid situations that have caused me trauma means I don’t qualify. Part of me didn’t like that response because, for most of my trauma, there’s no way to avoid it. As I keep finding out, Jupiter/Gardens is a small ass town and the only way to avoid being triggered would be to move.

But fuck that. I’m not leaving my hometown. This is the place I’ve always wanted to raise my kids. It’s a wonderful community offering more in one location than any other community I’ve lived in. Another reason I throw my middle finger in the air at the idea of avoiding things is that I won’t be the victim. I am stronger than that. Those people who have bruised my soul will not now or ever win.

After an hour of jumping around and explaining pieces of myself to this woman with a trusting voice, I felt drained. However, even though we didn’t dive that much into the crap burdening my soul, I felt a small sense of relief. One that I can only hope will grow.

Teaching, Writing

Well, I’m not okay.

Alexandra Diane

Hormones and body dysmorphia is fun.

When your brain thinks it’s still in its twenties but you’re closer to forty. You looked at my hands and wondered who they belong to? Why do they seem to belong to a person who is decades older than you? You wonder if someone has replaced my skin with an alligator’s. There are days when you wonder how you’re an adult and you need an adultier adult to fix the situation, but you are the adultier adult now.

I wonder how I’m in charge of helping the three young beings grow into being adults. It feels overwhelming and exhausting and rewarding all at the same time. I wonder if I’m going to fail? How much will I give to watch them succeed? I know I will never give up, but how much of myself will I have to sacrifice for them?

I feel the same way about my students.

 I know my seniors, for the most part, really don’t give a fuck.

They just want to graduate and get out of school. I grasp that mindset completely. I wanted to do the same thing at their age. But my younger students I work hand in hand with. I try to make sure, as many of them as possible, understand what we are doing and how to create different things. But it’s just so frustrating and demoralizing when some of your students either won’t do the work or lie to their parents and say that I don’t care. I can only do so much. I am only one person. But I will never brush a student aside. I am always willing to help them. I make myself available outside school hours; they have my phone number, and know that they can text me if there’s ever an issue. I just really wish sometimes I could record my classes and show the students who put no effort and how I call them out in class. When I ask them where their assignment is and show their parents the shrug or nonchalant response that I receive. You would think I was asking them to recreate End Game instead of requesting them to put just the tiniest bit of effort into their schoolwork.

I have enough shit on my plate to deal with. I’m not completely sure why I thought being a teacher could be rewarding. Thankfully, transitioning to high school there have been more positive days than bad. However, on days like this, where I already hate myself, I just wonder if it is easier to return to the newsroom. Maybe 2am wake-up calls weren’t truly that bad.