I love myself.
I had to start with that because it’s a revolutionary statement for me. I have spent most of my life hating myself. I was told both explicitly and implicitly that I was… just…wrong. This was suburban MN in the seventies. I was fat, Asian, brainy, and probably neurodivergent. I did not watch TV, never went to the movies, and didn’t listen to pop music. I wore dresses that my mother made, and I had the typical bowl cut that Asian kids had back in the day.
In other words, I was a hot mess. I had no idea how I was supposed to act or how to fit in. I didn’t know any cultural references, and I felt like an alien.
I feel a lot of compassion for that confused, withdrawn, depressed, anxious, and deeply suicidal child. I hated myself, and I hated life. I wanted to die. I woke up every day disapointed that I was not dead. This is not hyperbole. This went on for many years. I was a confused child along with being emotionally abused and just dumped on in general.
I hated that little girl for so long. I sneered at her and looked down at her, treating her (in my mind) with contempt and anger. If I could, I would go back in time and cuddle her to my breast. I would whisper in her ear that she was perfect just the way she was. I’m not saying she didn’t have flaws–of course she did. But she was a precious human being who should have been treasured for who she was.
Instead, she got put on a diet at age seven and told she was too fat. On the regular. Her mother had body issues because SHE came from a deeply msogynistic society who really hated fat women. A lot. Plus, Taiwane genes mean smaller in general, so there’s that as well.
I felt like a giant at 5’6″. My father’s side of the family is peasant stock, which means sturdy and thick. I have had muscular legs since I was little, and the rest of me is broad as well. Even when I was anorexic, I weighed close to the overweight range of the BMI scale. That’s how I knew it was bullshit. I had a 27 inch waist and weighed 138 pounds. Yes, for my height that was one step below overweight. If I was at the lower end of my acceptable range, I would be dead-dead. Like, permanently dead.
That’s when I knew the whole weight business was a scam. It didn’t mean I wasn’t still struggling with body issues, but I knew it was all horseshit. Just like wearing bras is horseshit. As is most things that are female signifiers. They cost a lot of money, and they are horseshit! Add the wedding industry complex to that as well. And fashion and makeup to boot.
If I could go back to little me, I would tell her to be proud of how smart she was. Be proud of her heritage and ignore the haters. Or pour salt into their sugar bowls. I’m not really a ‘forigve and forget’ type of person, and there is much value in getting some of your own back.
I would have told her she was as cute as a button and not to listen to her mom about her weight. In fact, I would have told her not to listen to her mother at all. THat her mother was not a good role model and she (little me) should ignore all the advice her mother gave her. She did not have to get married and have children. She did not have to go to college. She did not have to wear makeup and be fashionable. I would tell her to really ignore her father because his advice was even more toxic. A good guy would not feel threatened by her. He would not want her to make herself smaller (emotionally, mentally, or physically) so he could feel bigger and better.
I would tell her that love didn’t have to be restricted or hurtful or doled out in dribs and drabs. I would tell her that she was worthy of love, no matter what. She didn’t have to be the confidante or the dumping ground in order for this to be true. She was beautiful in her awkwardness. When I think of how miserable she was and how alone she felt, I want to cry. I have so much compassion for her because she just had no clue how to be. She was constantly told that everything about her was wrong. She was too quiet. She read too much. She was too loud. She acted too much like a boy. She was too fat. She didn’t finish all the food on he rplate.
I look back at her now with such a different eye. She did the very best she could with the little she had, and it was enough. Do you hear me, Little Minna? You. Were. Enough.
I never felt I was enough. Not when I was little. Not when I was a teenager. Not when I was in my 20s, 30s, or 40s. I felt I fell short no matter what. I started studying Taiji when I was 35, and that was the beginning of a painful and slow journey out of hell. After five years or so, I no longer hated myself. I didn’t love myself, but I didn’t hate me, either. Well, at least not as virulently as I had in the past. I was studiedly neutral. But secretly critical of myself.
It got better bit by bit. Little by little. Inch by inch. Until I died. Twice. I was 50 years old, and I was in a coma for a week after that happened. I woke up, very confused, angry, and ready to fight someone. I didn’t know who needed fighting, but I knew someone did.
When I woke up, I was pumped full of drugs. Sedatives, narcotics, and barbs. I was angry and scared, yes, but…I was also…free. My depression was nearly gone and my anxiety was drastically decreased. The biggest thing, though, was that I fucking love my body now. The nursese were so gentle and compassionate as they were taking care of me. Except one guy, and he was just ruthlessly efficent. Which was fine, too. He got the job done–it was just clear it wasn’t his favorite part of the job. Which, fair. Wiping someone else’s ass would not be my favorite thing, either. But he did it swiftly and efficiently, which was good enough. He did not show any evidence of disgust–he just wasn’t as warm as the other nurses.
I walked out of the hospital positively in love with my body. It got me through death–twice!–and kept on walking. I walked out of the hospital a week after I woke up–and, yeah, I used a wheelchair to get to the front of the hospital, but then I got into the car mostly on my own. And I walked into the house by myself.
My body was a warrior.My body fought death and beat it twice. You cannot say shit about my body to me any longer; I simply will not listen. I took a bunch of selfies after I got out of the hospital, and I’m cute AF! Yeah, I said it. I’ll say it again.
Women bond by being mean to themselves, mostly about their weight. Women don’t feel they can say something unrepentantly positive about themselves. When I was one, I refused to do the diet talk bullshit. I do not want to bond over that. Even though I hated my body, I refused to play into that. I hated how gender it was and I hated that women can do no right when it comes to weight. Or anything, really.
My body is, in the words of John Mayer, a fucking wonderland. It’s so amazing, and I couldn’t be prouder of it.