"That's too much work."
"You're ugly."
"You can't do it."
“You did it all wrong.”
"You'll never have enough."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
“Those thoughts make you a bad person.”
"Nobody likes you."
"No one cares."
"What's the point of getting out of bed?"
“You’re not allowed to have that.”
“No, YOU’RE crazy.”
“You’ll be poor forever.”
“They’re judging you. All of you.”
Oh the rhythm of the song of the voices in my head! In wanting to make the transition into my 40th year on planet Earth a milestone, I knew that an essential part of that marking would be to look at themes in my life. Themes that have propelled me or held me back. Like a peek under the hood, I wanted to get a tune up using writing in a public forum as my primary tool. How have I dared myself? How have I held myself back? What do I need to receive? What do I need to let go of?
I was going to write specifically about body image. I recently watched a documentary about our society and the culture of beauty in media and how it perpetuates a giant list of fucked-up-ness on all of us. I love this topic. As a child of the MTV generation it’s a conversation that I’ve been having for (oh my god I can now say decades) decades. At one point I found myself having a physical reaction with my hands getting warm and my body tensing up while watching the film. I’ve had body shame for as long as I can remember. As an adult, I joke that I don’t do public nudity but the truth is, I usually don’t. It’s been there, that “thing” for as long as I can remember. Even as a little boy during hot summers with no air conditioning, other boys would take their shirt off while at home or walking to the store. Nope. Not me. No way. A few years back I went to a well-known hot/cold plunge bath thingy. It’s a really nice space and very popular here in San Francisco. You sit in warm water, then plunge into cold or something like that. I put on the robe for the men only day (it’s gender specific someday and unisex on others) with the idea being to go to the baths area then receive a massage. There I was in my robe sitting in the waiting area between the locker room and the baths. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t do it. The idea of disrobing and being naked in a room of other people was horrifying. I don’t even like being naked when it’s just me. It’s cool and all for the shower but that’s about it. I like fall weather that requires layers. That’s when I like my body. When it’s fully accessorized and swaddled in a hodgepodge of knits and wovens.
While taking my time to write this post, and because I took a nap today so now I can’t sleep, I ended up in a deep Facebook wormhole looking at some photos of people that I know. You start by looking at a friend or acquaintance then you click on their friends and acquaintances and just see where it leads you. Then you think “Weird! I’ve seen that person around town and they know so and so!” So yeah, this is what happens to me sometimes when I can’t sleep. Anyway, there it was. A bunch of guys frolicking at the beach. All happy and half naked. I felt jealous and envious. They looked so happy and I thought, “I can’t do that.” In the midst of swirling through the image wormhole there were so many guys without shirts on. Profile images without shirts on, shots taken at bars without shirts on. Queer shirtless dudes. I’m not one of them. I can’t be like them. I other myself. Some form of shame and off-kilter self-esteem stuff creeps in and then I start to feel bad about myself. That’s when I have to be careful. I have to try hard to keep my head on straight. It's work to not go too dark for too long.
It’s not just about the nudity thing and it's uncertain root cause. It’s those voices. Not the voices experienced by the schizophrenic but the ones that represent those under-nurtured and under-loved parts of ourselves. The neuroses. The stuff we call our “baggage” or as I like to call it the “shit” of you you’re your shit and I have my shit, shit. Those little bastards that creep up every so many weeks just when I’ve been having a brilliant ride. They always come back. The coulda, shoulda, woulda recording that’s always at a low hum in the background noice of life. Like that skin tag on the back of my neck. It’s there and I wish it wasn’t but someday I can probably afford to get it cut off. The little buggers that I manage to kick down when my own voice is strong and my feet firmly rooted. They claw at me when I look too closely in the mirror to reveal my troubled skin that’s been the Achilles heel of my self confidence since puberty. They poke me in the side when I get too comfortable with living on a low income. They put their hands around my throat when I’m on the verge of speaking my truth. They sometimes gather together and form of choir of shame and insecurity, celebrating those days when I just don’t want to leave the house and feel something beyond the case of the blues.
I’ve been thinking about my Gemini nature with the coming birthday. How I’m one part retreat on the mountaintop and other part Las Vegas (true story, it’s Las Vegas next week and was bodywork training on Mount Madonna last week). How I’m one part outgoing confident and one part introvert. One part creative and expressive and one part hands and lips bound. And one part whole-hearted believer and another part disenfranchised cynic. It’s confusing this dualistic paradoxical tug of war conundrum I find myself swimming in. This speeding, thrashing, thumping and dizzying roller coaster ride is exhilarating and exhausting.
With age, I’ve noticed something. Its taken place most vigorously in the past year. I’ve often felt like I’m 16 in this older shape and form with the same fears and insecurities as my teenage self, as if certain things born in the teenage wasteland have never changed. I realize now that something has changed. There’s a subtle move from a lot of fear to facing fear. Subtle is the key. I’m not sure if the voices have changed but my hope is that if I initiate change (like thoughts and behaviors) they will have no choice but to subside, to take a backseat for a new, more pleasant recording. Vulnerability creates space for the spark of creativity that fuels the processes of change. The difference between my 16 year old self and my 39.94 year old self is that now I’m willing to be vulnerable because it took this long to understand that in the vulnerability is where the magic happens. That doesn’t mean I cry more (although it could). It doesn’t mean that I let anyone step on my toes. It means that I face uncertainty and take risks with the desire to expose exactly how I’m feeling (thank you Brene Brown) AKA the truth, and always with compassion and empathy. Not for you but for me. How we should all be doing more to serve ourselves, not holding back because of what we fear we’ll receive from others. Not selfishly but authentically. Fuck everybody else (in a loving kindness sorta way). It’s really hard to decide that what we do and who we are is enough. It’s really hard to scream loud enough to be heard above the choir of shame and insecurity that has been so much a part of our lives. Sometimes we gotta scream from that deep down place in our gut. The place that knows the real deal. The more we talk back, the less we hear that same old recording playing in the background holdin’ us down. Like Jill Scott sings, “You’re gettin in the waaaay, of what I’m feelin.”
The Voices: You’re ugly. You’re not smart enough. You’re always going to be poor.
Me: (screaming) Go fuck yourself! I’m trying to get shit done! (turns up the music real loud). Damn pains in my ass…always trying to get at me…(mumbling and still cursin’)