Learning to See the Avoided Fat Body

Me now.

In the last few months, I’ve been staring at myself in the mirror. That’s an old behavior. What is new is that I now look at all of my body, instead of the few inches of which I’m not ashamed.

I don’t remember when I stopped looking at my body, or if I ever even started. Like many women—especially fat women (or those afraid of being fat)—I’ve long judged and avoided my body, and considered it (and myself) ugly. I long ago learned to look selectively. Even as a skinny kid, I would only look at my face (and just the parts of it, like my eyes and cheekbones, which I considered less ugly) and avoid the rest. I lived from the neck up long before I’d ever heard that phrase.

Being a survivor of sexual abuse was a part of it, certainly; I rejected my body because it had not protected me in my time of need (and had betrayed me, too. Long deprived, I always hungered for any kind of physical contact). A therapist once assigned me the task of looking at seven-year-old girls, the age of the first sexual abuse I remember. “You’ll see how small little girls are,” she said, “and so helpless.” She was right, of course. (Even years afterwards, I’d still turn away and cry whenever I’d just glance at one of those small faces atop a set of tiny limbs.)

For decades—the skinny ones and the fat—I didn’t know what my body looked like because I didn’t look; I was afraid to look, and I was ashamed to look. I wore poorly-fitting and shapeless clothes to camouflage what I did not want to see. I ordered clothes by mail for convenience and to avoid the visibility (and potential shame) of shopping in public. The idea that I could wear clothes to highlight or accentuate my body was an unknown concept. Of course I preferred to make love in the dark, and struggled to accept the slow caress, the lingering, tender gaze.

Exhibit A: Shapeless clothes (2010)

For the last several months, however, I’ve been using mirrors, cameras, and a tape measure to learn myself, a kind of training in seeing. It is as if I am seeing myself for the first time, seeing what I actually look like, compared to the image I carry around in my head. I also now know that I've spent years seeing myself from outside, as one viewed. I am learning how to see myself and my world from behind my own eyes.

One of the benefits of this training is that I can now tell when I’m doing a “perfect parts” self-gaze, versus simply seeing my body. Also, I no longer measure my appearance based on others’ attention because I now have my own base of knowledge. I know, too, that there is a difference between how my body feels to me and how it looks. Because of my increased muscle tone, for example, I feel (and am) sleeker. I am still carrying excess fat, however, so am still bulgy around my stomach, upper thighs, and butt. 
I can’t (yet) say that I love my body, but I am becoming familiar with it, have learned to see it, and do so with diminishing shame.

Seeing My Mother in the Mirror

When I was young, I idolized my mother, as many young girls do. I thought she was beautiful (and she was), charming, and vivacious; I was none of those. In fact, I never thought I resembled her in any way. I was quite surprised when my younger sister told me (not long after our mother died) that I looked more like my mother than either of my sisters.
And now that I am getting smaller and less fat, I see the resemblance--and am surprised that I never noticed it before. I've come to believe that I couldn't imagine any similarities between my mother and me, and so couldn't see them.

My mother, Mary E. Ursery

As well, I certainly could never imagine competing with my mother or my older sister in anything--perhaps out of fear, or maybe except in areas (such as school achievement, writing, and mechanical ability) in which they'd shown no interest. I also feared self[-assertion, attractiveness, and sensuality (as is common among those who are sexually abused at an early age). In my mind, however, those were attributes that rightly belonged to other women (especially my mother and older sister) but not me. I think, too, that I somehow believed that the only way I could be attractive would be if I became her--with all of her trauma and danger and pain.
These days, I no longer reject my mother, or our many similarities. I see her when I look at myself in the mirror. I fall into her gait while walking down the street. As she did, I take pleasure in a well-turned phrase and a well-cut garment. I have finally chosen to be myself, including the self I share with her.

The Looking

What happens when I add a much-increased awareness of my electrolytes, regular weightlifting , and eating (mostly) clean and low-carb? I am feeling better, physically, emotionally and mentally, certainly. I'm about 9 inches smaller, though have lost little weight. I am also aware of others' gazing at me, and my own increased satisfaction when I look at myself.

From www.hellobeautiful.com

In the past, I would feel anxious and unsafe if I felt I was attractive to others. I would frequently disassociate while emotionally fearing a risk of harm, particularly sexual assault. (Not surprising, of course, for someone who survived childhood physical and sexual abuse.) I would either (a) stop taking care of myself and absent-mindedly begin to eat in ways that didn't serve me or (b) absent-mindedly get in a relationship--with someone else.
Today, I don't have that low-level anxiety and fear humming inside me; I know I can protect and care for myself. Being attractive is no longer about being at risk.
I came to this place, I think, over the last couple of years. For example, last year I bought more attractive and dressier clothes--even had many of the pieces tailored. I believed that I was worth the expense, and was pleased with how good I felt in those clothes and how attractive I looked (and look) in them.
My current sense of well-being and attractiveness, then, has a foundation of self-satisfaction. Years ago, I would be focused only on how others saw me, not at all how I felt about myself, or what I thought of my appearance. I'm so glad that's changed.

That Clothes-Sex Thing

Losing weight and not shopping for new clothes = wearing baggy clothes.
This, however, is not new for me. I've long worn baggy clothes, and enjoyed it. I'd think of them as comfortable, and liked how they hid or gave them impression of hiding, the parts of my body of which I was ashamed: my belly. And they made (and sometimes make) me feel safe and protected from harm

I sometimes find myself embarrassed looking at other fat women who wear tight(er) clothes, and think: aren't you ashamed? Why are you pushing yourself on us like that? Of course, it is my shame, my fear of being visible that I'm projecting onto them. (The link takes you to a wonderful, sexy video of Brit comedienne Katy Brand.)
Like many survivors of sexual abuse, I often wear baggy clothes for the sense of safety they provide me. They give me a feeling (not the reality, of course) of invisibility and protection. And they de-sex me.

Monique, working it.

And Now?
I'm viewing oversized clothes in a different light. I now see that they also bring a sense of vagueness to my concept of self. I'm beginning to feel fuzzy and undefined while wearing oversized clothes, and crisper, more present, when I wear more form-fitting clothes. Being in baggy clothes hides me from myself, and others, and not just the sexual others, either.
And I've been feeling more sexual, much more sensual lately, with a greater desire to be in the world, so I want to show myself more. I want to be one of those sexy, lush women in nice clothes.