Greetings. It’s been a while. I wasn’t feeling the blogging love, but it’s sparking again so here we are.
Now, I don’t think of myself as a model parent. Nor do I think of myself as a feminist. But last week, we were on holiday in Bulgaria and I was struck so hard by one specific thought, I HAD to blog it. We (me and my 5 year old daughter) were at an Aqua Park. Now, I loathe my body. I loathe my size. I despise my scars (I have many keloid scars covering my chest and breastbone). I hate the way that people look at my chest – both for its size and its scarring. However, I was dressed in the only bathing suit I could find that fitted me – a rather bright tankini. No chance of blending into the crowd! As we walked to the first slide, it hit me that it didn’t really matter how I felt about walking around half naked. What mattered was the image I presented to my little girl. So I didn’t cover up at every opportunity (as I would’ve done pre-child). And I didn’t outwardly cringe at the quite frankly bloody unflattering photos that were captured. In fact, I bought them. And am intending to frame them – they may end up in my daughter’s bedroom as a compromise in my head, but they will be on a wall.
I have read so so much in the media about the effects of negative body image on young girls. I don’t want my little girl to grow up hearing me bitch and whinge about how I’m too fat. Or my boobs are too big. I don’t want her to see me being ashamed of how I look. But at the same time, I don’t want her to BE ashamed of me. I feel lousy. I look lousy. The really annoying thing is that I’d lost a bunch of weight a couple of years ago and was far far happier with the way I looked. There also seems to be a bit of a link between the way I feel about myself and the way I feel about life in general. And pretty shit sums it up.
I read a really interesting article a few days ago in the Guardian by Zoe Margolis entitled “Running Saved My Life”. Having been a very sporty teenager, but then not so much in my twenties and early thirties, I took up running again around the time I lost a lot of weight. And I was pretty good at it. As my weight has ballooned, my ability to run, and the enjoyment and feeling of accomplishment that I get from it, has unsurprisingly lessened. But Zoe’s article resonated in me. So much so that earlier this evening I’d planned to utilise a brief spell of child free time tomorrow morning by indulging in a run. However, as is so often the case, that child free time has disappeared. In theory, I should be able to run whilst the child cycles. However, theory is a beautiful thing. I tend to find real life is far less generous.
Apologies for the jumbledness of this post. I am tired. Sleep is eluding me yet again. I am worrying about money, or the lack thereof. I am worrying that I am a rubbish mum. I am worrying that I’m simply not good enough. And I’m frustrated.
I ought to go to bed…
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