In which I angst, completely unproductively

I have two unfinished posts hanging out, posts with intelligent and interesting writing, waiting to be finished and posted.

Instead, you get whining, and perhaps some talk of my own self-defeatest bad habits.

Last night, the wife linked to this picture with text (clicking on it will take you to the original post):

both

My first reaction: falling completely in love with the set and the text.

My second reaction: utter jealousy

My third reaction: sadness

I’ve said before in conversations with my wife and friends that I don’t mind my body, despite it not being my mental image of myself. And that’s true, I guess. I mean, I think it is. It’s mostly true, anyway.

But what is also true is that I purposefully try to ignore it. When I was a child, I had dreams that I was controlling it from within my head. That it wasn’t me, per se, but something that belonged to me.

I don’t take very good care of it, though.

I treat it like I do things in my life that I’d rather forget about. I ignore it until something goes wrong, and then try to ignore that until I can’t anymore, which is usually past the point at which I can do something about it.

If there’s something I could improve, that would improve my body or health or self-image, but wouldn’t quite get it to where I want it, then I tend to ignore that as well.

I’m very good at all-or-none. I preach moderation, I PERFER moderation. But when it comes to my body and my health, unless something will get it all the way done, it’s nigh on impossible for me to convince myself it’s worth doing at all.

Exercise can’t get me down to my* ideal weight/size/shape? Fuck it.

I’ve injured myself/got arthritis/whatever, and can’t do my preferred exercise? Fuck it, why exercise?

I’m not exercising? Fuck it, why eat healthy?

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Suffice to say, it doesn’t get me very far.

So, I see a picture like this, and my first reaction is elation. But it is quickly followed by, “why am I bothering with any of this shit?” Because my gut tells me that, if I can’t get to a place where I COULD realistically pass either way, then why should I bother appeasing the voices in my head that tell me that’s who I am?

(ETA: I’ve also had a disturbing realization this week that part of why I don’t fight against my big belly more is that – in my fucked up head – it makes my boobs look smaller. Add in that my breasts don’t get smaller when I lose weight – they essentially get bigger, since the rest of me gets smaller – and I’ve got yet again an issue where the fact that I can’t go all in means that what I’m doing is actually actively working against me.)

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I’ve been falling into a place lately where I’ve reverted back to as I was as a child. Where don’t just take joy in wearing the more masculine clothes, but also fight against the more feminine ones. Why do I do that? I don’t hate how I look when I’m wearing them. My body is mine, and that is me, and I can look good in a skirt or a dress, even if it’s not my preferred look.

As a child, I fought against them because I was told I had to wear them. If I wanted to be a girl, I had to. Well, then, fine, I wouldn’t.

Nobody’s telling me anything this time, though – nobody but myself. And it’s almost as if I’m saying, if I want to be a boy, I can’t wear anything feminine. But that’s not any more true than what I was told as a child.

What it is – I *think* – is that I’m feeling stuck. Again because of my size, and the size of my breasts. When I wear “boy” clothes, I am still obviously a girl. I am a girl, wearing boy clothes. And when I wear girl clothes, I’m just plain a girl.

And this is frustrating me to no end.

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In my ideal world, on one day I’d be able to go out dressed as a girl, and read as a girl. And on another day, I’d go out dressed as a guy, and read as a guy.

But in this body, that won’t ever happen.

And apparently I’m feeling a little fucking bitter about that today.

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*MY ideal, not society’s

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