(Note: If you must downvote please say why.)
. They give me something to fixate
on. If there were no supermodels
I'd fixate on something else. But I would still be obsessed
. I'd still have that sense that I didn't exist, those pangs of despair
that make me suspect I am in some way deformed
, hopeless, a discarded rag doll
Often, when I read what people have to say about women who are insecure about their appearance
, I get the impression that they do not understand the depth of the insecurity
. Ugly women with make-up
don't put it on to look good
. When your sense of self
is totally crushed it's impossible to look good. They do it to look human
I'm not on a diet for the rest of my life
because I'm trying to maintain a weight
that "looks good" I'm trying to maintain my humanity
. If I gain a pound it's as if it is gone. I'm not a woman
anymore. I can't live with myself therefor I can’t live.
I'm not saying that all "slaves to fashion
" are in the extreme hell
I find myself in-- but many are. These are not petty
battles. Consider the humiliation some men feel if it's suggested that they can't get it up
-- double that and you might understand how a sales clerk suggesting that I wear a size 6
(I am, infect, a SIZE 2
) --could drive me to question my right to go on living. after all this work could I possibly look as FAT as a size 6?
But again, thank god for supermodels! I remember the first time I saw a supermodel
. (I realize now that the boyish
look of supermodels must be intentional. Adolescent girls
are drawn to these women for reasons they can't explain. But to an adolescent girl what could be more beautiful than a boy?) I was at the doctor's office with my mother one spring day in 1991
. I picked up a copy of Elle
. For some reason I didn't feel safe looking at it with my mom there so I crept off the bathroom.
The room was bright lit by a wall of frosted windows. On the other wall was a huge mirror
. I locked the door and leaned on the sink looking at each image. Then I saw kate
She was in a wife beater
and panties that looked liked they'd been washed a few to many times. Her legs were so slender-- she looked like she lived in a charmed world
. I could picture her walking back from the lake barefoot at some extravagant (yet worn and rustic) farm where fascinating conversations
and decadent leisure
were the sole activities. I wanted to be there. I didn't even know where such a place could be-- I still don't-- in fact, I've started to doubt it exists.
AT that moment I looked at the mirror
. This was the first time I really saw myself-- not as simply me-- but as a problem. Something that had to be corrected a great flaw.
I was horrified by my reflection
. I had thought for a moment that I could be beautiful
-- that I could enter that mysterious world. What arrogance! I'd be lucky if I could get up the courage to leave the bathroom. How did this happen? What kind of monster was I turning in to?
Why do I have such beautiful dreams
that reality by comparison is a nightmare
Yes, the dreams make me sick-- but how could I possibly wish that I had never known them? It's like saying that blindness is a cure for a fear of heights.
A world without dreams? It's a long way down.