Lilith Saintcrow

Why is it that when I have something to say about writing, Elizabeth Bear says it better? *sigh* And that she just happens to be right on all counts is kind of depressing, too. There goes that blog post I wanted to write.

Note: the last two sentences in the above paragraph were delivered with a twinkle in the eye and a wide grin.

In other news, I’ve been feeling ridiculously better since I started taking a B-complex daily. Like, utterly, completely better to a ridiculous degree. Plus my red sweatpants are refusing to stay up and fit properly, as well as my jeans. This is the first indication I have of the working-out and the attention to my mood during eating actually providing a sea change in how I regard nutrition. Before we get started, though, I want to register that I don’t want to be thin.

I want to be healthy, and strong enough to beat the schnoogies out of anyone who invades my house or threatens my kidlings. There’s a difference.

We have a frocked-up idea of beauty in our culture (thanks to Jess Hartley for the link) and an even more frocked-up vision of food. It’s been interesting for me to deal with the Surly Teen’s body image and his ideas about food.

For me, food is not about food. Food is about power and self-image, about personal boundaries and the trespass thereof. I’ve had to work very hard to get to the place where I can short-circuit the need to eat when I’m feeling down or lonely or upset. Part of that work was exercise–I loathe team sports, it’s why I’m a writer. I pursue solitary arts; though I do enjoy my friends and the DHM I also need time to just be with myself. Apparently there are some people who don’t. Who knew?

It was a revolution for me to discover that I could control my own participation in an exercise regime. That I could run because I felt like it, or walk down to the store, or actually buy a treadmill and bug the DHM for a heavy bag. I kept waiting for someone to interrupt to tell me I was doing it wrong, that I wasn’t supposed to do it this way, that they would punish me if I didn’t shape up. When that didn’t happen, I actually started to enjoy exercise. Go figure.

But to return to the point (stay on track, Lili) food is rarely about food for women in our culture. Food is a friend that doesn’t mock, a husband who doesn’t beat or look at thinner women. Food is a confidante, and all she does is make you fat if you indulge too often. The horrendous cost of this dynamic takes a while to be shown, and by the time you get there the slide has acquired such speed it’s difficult to reverse. Because after all, our bodies don’t know any different. If there’s a surplus, you’d better get in there and pack it in, because the body doesn’t know when the next famine will be.

Genes married to our culture’s denigration and in some cases, outright (though well-disguised) sheer hatred of female things adds up to food being a ticking emotional time bomb. Now, I know some of you will snort in disgust. There are so many people who go hungry around the world, how dare you complain about food?

I’m not complaining. I’m noting that one of the forms of misogyny in our culture is the way food is regarded for and by women. World hunger is a result of economic inequity, if not caused then certainly propagated and encouraged by those who profit from such inequity. The fact that most of them are women and children is a further function of the misogyny our world seems to be sinking under the weight of.

As Susan Powter pointed out (we used to go to the same hairdresser, and Ms. Powter is not nearly as crazy as she appears; she’s actually quite polite and funny) the companies that process the food supply (or what passes for it) that we see on supermarket shelves have a vested interest in you and I just shoving whatever into our mouths without thinking about what it’s made from, how good for us it is, or even if we’re hungry. They are corporations, and despite their PR their focus is on profits, not health. The economic benefits of a healthy populace are nothing compared to the profit reaped from a dumb and uncaring one.

In other words, high-fructose corn syrup is in. Actual food is out.

I had to think about this for a long time and spend serious work on rewiring some emotional circuits in my head before I got to the point where I didn’t open up the fridge when I felt angry or upset. Living with a very nice Japanese man who cooks vegetarian helps, but the process was long and arduous and I suspect it will never be finished. There was, frankly, too much angsting about it in high school. It’s been etched in acid on my emotional responses, and the media bombardment of “beauty” in our culture doesn’t help.

See television ad of pretty stick-thin woman. Compare self to pretty stick-thin woman (who has undergone 20 hours of Photoshop touch-up to get that pretty or thin.) Panic. Go to fridge. Eat something fattening. Get sugar-buzz. Sugar-buzz crashes. Feel like a worthless fat idiot. Flagellate oneself. Slide even further down slope. Repeat every day.

Is it any wonder I’ve gotten frocked-up in my responses to food? The wonder is that more women aren’t more deeply frocked-up.

I won’t deny that quitting a great deal of television viewing has helped immensely. It’s strange that the one thing that helps me be healthier is turning the damn idiot box off. But that’s a post for another day.

For right now, I will close with a philosophical bit of advice to all my sisters: be a little gentler with yourselves, my dears. Not for me, but for yourselves alone.

It bears repeating. I don’t want to be thin. I want to be strong enough to fight when I have to, and healthy enough to last through my childrens’ most vulnerable years, so I can protect them. And not so incidentally, protect myself.

After all, I can’t do anyone else any good if I’m not strong enough to take care of me.

Related posts:

1. On Thanks, And Food
2. On Sickness, Working Out, And Beauty
3. So Far This Morning I Have

This entry was posted on Tuesday, October 17th, 2006 at 10:58 am and is filed under Deep Thoughts, Rant Rant Rave, Real Life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.