*trigger warning, discussion of self-harm, attempted suicide

Fine Forearms

I used to tell people that the thing I liked most about myself was my forearms. It’s true. They’re aesthetically very pleasing. They’re symmetrical, which is a win on the human approval scale right off the hop. We’re wired to like symmetry. I suspect that’s one of the reasons my nerve-damaged chin bothers me so much – it sits slightly askew.

I suspect I also enjoyed people’s credulous response to such a bizarre favourite body part, but I was never going to pick anything with much in the way of flesh. Bulimia wouldn’t allow that – flesh was the failure. Even those of us not living with eating disorders are bombarded by messaging about our bodies and their ‘obvious’ flaws.

Bulimia hadn’t met menopause. That’s a good thing – it would’ve been rock meets hard place. My menopause seems to be about weight gain, and it’s not accepting alternatives. I’m helping by consuming as many snacks as humanly possible. The part of me that isn’t testy about my constant consuming is celebrating the lack of success my eating disorder is having at convincing me to re-engage. She’s trying, and I do have lots of moments of body hate and dislike, but it’s still not enough to make me go back.

I’m tempted, but I’m holding the line. The me of a decade can’t believe my fortitude. She should – eating disorders require hella internal fortitude. I’m simply using my willpower for good these days. We really are our choices, much of the time.

Dissatisfaction and Poor Choices

I went through a period of dislike regarding my forearms in my twenties and thirties, however, which was a shame. When you live with an eating disorder, there’s not much about yourself you find tolerable, let alone likeable. Forearms were mostly it for me.

I used to like my nose as well, but age has taken care of that. Noses keep growing, did you know that? I believe ears do as well. When I woke and went to wash my face one morning, I saw my maternal grandmother’s nose in the reflection. What an unpleasant shock. I never liked her nose. It had a bump in the centre similar to the one I’m now growing, and it drooped at the tip.

When I was a child, I didn’t understand the cruelty of gravity.

I liked my forearms until my first, serious self-mutilation and semi-serious suicide attempt at age nineteen.

Selfharm Efforts

In an act of rage and despair following yet another bulimic episode, I broke the bathroom mirror that mocked me with its accurate depiction of my post-purge, shaky, self-loathing. I looked at what I was becoming and despaired. To make it go away, I punched the mirror, hard.

I tend to the impulsive at times. You’d think a series of negative consequences would have moderated that tendency, but no. We’re an impulsive species, often to our detriment.

When you punch a mirror in the movies, it’s dramatic. In reality, nothing much happens with just one blow. Mirrors are solidly constructed beasties. The lack of discernible impact following a punch that hurt my hand didn’t snap me back to reality, unfortunately. It pissed me off and made me determined to succeed instead. It took a few minutes, but eventually, it fractured, splintering my reflection into less recognizable pieces as shards and slivers fell into the sink.

The damage still wasn’t enough to soothe. I picked out a large-ish piece and used it to carve lines in my forearms. It’s funny – I wrapped the piece of glass in a paper towel so I didn’t cut my fingers while cutting at my arms. The human brain makes odd choices at times. The damage inflicted this way wasn’t damage-y enough for my rage and despair, however, so my forearms got turned over, and I started cutting more deeply.

Memory is a funny thing. We think we remember well, but in fact, we only have the gist most of the time. Our memories have holes. What happened next is one of mine. I remember being in the emergency room later that evening. I remember getting my forearms wrapped, accompanied by a lecture from the doctor attending to me. I don’t know how I got there. I don’t know how I got back to my dorm. I don’t know what happened with the bathroom mess. I’m not sure how I packed up and headed home a few days later when the term ended.

Fixing Mistakes

Not all the cuts scarred, but enough did so that I saw the lines when I looked at my forearms. I hated those lines, hated the reminder, and hated it when people asked questions if they noticed. I tried to avoid letting my arms tan too much – scars stay white. The body part that I loved so much became loathed. How typical of my neuroses. They would definitely kick over a kid’s sand castle. They would absolutely take candy from a baby. They roll mean.

Luckily, life isn’t one and done. You can correct your mistakes, or at least, make changes that help to mitigate their impact and longevity. Scars fade with time. You can also hide them with tattoos.

I have half sleeves on both arms, cherry blossoms on the right, swirls and a fairy on the left. I like the cherry blossoms best, but I love looking down when I’m typing, playing piano, or being vain and seeing only images I enjoy. I even forget the tattoos are there, something that never happened with the scars. Evidence of injury always makes me self-conscious, perhaps because I’m aware so many of my scars are self-inflicted and assume everyone else makes that connection (and judges me negatively) as well.

I make a lot of assumptions for someone who likes to brag a bit about being smart.

I Like My Recovery Best

I’d like to like more things about myself, and I’m getting there. Like so many things in life, loving yourself is more than merely a choice. It’s a habit. You practice. Like piano, which I did, every day for decades. You reap what you sow – much of life is physics and slogans – and practicing piano is a surefire way to get well-tuned forearms.

I also like that I can play piano, though rarely in front of others. Listing things we dislike about ourselves is always an easier choice than singing our praises. For me, self-consciousness would top that list. It’s a hard way to live, worried. How does the quote go? A coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man but one. Shakespeare had kind of a way with words. Do you suppose he liked that personal quality best?

I like my forearms well enough again, but they’re no longer my favourite thing about myself. That honour goes to my eating disorder recovery status. Twenty percent of us don’t make it at all. Living in recovery after nearly four decades of an active eating disorder is almost a miracle. I forget to give myself enough props.

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Liking yourself in a world that needs you to embrace self-hatred
and the shopping that ostensibly cures it is a radical choice.

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If you or someone you know is thinking about suicide, reach out for help. Suicide is a permanent solution to a usually temporary problem. In Canada, the number is 988. This is the national suicide crisis line, and help is available 24/7 by phone and text.

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