The Body Isn't Something You Can Ruin

Scars, stretch marks, hyperpigmentation, acne, loose skin - I've had (or got) it all. At 28 years old my body has been through its fair share of damage and change already. From semi-violent sports, accidents, and injuries to genetic conditions, sensitive skin, and yo-yo weight gain and loss as a result of mental illness and binge-purge eating it's hard not to feel that I've ruined my body.

The thought of someone touching me is laughable - until recently, I've found it hard to take the idea of someone desiring me romantically when I'm clothed seriously... so you can imagine my response to the idea of getting naked. Yet I understand perfectly that my friends, my family, don't see a 'ruined' human body. They're just happy I've survived.

So where's the middle ground? Where does the kindness of others overlap with the cruelty of our own minds?

To say I struggle with my body image is an understatement - I simultaneously love my body for its strength and resilience and hate how it looks. Of course, I'm nowhere near unique in this matter. According to MentalHealth.org.uk 20% of UK adults are ashamed of their bodies, and 19% are disgusted by their own bodies. This is a mental health epidemic spurred on by our collective need for perfection and while the fact that most of us try to be kinder to others than we are to ourselves is the smallest of silver linings, it's not slowing the march of misery. Suicide rates are up and so is the cost of living - there has never been a time when people are more likely to turn to food, drink, drugs, or other feel-good substances to cope.

Spiralling body image may not be the worst problem most of us face, it is undoubtedly the most personal. There is no escaping our bodies and in an increasingly physical world, it's easy to forget that there's more to us than what people see.

The Body is Not the Self

Descartes meditates on the place of connection between the body, the mind, and the human soul. The debate has raged for centuries, and I have no doubt that it will continue to do so, but the thing that everyone agrees on when faced with the conundrum of what makes a person a person is that the body is a vessel - we are not our bodies.

In fact, the average person when asked to think about Descartes' problem of the mind, body, and self will conclude that we inhabit our bodies. That though we cannot live without our bodies, our bodies cannot be considered whole human beings when the mind, the personality, the soul (whatever it is that makes us us) shuts down. This is why we would never "pull the plug" on someone paralyzed from the neck down - if the brain is dead, however, and a person is left in a vegetative state, matters change. Many people actually don't want to be kept on life support in a situation like this and will go as far as to instruct their families as such.

So the human body is a tool, or a house if you prefer.

Certainly, we'd all prefer to have a beautiful house, a house with a sound roof, a house that does everything we need perfectly... but if unsightly cosmetic cracks were to spread through your walls, the chances of you simply moving out or burning your house down would be slim, no?

This is a problem I pick up and toy with regularly. As a majorly depressive, anxious person I have an innate desire to remove, destroy, or restart anything that inspires shame in me. It's why I've never published a piece of fiction under my own name, and why I regularly delete and start social media accounts. It's why I dye, shave, or cut my hair as a matter of impulse.

But the problem of my body can't be solved like this - I know, I've tried.

When the only other option you have is a war of attrition with the very walking bag of meat you rely on to survive... well, peace is the best choice. It's coming slowly, in my case, and I can say that I've never been more at peace with my body than I am now - though there's a long way still to go. The human body can be damaged, stretched, twisted, infected, scarred, or neglected - but it cannot be ruined, especially not when the damage is purely cosmetic.

This realisation has been sitting quietly in the corner of my mind for months - biding its time, waiting for a moment of quiet reflection. Today it struck and left me winded. Though painful and laden with the knowledge of how much time I've wasted hating my body, it feels like a crack in the coffin lid.

I can almost smell the fresh air and see the sunshine.