Our Bodies: To Whom Do They Belong?

Feminism is defined as the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes.  In the last fifty years, tremendous strides have been made toward the liberation of women both through the organized feminist movement and through the smaller, quieter insistence of individual women that their rights be recognized and respected.  2013 is a very different social climate for women than 1963 was.  For that, we should all be grateful.  Access to contraception, availability of education and career, economic freedom, independence, and creative expression are all present for women now in ways our foremothers could have only dreamed of.  The fight is not over, though.

It is my opinion - based on my value system, my worldview, and my own traumatic experiences - that one of the final frontiers of feminism is the female body itself.  I'm not coming at this from a reproductive angle.  I am speaking to the vast, accepted, terribly damaging sexualization of women.  Flip on the television for a moment.  Any channel, it doesn't matter.  Press the mute button, and observe the female forms on the screen.  Commercials, reality tv, sitcoms, crime procedurals, network or cable news - the context is nearly irrelevent.  Look at the BODIES of the women.  What do you see?  Young women, thin women, pretty women, sexualized women.  Compare them to their male counterparts.  Notice a discrepancy?  This contrast is blatant especially on news programs, where a handful of heavily made-up, physically attractive women sit amongst aging, usually white, sometimes balding men.  The men, you see, are there to contribute their ideas.  The women, the message seems to be, are there because they HAVE to be (this is 2013, after all, and there are quotas to meet) and because they're just so darn easy on the eyes.

Another exercise.  Pick up a magazine.  Any periodical, it doesn't matter.  Flip through it.  I defy you not to find at least one article or advertisement promising women beauty, youth, and that prize coveted above all others: thinness.  This reality is so entrenched in our culture that we scarcely notice the all-out assault on our self-esteem that we endure when we're just trying to read a damn magazine.

Where I believe the feminist element becomes apparent is when we notice that all of these media messages seem to suggest that we, as women, must be acceptible and attractive to men in order to have value.  If we are not sexy, we are not worthwhile.  It's okay for a man to stand on his character and intellect, but a woman must have character, intellect, and a smokin' hot body.  The perpetuation of this myth is another example of patriarchy: men are superior, and women's survival is dependent upon male approval.  Even the catty nature in which women are portrayed interacting with other women (hello, Real Housewives) seems to point to a battle for male attention.

I have seen violent male domination of the female form in my own life.  I battle its effects every day.  But rape is the most extreme point on a very broad spectrum.  The media's sexualization of women exists on the very same spectrum.  It is about having power and control over the bodies of women.  Our individuality, our ideas, our visceral power as human beings - those are the things we have to offer this world.  Those are the things by which we will be remembered when we are gone.  Those are the legacies we leave to our children.  Being brave enough to reject the messages with which we are smacked day in and day out - that we must be thin!  Beautiful!  Young!  Toned!  Visions of physical perfection! - is a challenge I will not minimize.  It's possible, though.  Even more possible when we sisters grasp hands, stand up tall, and say, together, "I WILL NOT DO THIS ANYMORE."

A Woman's Right

I am at a tenuous place in my recovery.  I am being faced with the most difficult realities of my past and my present, and it is incredibly difficult.  It would be so much easier to retreat to the comfort of my behaviors, watch the emotions melt away with each pound lost.  I refuse to do that, so I am using my voice instead of my body to communicate my pain.

I am far enough along in my process to begin dealing with the real nastiness of my illness.  I have trimmed the leaves of destructive behaviors, hedged the branches of relational difficulties, and I now find myself hacking at the real roots of the disease that has threatened my life for far too long.  What I am discovering is this: these roots run deep, and they will choke the life out of me if I don't deal with them soon.  I am not immune to relapse.  On the contrary, I have fallen down over and over and may do so again.  What is different this time is that I truly want to live free of my disease.  That freedom comes at a price, and the price is facing those menacing roots.

A long time ago, I was hurt.  Several times, actually, but one incident in particular has defined my struggle, been the albatross around my neck.  Another human being, one I loved and treasured and trusted, betrayed me in the most annihilating way.  He took something from me, many years ago, and I will never get it back.  He stole my sense of safety, my respect for my body, my idea of humanity.  He destroyed what was never his to touch. 

I have wreaked havoc on my body in the years since in an attempt to erase, numb, obliterate what was done.  Each day I deal with the emotional and physical scars I was left with.  Simple things, inconsequential to most, are exceedingly difficult.  Being told I am pretty is like being told I asked for what happened to me.  Being touched unexpectedly is like being given a one-way ticket back to my worst nightmare.  I have learned to navigate the post-traumatic stress, but I have not healed. 

I am angry sometimes that one night - just a few hours - condemned me to a lifetime of struggle.  It maddens me to know that while I must deal with the repercussions of this event every day, my perpetrator likely has no such burden to carry.  For him, it was an expression of power, of rage, that ended when I walked out his door.  For me, it was a life sentence for a crime I never committed.

I don't speak of my experience flippantly.  I am not sharing to gain attention for myself, to get pity, to get some kind of "survivor glory."  This shit hurts, I am terribly ashamed, and I most certainly don't take any of it lightly.  My purpose in sharing my story is to highlight a key point: All people, women and children included, have the right to be safe.  We have the right to be protected.  We have the right to live free of fear, free of persecution, free of oppression, free of violence.  We have a right to live a life focused on dreams, hopes, and goals, not on terror and shame. 

I have a right to be angry.  I have a right to demand change - change to our society, to the way our sons are raised to treat women and to the way our daughters are raised to treat themselves, to the way we react to violence.  WE have a right to end our own suffering.  WE have a right to be safe.  WE have a right to rise.  Pain shared is not doubled, but halved.  If you have your own story, please be open.  I am here for support, for love, for unending compassion.  Rise with me.  Shake loose your wings and fly above the hurt.