I don’t have a lot of company over for social calls, but if I did, they’d attest—Mallory covers her mirrors. The room I currently live in so happens to be the room I grew up in—bottom floor at Mama Mo’s house. It’s the room where I grew through awkward puberty, picked at my teenage acne, painted pop punk murals upon, and spent many hungover mornings of my twenties roaring and snoring. The room of this current flashback of youth also has those long, full length, 1990’s style sliding closet doors made of mirror. They make for a constant reflection, unforgiving reminder, and inescapable proof of what I’ve looked like through every age, every angle, all the time forever even when I’m sleeping. It’s hard to pinpoint where things begin when it comes to my shiny negative self-image. Could it have been seventh grade when Tommy Shanley passed me in the hallway openly gazing at my chest and indiscreetly and aloud mumbled, “my god, they’re huge?” Could it have been the fact that I had cystic acne throughout high school, played basketball, and didn’t have a boyfriend for four years and was the chubby and funny token friend? Could it have been the weight battle that ensued after high school ballooning me into the obese realm of 225lbs at age 19? It probably didn’t help that I pierced everything on my face, cut my own hair, and wore men’s clothes in an effort to be rebellious and punk rock. Whatever the root, where ever the stem, however the growth, insecurity and body dysmorphia has been with me a while. I hate(d) my boobs and my midsection. I spent many nights and days attempting to make plans to go out only to cancel because I hate my (insert body part here). I argued many hours with the few boyfriends I had about their insanity regarding my attractiveness. I painted countless self portraits in an effort to witness myself, warts and all, flaws and wrinkles, scars and lines, into forcible acceptance. I would lay in bed at night unable to fall asleep because tomorrow morning I’d finally change the binge eating, lazy workout efforts, and uncover the mirror to see exactly what I was. Maybe everyone did this. Maybe everyone’s social anxiety would tornado out the closet and arrive him or her at the art opening only to lose all the oxygen in the roomfilledwithpeoplemustbolttenminutesintothereception!?! Maybe everyone covered their mirrors and blamed it on the spirit realm being able to feng shui bullshit capture their souls while they slept? But I don't think everyone covers their mirrors. I think other people are okay seeing themselves. It wasn't until last year at the ripe age of 33 that I really began to tolerate myself. I'd lost 50 pounds and rewarded myself with this cool, art deco, under-titty chandelier style tattoo. (Thanks, Nikki at Aces Tattoo) I felt pretty... or at least one or two steps closer to it. I'd started to wear half sets of fake eyelashes on a daily basis because fuckit and was determined to grin and bare it. Fake it all til I made it some. It was actually working--really. I think? I'd finally started to like and understand my body when it came time to share it. Like, share it. Shaaaaaare it. Like share, SHARE it. In short, Nugget and I have inhabited the same vessel for 207 days now. We've had minimal disagreements and she's a pretty quiet roommate. Nugget spreads out a bit in the communal areas, but mostly knows his/her place. I'm okay with the furniture he/she's brought with him/her and, if anything, he/she's already improved my habitation of self greatly. Food tastes better, I eat less, work out more, and am really getting better in tune with my meditative side. I've put some new work into our place and it's starting to pay off. I tell folks I'm 7 1/2 months pregnant and they look at me like I'm insane. They look me up and down and say, ''no way?" I have to insist and then I sometimes allow them to awkwardly touch my stomach as if the rock hard preggo non-abs will tell the tale I'm apparently not conveying strong enough with words. My Mother insists I'm carrying Kiddo internally, 'in my back,' and that's why I'm not the show-iest of belly show-ers. Regardless of where the baby's boudoir is, we're sharing the house. SHARING. I think that's why I've lucked out in the negative body image department as of late. With 80% of the mirrors covered in the house and not being 50 pounds fatter with Kiddo OR being the show-iest of belly show-ers.... I haven't had to size myself up as usual. I'm too distracted by crazy shit like kicked colons and vaginal discharge, getting dumped by my baby's father, and what shade of rich dark rose my nipples will finally settle on. Also, not having sex and being single so I don't have to see myself jiggle as I bone down has helped as well. I committed to buying preggo undies and maternity pants early so I wouldn't have to go through the painful elimination process, pant by pant, of my closet not fitting anymore. Right away these tig ol' bitties of mine grew into monstrosities of new bra size letter proportions--36DDD to 40H. I preemptively purchased boulder holders that would fit even the crankiest mammary. What I'm saying here is... The facts of growth have been ever present. The reflection of this growth has not. I'm working on peeling back the mirror veil and appreciating our shape as much as I'm comfortable with... I'm working on positive self-affirmations and not worrying about losing the fifteen pounds of baby weight I've picked up in the last seven months. I'm working on the mirror veil--as much as I love the beautiful Irish lace hanging over it's surface, it's kinda nice looking into it sometimes and thinking, ''eh... not bad...'' I'm working on myself. It's a full time gig, self-love. No holidays.
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I don’t know if you’ll find this entertaining...or astounding... or embarrassing...or a sign of our ridiculous health care times. Probably all of the above.
In short and as I've stated....this pregnancy has not been easy. Really. For reals. Where I’ve lucked out on the physical front—very little discomfort, no morning sickness, not a ton of weight gain, I suffered threefold in the mental health department. I am an artist. We are bizarre, moody creatures filled with turbulent emotion and social anxiety. That’s how we roll. I’d learned to roll with it for thirty years. Until pregnancy. Until hormones. Until, like, October 2017. I had these panic attacks in September and October, the third and fourth months of my pregnancy, where my mind wouldn’t stop. I was bombarded by intrusive thoughts, plagued by uncontrollable insecurity, and I spun out like a motherfucker for days unable to pinpoint or halt the physiological or emotional insanity that was each panic attack. Over the course of that time I stopped painting, stopped playing guitar, stopped seeing family and friends, and basically halted everything that made me. The worst part was that... I could see it. I was atop myself, outside myself. I was split into pieces and each one was fully conscious and aware. In those moments, the new panicked driver of my body and mind was this omniscient entity that I had absolutely no control over. The Real Me, lost and tucked away inside, was like a cowboy on a bucking bronco. I longed for death so at least the ride would be over. Before I was pregnant, I was paying an assload of money a month for catastrophic insurance that I’d been grandfathered into keeping through the last ten years. This shit-tastic insurance apparently didn’t include maternity coverage. Not one...bit. Well, one bit... should I have a complication during birth, it might consider covering that complication if it fit in the standard. Assload of $$ for shit-tastic. Considering FOB has/had/will have amazing insurance.... and absolutely no intention of marrying me, I am still slammed with first trimester bills from my fancy insurance and have only found relief through Medicaid. Health Plan of Nevada. I picked the only plan my OBGYN accepted and just went with it. I really reeeeeally like my Doc and it’s been really important that I get to keep him as my provider. I remember the first appointment I told my Doc I was feeling blue. More blue than normal blue. Payne’s gray and constantly sobbing with thoughts of self-harm as a matter of fact. He told me to find a therapist and I agreed. He told me we could handle it and I believed. Simple, right? Ha. Wouldn’t simple be nice? So I began the process... I started with the list of therapists and offices my Doc gave me. Three “no, we don’t accept that insurance” and one “we aren’t accepting new clients.” I continued on... I asked friends for references, posted on social media, went through the virtual phone book that is Google... ”No new clients/not that insurance” every time. I called Medicaid and was pointed to mental health care offices of Las Vegas... which transferred me to the Behavior Institute of Reno... which rattled off a list of names. I called. I left messages. I emailed. One even had the answer, "we are only accepting new clients if there is a substance abuse problem." I briefly considered fibbing myself into addiction just to get the help I needed. Days and weeks passed and the sheer embarrassment of having to constantly ask for help, beg for help, summarize my sicknesses in voicemail after voicemail... it all wore on me as I continued to suffer. I was so full of self-hate. I was so full of regular hate for FOB. I hated this baby. I hated asking for help and I hated being turned down. Finally, I called the lowest name on my list. A name I’d never heard of at a practice I’d never seen in an area of town I’d never associated with medical professionalism or fine mental health. They could see me on Friday. She could. Whatever her name was. Her. Yes. Thank god. I cried tears of joy. I thanked the receptionist profusely and felt hope. Hope. For the first time in months. I went into the dumpy office with so much hope... so much psychosomatic relief that finally FINALLY someone was going to help me understand, sharpen, collect, and utilize all the coping skills that I had somehow forgotten or didn't know existed. How.... do I summarize this encounter? I really want to give it the narrative it deserves, but it's... so fucking preposterous... I just wanna hit you with all the highlights and punches and let you chew it up as you like. We began with a family history, questions like ''what does your father/mother/sibling do and any history of mental illness?" etc. After every answer I gave, She had a comment: "Oh, so you didn't grow up poor..." "That must've been nice on easy street..." "That explains a few things..." *ahem* We switched to my problems. I opened up, determined, about my panic attacks, depression, etc. and what I was hoping to get out of this therapy...She replied, "Well, if you're gonna reach for anything, reach for marijuana. Don't drink a drop. Not one drop is safe. Weed, the jury is still out on as far as what it does to that baby, but it's great for anxiety." *blinkblink* We moved to current events. FOB had just dumped me, five months pregnant, the previous week and I couldn't stop crying hysterically. She said, "Oh, he's Hispanic. Figures. They never take care of their first kids." "If he is the only male in his immediate family, he's been raised like a prince so be wary of that..." and "Oh, he makes good money, he should buy a duplex and put you on the other side..." and to top it off "I could start a separate thriving practice for white pregnant women who have been deserted by their baby's Latino fathers. It's just what happens... " *cough* What??? That was some racist, narrow minded, judgmental shit. I was astonished. I was baffled. I can't believe I sat there ten minutes more to pretend to make another appointment. I was offended. I was shocked. I was... deflated... after having so much hope for this help. This woman had sat across from me, summed me up in her eyes, judged me, ill-advised me, and then basically said FOB dropped me cuz he's Mexican. I was outraged and still am. I have since reported this person anonymously to the appropriate board and who knows what's happened to her. Hopefully she's been put in check. I never went back. What a fucking nutjob. Man, and I thought I was crazy. In short, I stopped asking for help and began creating my own. Yoga? Yes. Support groups? Yes. Writing? Yes. Drawing? Yes. Prozac? You betcha. Am I fixed and all better? Hell no. Am I on the heaps and piles happier than I was the ass end of 2017? Heck yeah. Heaps. Piles. and Nugget. It's a new year according to the calendar.
I feel like we do it wrong and we should really start New Year on the winter solstice so we could all revel in the fact that the days are getting longer and the light is returning to life. ...Hey. That's not a hippie thing to say--it's science, man. I've got a lot of shit left to do to get ready for this Kiddo:
Oh, 2018, you even numbered tease, you. Oh, 2017, you 'practice makes pregnant' rollercoaster, you. 2017 was a jerk. As much as it feels like looking the gift horse in the mouth cuz shit could currently be a crap-ton worse, it’s difficult not to mourn my hopes, dreams, and expectations of 2017. The last few months have been gravely overshadowed by heartbreak and loss and have felt like a cruel time puzzle. I keep flashing to that one part of Labyrinth where Bowie has crappy Connelly babysitter trapped in one of his fancy clear balls in a big pink poofy dress and is tricking her into wasting Toby-saving hours. It’s as if I have been living the same day over and over with no control over it’s improvement or outcome, floating forward-ish-ly through a hazy gray procession further into the unknown and alone. Each holiday... from Halloween to now...to today... being a reminder of what isn’t, what wasn’t, and won’t be. Happy pills are helping me. Thank you, happy pills. MVP of 2017. They help my brain sprinkle each thought with slightly less kerosene. They give me the ability to ride atop each thought like a calm cowboy and decide whether to buck the bronc home. They also make my legs twitch in bed. They don't keep me from all the thoughts, from sadness or loss. They don't keep me from reflecting, on retrospect, on hindsight. Again, just sliiiightly less kerosene. I guess I'd like to scribble an ode to those thoughts. Allow them the space they're so feverishly and diligently still fighting for in new hopes that they disappear. They say labeling a feeling (without judgement) is a good way to be rid of a feeling--and by 'they' I mean the leaders of all the pregnant and depressed groups I've attended in the last two months as well as the self-help book authors... and pinterest. I'm to FLOW F-Feel it L--Label it (without judgement) O--Open the W--Window to let it go So.... let's crack the back door, shall we? I mourn the loss of a big love, the one I chose to start a family with. I mourn the loss of his friendship, his strength, his companionship, and his commitment. I mourn the loss of a partner to walk through this pregnancy with, to hold hands and cling onto, and to bounce fears off and from. I mourn the dream of our family, the three of us and holiday blessings that were to come with our future. I mourn my concepts of self- worth and the ensuing battle of feeling not only knocked up and unworthy to wed, but knocked up and dumped, discarded at my most hopeful and vulnerable. I mourn the lesser than experiences of my unborn child, how Nugget knows little music nor the sound of her fathers voice. I mourn the death of my maiden self and the wild, untamed female I was forever committed to be. I mourn the unknown transformation of my art and my ability to focus and pickup a paint brush for more than half a year. I mourn the freedom of those around me who love me and the future cost of this love as a burden to their wellbeings and plans. I mourn my physical self and the future scars of this physical upgrade as I battle tokophobia, body dysmorphia, insecurity, and every other self-hating statement rambling under my skin about my bones. This is a really big year. One I didn't see coming, one I never thought would happen, and one I can't control. My body is on autopilot, my future is multiplying, the '8' in 2018 reminds me of boobies, and I still wish I had a dog. Nothing will be the same ever again. I mourn the illusion of control I once had. I feel like I want to drive out to Pyramid Lake, light some shit on fire, and release the ashes. Ok. Yes. That's some hippie witchy shit. All the same, May all these aspects, all these sides, all these part of me, all these thoughts of me, rest in calm peace and not stink up the future decomposing cuz I didn't dig a deep enough hole. |
AuthorMallory Kate is a blogger, artist, single mom and funny girl outta Nevada. |
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