I haven’t written anything in a while and now I have loads to say.
The chances of it coming out concisely and coherently are slim to none. So bear with me.
Those steroids made me go a bit doolally (see previous post). Good doolally for a while, but then it wore a bit thin. The ferocious appetite they induced means that I am no longer a bit thin. I have a paunch and a fat face. A fat spotty face, because the Vectibix has decided to wreak its acne havoc all over me.
It is a strange thing to suddenly be conscious of my appearance. It is a strange thing that I never was before. After all I am a woman, relatively young, living in western society. How dare I not care how I look? Do I not read the magazines? (Eh no.) Do I not watch the TV? (Eh yes.) Do I not know that my appearance is what validates me as a member of this society? (Must have missed that bit.)
How did I get this far in life and not succumb to the overwhelming pressure to look good all the time?
I think now I know. Because I always probably looked okay. Not great, but not noticeably dysmorphic. And now I have an affliction. A pizza face. The kind of face I have seen on others many times and never really understood what it meant for them. Now I am looking in the mirror more than twice a week. I am running back into the house because I have forgotten to put on makeup. I am holding my hand over my chin while I am talking to people. I have had a small child shout at me, “Why are you covered in spots?” and I have felt embarrassed instead of amused. The percentage of time that I forget how I look has dwindled.
Is this how other people feel? Is this how other women feel? I have read about and spoken to women who wouldn’t dream of leaving the house without makeup, and I’ve been politely bemused and a bit sad. Now I’m even sadder, because I am realising what it really means. It means they can’t bear to look at their naked face because it makes them recoil in disgust. That is a fecking holy shame. And here I am joining in with their self-loathing. When really all I have is a few old spots.
Another layer of my robustness has been peeled away.
On a more positive note.....
We had a lovely wholesome family weekend two weeks ago, celebrating a birthday and a communion. (Our family is renowned for its wholesomeness.)
It made me think a bit about relationships between mothers and daughters. That old chestnut.
My daughter and I squabble all the time. I get frustrated with her and scold her for not doing what I expect her to do, even if I haven’t fully explained what it is I want from her. I don’t treat my son in the same way. I am much more indulgent with him, I forgive him quicker, I leave him off. It’s only taken me four years to realise this, and to begin to try to understand why.
I hold my daughter to a higher standard because she is female and I expect greater things from her. Isn’t that a terrible thing to say? Female chauvinism at its best. The little man can do what he likes because sure that’s boys for you, bless their little hearts. There is an inherent supposition that boys are going to misbehave and can’t be expected to follow instructions. But girls are supposed to help their mums and do what they’re told and keep those pesky boys in line.
No wonder they freak out when they get a few spots on their face.
“PERFECTION!!! I NEED PERFECTION!!! NOW!!!!!!!”
But I have, up to this, felt good about myself, and have not been too harsh a self-critic.
And that’s thanks to my own mum who, while probably treating her boys and girls a bit differently if we were to really analyse it, basically brought us all up with a tremendous self-belief. I joke that our family motto is “Impossible is Nothing.” It’s hard to be timid and retiring and unadventurous when your parents have sailed around the world - it’s just too embarrassing to be outdone by them.
My mum thrives on helping other people, possibly to a fault. It’s the classic Irish Mammy affliction, of neglecting oneself, serving everyone else your own dinner and standing in the kitchen eating stale bread saying, “No no I’m fine, I had mine earlier.” But you can’t give out to someone for that, it’s a bit like saying, “That Mother Teresa one was a fecking goody-goody show-off.” Not on. And what about a mother of Irish extraction NOT being a Proper Irish Mammy? There’s something seriously wrong with you then. (Sniff. Guess I’ll have to start giving other people my dinner then. Damn.)
So these are the things I would like to thank my mother for:
My (hopefully only temporarily wavering) self-belief
An excellent diet
A childhood home devoid of any negative body-image commentary
My thick hair (v useful in the current situation)
Lots of babysitting
Resilience
Watering my plants. Every time she visits.
Hanging out my washing. Every time she visits.
Giving me her dinner while she ate stale bread
Halting her adventures while I go through mine
Endless love
Final thought of the day.
Single middle-aged men with cancer are the most irritating, demanding patients that one could have the misfortune to sit next to on a chemo ward.
Transmission ends.
