megan the maverick - this ones long.
a co-worker called me a maverick and woke something inside of me. and a few other things that have been on my mind: childhood trauma, body dysmorphia, my addiction to my phone & social medias etc.
i’m nude in bed writing again. the sun isn’t up yet, i just had to pee and a few lines keep repeating in my head, i grab the notepad at my bedside and scribble with one eye open. it goes something like this:
“when you leave home for the big bad world, remember to take a few things with you: toothbrush, a sense of direction, remember to look both ways when crossing & stranger danger.”
I think my i don’t give a fuckness is really in full expansion now. and i mean the idgaf about your perception of my worth, your opinion of my value based on any one moment we may share. i’m filtering less and looking into the left eye more during conversation.
there are so many things i want to discuss today. let’s begin with yesterday.
*trigger warning* this newsletter discusses body dysmorphia & lightly touches on childhood traumas.
my 5 year old self.
during an improv class we were led into a meditation where we start off in a safe cocoon and then we are in front of an audience of one or many and our shadow is present too—so i imagine my shadow to resemble a butterfly until the instructor says “this is your shadow self, your insecurities, all of the things you’re ashamed of, everything you try to hide, the things you hate, your jealousies…” she trails off in my mind because now that shadow has transformed into this really large dirt & dust balled figure with all kinds of gadgets and trash sticking out of it. and also i’m crying now. The instructor says “you face your shadow self and encourage it to come to you, you hold hands and face the crowd and command them to see you, to listen to you, both of you, all of you.” and we sit in this for about a minute. we discuss and i feel inspired and vulnerable. check. then we go into another vulnerability exercise where we are our 5 year old self and we speak as them, for example “i’m 5 years old and i have a red bike. i’m 5 years old and i got 5 dollars from the tooth fairy” immediately i start to panic. my heart is racing and my eyes are closed but welling with tears, quickly. i try to calm my breath, i fidget with my fingers. I hear the guy next to me saying all of these lovely 5 year old memories and before jealousy can even attempt to highjack this moment, i am flooded with shame. i keep thinking “i cant do this, i cant tell them, i cant share this, i dont have memories like that, mine are all—i dont—i cant’” while also encouraging myself to be vulnerable. his two minutes are up. now it’s my turn — i say “i’m feeling really anxious” the instructor reassures me. I say “i dont really have many memories from that time” she reassures me again to give what i can. i close my eyes which are actively crying now and i take a deep breath, choking out “i am 5 years old and—” i cover my face and say “i cant do this, i’m sorry” and im sobbing into my hands and i cant make any eye contact and all of the alarm systems are blaring in my head. she reassures me again and says i can do it on my own in my home when im ready, she says to the class “i cant go home with megan today to take care of her so im not going to have her do something she doesnt feel ready for” the word aftercare and sex images pop into my head, i quickly dismiss them, focusing on my breath, right there in that moment, i am 5 years old and i’m terrified of being found out, of protecting whats going on at home and all of the memories swirling are sad. bad. bad. bad.
i left a short while after that, feeling really tender and heartbroken i think. I do remember some nice things like having fun at school, though we switched them so frequently. I remember playing with my friends outside, though i don’t remember them clearly, no best friends. and thats really it, maybe being at grandmas too because i got to be outside and play. i wasn’t sad when i was outside. i wasn’t scared when i was outside. i was safe when i was outside. there are so many photos of me smiling and i wish i could remember those moments—i wasn’t a sad kid but only because i was disassociated. and i’m grateful for that. i don’t think i would’ve survived had i been there for it all. i think i’ll try to re-member it with the help of a professional though. maybe. or close the chapter and look forward. ill keep you posted.
the body.
it’s a funny thing, this view of oneself. this obsession with my flesh and how it sits or tightens, or forms every morning. i ate late last night, chicken tenders and chocolate chip eggo waffles, it was delicious. i also ate some coconut rolls, the whole bag while i watched a film on my phone. then i went to bed and didn’t brush my teeth. though i thought about it. i woke up thinking about the cavities i might be perpetuating when i dont brush my teeth at night, or even floss. i imagined the erosion effect that sugar has on the enamel. i imagined the food i ate breaking down into gelatin and corralling itself to my bones. i imagined looking in the mirror and seeing all of the work destroyed.
i haven’t been to the gym in 2 weeks maybe? so naturally this is what i do. i said it’s funny though because it’s conditioning, it’s habitual and cultural. it’s not really mine. these self obsessed thoughts, it’s my attempt to self preserve, to be in the pack. I think it started in college, i gained alot of weight because i was essentially bed bound after an injury. i spent my whole life hating how skinny and shapeless i was, underdeveloped—again, not my own thoughts, just the opinions of others splattered all over my self perception. i worry will i have diabetes like so many of my family members? will my bones hurt from all the weight they carry? will i get cancer from the bullshit i eat? it’s a non stop comparison game that i think deteriorates the mind, i mean my head hurts rights now just typing this out.
when i looked in the mirror i thought, oh there i go, still lean and i like that. i like that im lean, i dont like when im not and i dont think those opinions are my own. i dont care about the number on a scale, i just want to look in the mirror and like what i see. but that mirrors reflection is covered with euro centric ideologies of beauty standards for women, made by men. white men. so theres that.
half of the worry is not liking how i look some days, those are days we avoid mirrors and tight clothing, though tight clothing in general makes me feel like im on display, sometimes. and the other half is health, worrying about health and correlating how my body looks to whats going on internally, and im thinking ignorance is bliss and also knowledge is power but nobody talks about responsibility. what to do now when you have the information? the discipline it requires to enact change, the willpower and motivation and self love to take care of your mind and body. i will say mainstream media does not take care of your mind and body.
the pilates girls. there are so many pilates girls. it’s trending now, first it was running, then it was yoga, then it was HIIT and barry’s and orange theory and now, it’s pilates. and there isn’t anything wrong with these forms of exercise inherently, it is the cults that so quickly form of IN or OUT. because what are we reallly seeking and whats underneath it all? how do you feel when you look in the mirror, bare ass?
and some days i know im close because im clear as ever that it only takes up as much space in my brain as ill let it, im decaying just like the rest of yous and staring in the mirror at my spine or my ass or my lopsided breasts or any fine lines forming or my small ankles or any of that self obsessed drivel is not how i want to spend my days in this timeline. some days.
deleting social media & being addicted to my phone.
am i addicted to my phone or being in conversation? being seen and remembered and not forgotten? i tap the screen to see if i’ve missed a message or a call. how many times in a day do i do that?
i didn’t actually delete instagram, i just told myself i wont go on it for a while—its' been four days and i feel really good about it. my reasons were always about networking, staying in contact with artists and creatives, about inspiration and sharing my own art, my life. but really i’m an addict with excuses. theres a darkness i think surrounding this box we’ve become so deeply codependent on and it feels almost like life force energy is being pulled from me when i tap that colorful square and enter in.
the inundation of people and comments and memes and videos and politics and rage—it’s just too fucking much. and most times i don’t even know why i went there in the first place. it’s stealing my focus and attention span and my imagination and free thought. i think the advent of sharing comments isn’t necessary on every post or everything — i think, sort of like a museum or a bookstore or any traditional form of art sharing there needs to be a boundary of —> experience this and shut the fuck up. let it marinate and change you.
and then that too, our identities are ever changing and we are so desperate to know who we are, show who we are, prove who we are, well instagram ain’t the place for that shit. we’re all becoming clones of eachother, diluted versions of whatever’s trending and searching for the next next next next next big thing. we’re all crackheads. demure and mindful crackheads.
we get to decide what is important to us, over and over again. we get to decide what deserves our attention and what doesn’t. remember before we had this insidious relationship with these devices? what did we do then? i want to bring that back into my reality because at the moment it’s the lives of others that crowd my waking hours. and then im resentful, with strangers, at strangers, because at 10pm i’m remembering something i saw on social media, rather than dreaming up and tapping into all of the magic infinitely available in the mind.
so i’m meditating again, longer ones, 15 and 20 minute sessions — reteaching my brain to stay and focus and be clear. it’s said that we spend 70 percent of our days on our phones—that numbers just not okay with me. just live. i don’t need to be in conversation daily. i dont want to. i want to live where i am and be in community with those around me and intentionally catch up with my long distance community via phone or writing letters or road trips or vacations together - sharing lump sums of whats valuable and letting life be seasonal, and our shares be the fruit bore that season. the taste will be sweeter and more satiating i think.
i was also going to talk about my mom and how we aren’t really speaking — well im not speaking to her and avoiding my grandma (from my dads side) because she said i was ugly with short hair and we don’t speak very often anyway so it was weird and also how i don’t have many friends who read essays like i do and also anxiety & masturbation and when and how to say no in life — but i think that will be the next newsletter—this ones already lengthy. i’ve been writing for hours and while i love it — its 85 degrees and sunny in LA today, i want to go swim and then watch french new wave cinema. thanks for kicking it this long.
xoxo readers & writers <3
love ya.