Daily writing prompt

What is one thing you would change about yourself?

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Just one?! But, as someone with AVPD, there are so many! I could easily make this into a Top 10 post, and have indeed written out such lists before, so I know from experience that that would just get depressing. So, I’ll try to keep this one concise and relevant.

As a Catholic, my answer should be: if I could change one thing about myself, it would be my sinful nature, my tendency to try and please myself rather than God. And that would indeed be a good answer.

But if I am being honest, which, isn’t that what this stupid blog is for?: there are probably other things that I’d be more excited to change about myself.

I’d like to change my economic status, obviously. The number in my bank account. Wouldn’t we all? That’s a big one. But even this is probably not the number one thing I’d like to change about myself, in like a magic genie type scenario.

As a sober alcoholic, I’d kinda love to magically gain the ability to drink in moderation. Even more than sudden financial wealth, this idea appeals to me. Because in some ways, drinking was a really cool and fun thing, and I think it’d be cool to have this superpower: to be able to drink socially. To go wine tasting at the scenic vineyards with some friends. To do a toast on holidays. To be able to have a glass or two to unwind, without it turning into a daily habit and a life-altering obsession. It’s funny: this all sounds very nice in theory, in a very vague, distant, hypothetical way, like the concept of being able to fly or read minds; but, again, to be perfectly honest: I have zero desire to actually drink in moderation. What’s even the point, lol? With my brain, it would be unsatisfying, and just leave me wanting more. So, I would probably not choose this, either.

What if I could just get rid of the AVPD? This might be the thing I’d change about myself. To have the ability to connect to others and relate to them and befriend them like a normal person. I’d be sorely tempted to choose this. And if I were younger, still in my teens or twenties, this is surely what I would choose.

But, honestly… maybe not that important to me, anymore. I’m lucky that I managed to get married and have a family and build a good life even with the AVPD. Sure it’d be a lot easier without this handicap, but, I dunno, I guess I’m used to it by now. As you know if you’ve read my little autobiographical bit about AVPD, my life is actually pretty pleasant and manageable most of the time, these days. It’s only really maybe once or twice a week that I painfully feel my AVPD symptoms; its little day-to-day manifestations are not too bad to live with, not anymore.

So I don’t think I’d choose that either.

Sometimes I think I’d like to change my whole personality, to make myself less of an INTJ and more of like an ISFP or something. I’d like to be more of a sensor type rather than an intuitive: perhaps tidier, more crafty, a better cook, a better dresser, more grounded in reality overall. And I’d like to be more of a “feeler” and less of a “thinker;” to be warmer, more feminine, and more approachable. All of these would be great assets in my life as a wife and mom.

But, personality type isn’t the number one thing I’d change about myself, either.

So what is? Would I make myself smarter? You all know I have a ton of emotional baggage about the whole “intelligence” thing, lol. Would I make myself a better writer? A publishable writer!? Or eliminate my inconvenient fear or bees and wasps? Would I exchange my awful, scraggly type 3 curls for a full head of thick, shiny straight hair? Erase all of my ugly tattoos, perhaps? Or, make myself like classical and highbrow indie music instead of the shitty stuff that I like to listen to? Of all the many things I hate about myself, which one would I actually change, given the chance?

The answer is pretty anticlimactic. The answer is: legs. I would like to have nice-looking legs.

“But Mith,” you might be exclaiming, “just lose weight and exercise and get some sun!” If only it were that simple. See, I’m actually a perfectly normal size right now, with a BMI that’s perfectly average. I have, in the past, been an underweight exercise addict and have been diagnosed with anorexia and bulimia, but even when I was extremely skinny, it was like my legs didn’t get the memo. They stayed thick and solid. Even as a bony little twig I had the legs of a much heavier person. Shapeless, sturdy, pasty “Irish” legs, with no definition whatsoever to the calf. Sometimes I’ve wondered if I have a medical condition, but no; I kinda wish I did, so that I could get treatment. But unfortunately I don’t have any pain or any other symptoms; just hideous legs.

(And as for “just get some sun”: sure, I could, I guess, but that would require going out in shorts or less, which I will not; and besides, my pale skin would not tan, it would just burn, then peel off to reveal a slightly darker shade of pale. I know this from experience. So, lightly-roasted bratwursts instead of raw ones from the fridge. Whoop-dee-do.)

I’m not sure what this says about me, that of all the many things I hate about myself, many of them with good reason, the one that bothers me the most is my legs. Why does it even matter that much, since I can (and do) simply cover up with maxi skirts and/or tall boots? I’m Catholic, so would try to dress modestly anyway, even if I had nice legs. And my husband, i.e. the only person whose opinion of my attractiveness matters, claims that he isn’t bothered by the legs (although I think he’s just being nice, for some reason; haven’t yet figured out his ulterior motives). And, as I mentioned, the legs don’t hurt or anything. They function perfectly well. Probably better than average, in fact! Best believe I’ve never twisted or sprained, let alone broken, an ankle. I’m way too sturdy for that.

So why is this so important to me? And what does it say about me that it is so important?

Probably you could draw out of all this some statement about the insidious toxicity of beauty standards, the cruel pervasiveness of diet culture in modern America. For me, a pretty average white millennial female, being perceived as thin and attractive is evidently more important than happiness, financial security, intelligence, or even my religion (!?). What is wrong with the society that formed me? Or is it just a natural, human thing, this senseless desire to be desirable? Who knows.

Probably it has something to do with the fact that I’ve hated my legs for longer than I’ve cared about money or religion, long before I hated my personality or started to show real symptoms of a personality disorder. My first clear memory of hating my legs was in first grade, so approximately age six or seven. I was on the school bus one morning sitting next to my friend (who was, perhaps interestingly, a boy), and for no reason this friend was telling me how disgustingly wide were the thighs of this other girl in our class. Her thighs were “this big,” he said, with abject horror, holding his hands up a certain distance apart; and I, true to form, chuckled in mild agreement while looking at that distance and then down at my own lap and realizing that my thighs were that exact same width, if not wider. The next memory is associated with a certain photo taken of me in the third grade, and it continues.

However, I already knew, before age seven, that my legs were weird and bad. I’m not sure why. No one ever told me so, not that I can remember. I guess it just came from comparing myself to other girls in my classes. Already in kindergarten you become aware that skinny = desirable, smaller = better. This hatred of fat is probably, nay, surely, so deeply ingrained in my psyche that I will never be free of it. And I’m not special. I daresay it’s the same for almost all of us.

Which is kind of dumb, isn’t it? It seems like sturdy legs are actually a very practical thing to have, from like a survival/evolutionary standpoint.

But that’s the thing. Skinny little delicate legs make you more vulnerable, more in need of protection and care. Make you easier to pick up and throw around. That’s what men like. The older I get, and the more I learn about how straight men actually feel about women and the way their brains work (just naturally, it’s not their fault; however, some men learn to master it, and others apparently do not), the more grossed out I am by the male gaze. But so anyway this is what we women want to appeal to. We want to appear like we need care and protection and someone to be the boss of us. All of which just points to the larger truth that we humans all are vulnerable and weak and need someone (i.e. God) to be the boss of us and take care of us.

So yeah, there’s a reason why skinniness is attractive. A very beautiful reason. Beauty is beauty because it reminds us of Truth. I get that. Maybe that’s why I so deeply loathe appearing so sturdy and stolid. It feels like a lie, a blatant contradiction to one of the most essential truths about me, about anyone. Or something. Or maybe it’s just that my legs look like bratwursts, and that is objectively freaking gross.

Daily writing prompt

Who is the most confident person you know?

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How am I really to know who is the most confident person I’ve ever known? Someone might feign confidence, and appear super confident, but secretly feel insecure and just not talk about it, because perhaps they are insecure about the insecurity itself.

However, I know who is the most confident-seeming person I’ve ever met. I met her my first semester at my first college, and gravitated toward her, because she had what the kids these days call “main character energy.” She was not only very outspoken, fearless, funny, and confident (making her relatively easy for my AvPD to be around, compared to other people), but also on the “quirky/artsy” side, as was I; and this was at a snooty little private university that was a veritable Sahara Desert, in terms of quirkiness/artsyness. So I, who have always been insecure, was trying hard to find some other weirdish people to associate with.

There’s this false stereotype about confidence that it makes you cocky, that you go around like you’re God’s gift to humanity and think everyone should bow to you. Similarly, there’s a false stereotype about humility, that it makes you think of yourself as a piece of shit and makes you too timid to ever speak up. In fact, confidence and humility can coexist beautifully, which is what this girl showed me just by being herself.

By humble, I mean that she was totally aware of who she was, and she owned it. She was a nerd, and a chubby girl (and not even trying to change that; she ate whatever she liked, as if she were totally immune to diet culture; she would just openly describe herself as “fat” and not even bat an eye or expect someone to coddle or reassure her about it), who liked some gross foods (like, the processed deli meat slices with the chunks of American cheese mixed right into the meat – to my absolute horror, she used to keep this in the mini-fridge in our suite, when we were suite-mates sophomore year, without even concealing it in a plastic grocery bag or anything, the way I would do with shame-foods), and had some lowbrow hobbies (like video gaming, which she would do in the common room of our suite with the blinds pulled down, even on a beautiful sunny fall day when clearly a morally-upright person was obligated to be outside in nature, exercising); but was she ashamed of any of these? Not in the slightest. She socialized. She shared herself with people. She expressed emotions with ease, from anger/irritation to sadness to delight to anything in between. She could enjoy movies and stories about thin, beautiful characters without being devastated that she was not thinner or more beautiful than them. She spoke to other, thinner people like they were her equals. She wasn’t afraid of them.

It was a beautiful, fascinating, and, to me at the time, horrible thing to behold.

I was, in those days, in the thick of my ED, restricting heavily, underweight, and super stressed (as I always have been, and continue to be, 15 years later) about not being good enough. So watching this girl be so comfortable in her own skin made me positively sick: sick because how dare anyone be okay with being fat and nerdy! Those were cardinal sins! And sick with envy, because why couldn’t I ever be so comfortable with myself? How did she do it? What was her secret?

In the early days, freshman year, my socially awkward ass glommed right onto her, because her big personality and the way she could carry a conversation made her easy to be around. (Also, tbh, my ED was always appeased when it was in the company of people who were bigger than myself; so she made me comfortable on several levels.) I followed her around; I became friends with some of the people she was friends with. Sophomore year, she and another girl, the third member of what I thought of as our little trio, invited me to join them in sharing a suite with a fourth girl (who was around so little that I barely remember her). It sounded like a good arrangement. I had my own bedroom, as did the mystery girl, while my two friends, who were always closer to each other than I was to either of them, shared a bedroom; and we all shared a common room with a kitchenette and bathroom. It should have been a great year!

But I was really sick that year. And when sick, I shut down and shut people out. My suitemates had brought a large TV to set up in the common room, which pissed me off, because obviously worthy, deserving people only read great literature or made art for fun; only fat losers would need a big TV, and I didn’t want to be a fat loser; how dare they be so shameless about it! And it pissed me off even more when they would invite a whole crowd of annoying friends (actually, this was a great group of really cool individuals: the campus weirdos, i.e. pretty much the only eight to ten kids on campus who weren’t involved in Greek Life; there was this little inherited joke, that we few were members of the elite “ΓΔΙ”, Gamma Delta Iota, i.e. “G**damn Independent,” lol; in the very early days, before I sank so deeply into my sickness and horribleness, I actually enjoyed and was proud to belong to this crowd of friends) over to the common area late into the night to play noisy video games on this stupid TV, such as Rock Band. Only a cardboard-thin wall divided my pillow from that stupid plastic drumset that they’d pound away on late into the night. Be a decent human, I thought bitterly! Learn to play the real drums, if you want to drum something! Losers! And they’d play the same annoying songs over and over! To this day, “Float On” by Modest Mouse gets me triggered AF.

I was just so irritated. I’d get irritated by my suitemates’ sanitary products, disposed of in our shared bathroom trash can. How vile, how bodily, how shameless! How dare they have the nerve to menstruate! Of course, I never voiced any of these hateful thoughts or complained about the noise or the smells or anything. I just cast passive-aggressive stares at them when passing through on my way to or from the bathroom, and all the while sank deeper and deeper into my bitter little stew, and isolated as much as I could, never joining them anymore, no matter how often they invited me.

But even though I was a terrible person and a terrible friend, my suite-mates tried to take care of me and look out for me. One night in the common area of our suite, they and a couple of the friends from down the hall had a little intervention on me. We think you have an eating disorder, they said. I was so mortified that I don’t remember how I reacted – stiffly, coldly, brushing them off, probably – but in my head, I was like: yeah, no shit! I’ve had it for like seven years, leave me alone about it, you’re just making it worse! I gave everyone in that circle an even colder shoulder, after that.

That must have been in the spring. Earlier in the year, I had signed on to rent an apartment with the two friends, the following year: a really nice little apartment just across the street from our dormitory. I’d toured the place with them, met the landlords, even cut a check for the deposit and signed the lease. But at this point, living with these girls any longer had become simply unthinkable. So I did a shitty thing. I dropped out of the lease agreement at the last minute, forcing them to have to scramble for a third roommate. I found an efficiency apartment a short bike ride away from campus, and signed the lease by myself. Finally: for junior year, a place to drink and puke and starve and rot in privacy, unbothered by concerned friends.

That girl and I stayed loosely in touch – she and the other friend never expressed any hard feelings, about me breaking the lease, or any of it, and we were still on pleasant terms, if we crossed paths on campus – but, we were not really friends anymore. After I had my little crisis and dropped out of that school, two-thirds of the way through junior year, we were still connected on Facebook; but I eventually deleted her, as well as all of my other connections from that university, and since that point, I don’t know what became of her or how she’s doing.

Of course, I did sorrowfully Google-stalk her a couple times. I think she got married, at some point, to the guy she was dating there at school: a fellow nerd and a gamer, a big quiet but funny guy, a year or two our senior. I think I saw she had a LinkedIn profile and a decent-sounding career. No surprise there. Nothing ever seemed to hold her back from doing things she wanted to do. She was crafty, good with her hands, brainy, productive (even though she enjoyed loafing on the couch with video games, she also had a lot of cool hobbies, like fashion design, theater, reading, and some kind of needlework if I remember correctly, and she was a member of various clubs), and never seemed to struggle with self-promotion or teamwork. Wherever she is these days, I’m willing to bet she’s thriving in her work life.

And I hope she’s doing well. I remember her as a genuinely honest, humble, and, yes, incredibly confident person, who made other people feel more comfortable in their own skins just by being around her. She was neither cocky nor boastful nor full of herself, nor was she ooey-gooey nice or kind or especially charitable or saintly or anything; she was just thoroughly, unapologetically herself. Many times over the years since we’ve lost touch, I’ve thought of her and contemplated her wisdom and told myself: I should try to emulate her; I should make that a goal, just for today. Be more like her, I tell myself. I always fall short, and will probably never really have her confidence; but, what a rare person, what an exceptional specimen of humanity, what a role model. I wonder sometimes if maybe that is what a saint is: not someone who follows all the rules perfectly, but someone who is really, thoroughly, shamelessly the person that God made them to be, gross feelings and gross habits and all.

Of course, I guess it is possible that she was never that confident at all. Maybe she was actually really insecure on the inside. We can never really know another person, can we? Maybe she had social anxiety or hated her body, and was just better at faking it, at putting on a brave face, than I ever was. I was never lucky enough to know her that well, I realize in retrospect; I was just a leech, looking for some positive energy to feed on because I had none of my own. I wish that sometimes there were some way I could apologize to her for the way that I was back then – but, true to form, I remain too ashamed.