The Body

On Control

I don’t remember when I started viewing my body as an enemy, but it was pretty early on. I resented my body because it stood in the way of my happiness. It felt wrong. It was not fast enough or strong enough or coordinated enough for me to have the joy of being respected and revered by other boys. My body betrayed me by having a small bladder or slow hands, or by being uniquely susceptible to pain. One of my early body memories is of the time we were playing wiffleball in my half-brother’s back yard and I fell into a bush of thorns. My skin ripped; I was afraid to move. I screamed and cried. My brother, also a child, vacillated between trying to help me and trying not to laugh at the delirious way I panicked, screaming for help from God or mothers, or really anyone within a one-block radius. Even though we couldn’t have been more than six-years-old, we already knew that to scream in agony was an embarrassment. We knew that bleeding was one thing, but fear was to be contained.

By the time I was in 8th grade I was holding a knife over my stomach contemplating which parts I should cut in order to appear thin and therefore more manly. The idea was that I would be scarred but I would also have a flat stomach which would mean that I would be beautiful or at least that I would have what I thought beauty gave me: Power and respect. An ability to be unbothered. Humanity. My body was all wrong for me. It had curves and softness, my eyes were too big, my hands too delicate, my chin not rigid enough. I wanted to change these things, and if it took some knives…