I have shame that I’m fat.
I have shame that I’m not pretty.
I have shame that I’m a bad mother.
I have shame that my career wasn’t straight from school to a steady job.
I have shame that I’m not good at ballet.
I have shame that I’m not more like the extroverts.
I have shame that I have a double chin.
I have shame that my boobs sag.
I have shame that my fingers are chubby.
I have shame that I’m not a better writer.
I have shame that I’m not making more money.
I have shame that I don’t live in or own a house.
I have shame that I went seeking abuse when I was younger.
I have shame that my teeth are not perfect.
I have shame that I don’t have a thigh gap (and never did).
I have shame that I was fat as a baby— and I don’t mean baby chubby, I mean fat; my mother has admitted that she was unsure of when I was full and kept feeding me more even if I seemed content (being hungry was her own post-war trauma that she passed on to me and it profoundly affected my relationship with food).
I have shame that I was skinny and then got fat, then got skinny and then got fat again.
I have shame. I have so much shame.
It lives with me every day, like an invisible toxic friend that I can’t shake.
But I found myself thinking the other day, why do I have so much shame?
It weighs heavy on me, I suspect, even on the days when I think I’m getting away without it guiding my choices.
It’s not a nice thing to carry around, so why do I?
I find I berate myself for not having “lost the baby weight” even when I know that’s a fallacy.
There’s no mandate to look as I did before having a child.
And why should I? I don’t wish to go back to a time when I didn’t have a kid, so why should I want to look like it?
I don’t, but the internalised misogyny disagrees.
The internalised misogyny says I should want to look “young” and “breedable”.
I should have children, but not look like I’ve had them.
The internalised misogyny tells me to “buy something pretty” to make myself feel better, but as soon as I buy something I think I should want as a woman, I just feel worse than before.
Things and stuff don’t fill up that existential black hole in my chest.
I sat with this shame until it turned into frustration. Sadness. Loneliness. Despair. And then anger. And then a declaration that I have no more fucks to give.
I divested from a consumerist mindset.
I still buy things, still participate in consumerism, because none of us can truly get away from it. But I can be mindful.
I can create instead of only consume.
So, I’ve started making things again.
I was once a really dedicated maker. Then I got distracted by making ends meet, trying to financially assist in-laws (talk about a financial black hole), I stopped saying no to more hours at work and soon I was working 40+ despite only having a 16-hour-a-week contract.
The money was good. My mental health was not.
Losing that maker part of myself was bad for me. I realised I’d rather work less and make more, find a better balance.
When I stopped working retail, I also noticed a drastic drop in the amount of things I bought.
Back then, money was no issue and we had generous employee discounts. Customers would often return other departments’ goods at our register, offering up an endless stream of, “Hey, does this fit me? Does it look good on me?”
Since cutting back on work and working more on physically, laboriously, slowly crafting my own life with my own two hands I’ve been happier.
Making things has included painting, knitting, crocheting (and soon sewing), but it has also encompassed things like taking time and making food. And listening to a book while folding the laundry, rather than leave it sitting in the dryer for a week.
It has entailed a fundamental shift in mindset.
I determine how I spend my time. Not corporations. Not profits. Not social platforms. Me.
I decide how to spend the hours in my day. I decide to take it slow and actually enjoy cooking dinner, rather than rush through it like an odious chore.
And trust me, no one in the house has complained about the house having fewer dust bunnies, being more organised, or having clean laundry or eating home-cooked meals.
In fact, in no way has my life gotten any worse. It’s only gotten better, simply because I decided to take matters into my own hands. Literally.
The effect corporations and their profits have on our mindsets through consumerism is staggering.
And it’s insidious. That’s the problem.
You buy into it, you start believing it’s the truth.
When all it really is, is someone wanting you to give them your attention so that they can make a profit off of it.
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“When Sasha Barrett gets bitten by a snake on a mission, her squad captain’s quick actions not only save her life, but also make her realise something she may have known all along…“
