Digital Manipulation + Body Image

To all those who clamor for tight niche markets and to those who intentionally rebel in the name of nonduality and the practice of interconnectedness, I bring you a guide to using an intricate knowledge of digital manipulation to bring you peace of mind about body image.

It’s damn near impossible to have an opinion on anything these days without DEEPLY offending someone.

And while I know anorexia and bulemia and other eating disorders are no joking matter, are very intense and real to those who suffer from them…

As someone with whacked body image for a decade who was quite literally dying to be a model… I can say that after years of reasearch and art school and many, many late nights of watching tutorials I can say I do not have these same perceptions.

To the people in the world who are legitimately straving, suffereing, and in deperate need of food and nourishment (though I know there may be massive backlash and hatred for this comment) I will say it anyway:

It is shameful as a society to have these types of diseases.

I think these are more a matter of societal brainwashing and misinformation and distorted self-esteem than actual “disorders”—knowing full well a lot of people in love with victimization or identifying with these labels of being “disordered” will rebel against my common sense suggestion that it is truly a shameful and bullshit disease to “suffer” from.

Know better. Do better.

Look around at the millions of suffering humans and stop staring at your skeletal self in the mirror.

In a culture that is all about “ME!” it is disgusting and sad to see so many suffering in the name of their own self-image.

Sure, maybe they are mentally disordered and have diseases and disorders and genuine malfunctioning of the brain and psyche… but I have more faith in humanity and think that by understanding the lies of modern imagery more women (and men) can take back their own damn power and stop feeling subconciously like shit about themselves for being a human being.

1,200 words. Boom!

Wait, what?

Here's what:

Back in the day I had some really shallow (and arguably, quite stupid) dreams.

I wanted to be a MODEL.

This now makes me think of the Seinfeld episode with the fur coat: me, me, me! Look at me! Tell me I'm BEAUTIFUL!

Back then, I was nineteen and did indeed model.

The problem? I was 5'8" and wore a size 0 mini skirt.

I was still fifteen pounds "too heavy" to reach the recommended weight by many modeling agencies.

The ten year older version of me could cringe (and does cringe) at a) how shallow my goals were

As someone who could certainly understand the mindset of one who purposefully doesn't eat and obsessed over body image, no, I do not rally for our modern age of Self-Induced Victimhood.

Did I read Unbearable Lightness by Portia de Rossi and That Other One by that other Author I'm blanking on?

Yep. Sure did.

Do I believe some people have critical mental disorders and need professional help to solve their inner crises and distorted view of themselves? Sure. Perhaps.

But do I think most modern American women with these problems need a slap in the face of reality and mindset shift even more than a bottle of pills to solve their problems? You bet.

I had an

When you see it is a sham, you relax: the impossible standard is a JOKE and you can rest assured: unless you use a wand in Photoshop and chop off the skeletal structure of my hips and suck down some fat from arms, thighs, waist, enhance the brightness and largeness of my eyes and plump lips, cyphen in some high cheek bones and use a percentage of Guassian Blur to make pimpled skin of porcelain than boom: you are a REAL HUMAN who LOOKS LIKE A REAL HUMAN.

I have had cellulite and stretch marks since I hit puberty. They will likely not ever ago away, but get worse.

I mean, for fuck's sake: it's all downhill from here and my goal is to AGE WITH GRACE and not deperately cling to that which cannot be clung too: YOUTH.

Derp.

I'm out to be a hundred year old lady dropping truth bombs on our youngest generation, loving and nuturing and inspiring until I no longer can.

My Great Grandma Eva was born on Christmas Eve and died on Christmas Eve ninety-six years later.

Born in 1909 to my 1991: come on folks. Technology has superseded itself, and I am a fitness instructor, yoga teacher, and meditation lover.

Assuming I avoid tragedy of a full life clipped too short, I have the potential to live a LONG life and if taken care of properly, I plan to prove it is possible.

It is an affirmation that I know: I'm going to be an old ass lady someday, and I want to be alive and full of vigor and purpose.

I effing LOVE @grandmabitty??? and will probably find myself somewhere between her and @thecuteoldladyoldestteacherever.

Brevity.

Look at the life cycle of any gorgeous flower.

A stubborn seed holds its ground until it breaks through itself with rich roots that shape into persistent life that rises through pressurized dirt and shit and worms to at last see the light of the sun.

Naturally it knows to swap sun for sugar and soak up the sources to grow bigger and bolder, eventually, to sprouting thick buds that slowly unravel plump, jewel-stained pillows of perfumed petals that are luscious, that inevitably attract many others to its source; this organic offering benefits the birds and the bees and the greater systems at large.

This lone flower.

But then, of course, come attacks from the outside world and if you're lucky, a slow decline of wilting, desaturating, and drying from the inside out.

A crumbling, shriveling, decomposition.

A return to the dirt: damp and on another journey to become rich compost, a bed of nutrients helpful to the generation of strong seeds you have left behind to go forth and grow and flourish and repeat these same cycles until lord knows how long.

I am flower: hear me rise.

I do not really believe anything in particular about reincarnation or have a true grasp of what other cultures mean by it, but what I can see is simply the inevitability of natural cycles in the world that never really die…

In that, energy cannot be created or destroyed. It changes shape. It lingers.

In this way, I didn't cry much at the funeral of my grandfather. I didn't feel that hope was lost or that he was truly gone. Perhaps you could call this denial, but I also feel I received his passing with an open and curious mind.

I held his hand and stayed near his side for many hours on the last day of his life.

I read the book Hospice gave us: another energy would take over from here out. One foot in this world, and one foot out. They say some hang on to make peace or resolve before they leave this world behind.

It was deep. Many members of my family sat in a circle around the room, crying, looking at the floor, looking away, faces planted into the chests of other crying creatures.

But I just watched the face of my unconcious grandfather and watched and felt the huge surges of convulsions that would spark from his shoulder and shudder down his entire right side.

As a living creature, I knew those spasms, had myself experienced them in some way with my own shoulder injuries.

I watched what moved in his limp, soon-to-be lifeless body. His eyes. His face.

I watched his eyelids intently as they flickered and shifted from side to side. His eyebrows would raise and then pucker and what muscles were not affected by a massive amount of Morphine moved the corners of his mouth up and down.

I wondered if he was seeing my grandmother in his dreams, or his daughter that had died of heart disease at age twenty-one.

I wondered if he was confronting all of his inner demons: all of the not-so-nice things he had done in his lifetime, all of the sadnesses he may have sparked, the gaps and disappointments he may have left behind…

Did he at last face the good and bad of all he had done in his lifetime and see it?

What went on behind those eyelids?

Our little book on death provided by Hospice noted that our loved ones may be waiting for resolve before passing from this world.

And when I arrived back home to my apartment in Columbus on the coldest, shittiest, grayest day in Ohio: Valentine's Day, I was not surprised to learn he had died.

And even though I had to go through the uncomfortable, shocking, terrifying ceremonial motions of calling hours and the funeral procession and the too-real burial, still I did not really feel that his energy, his life force was really gone.

Like Rain that nourishes the Earth and is eventually evaporated back up into the Sky, that condenses and forms into Clouds and later, heavy, drops back down to the Earth as Rain.

As crazy as it sounds, as simple as it seems, I again don't know shit about reincarnation or what others may even believe about it, from this very holistic and simplistic analogy, I feel that this life that we build right now can't help but help (or hurt) the next stage of us.

As females we have all the eggs we will ever have as embryos. Our daughters, our Matrioskha dolls.

Inside each other in a predestined way, pure creativity: the creation of life.

After Prenatal TT I now know with full certainty: we women are magnificent.

Be not ashamed women for you are the gates to the soul. Walt

I was a teenager with Vogue models plasteres to every inch of my walls and slanted ceilings. All Photoshopped, so thin. And as I blossomed into a woman, hating my body with my thick legs and hips and stretch marks… It was “in” to be anorexic.

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