The one thing about Black Widow that I have told you is that from the moment Scarlett Johansson appeared in Iron Man 2 as the character in question my interest towards my own sex became evident, no matter how impossibly simple and ridiculous it sounds.
And once again I've lost myself in this incoherent babble when I was supposed to focus on entirely different things.
The point where I was and still am aiming at is how insecure I first felt about dressing up in a skin-tight jumpsuit especially when it would inevitably lead me to compare myself with Scarlett Johansson who, in my eyes, is the most gorgeous human being on Earth.
Me and my body have had a stormy relationship for the better part of my life. Regardless of having always lead a sporty lifestyle and thus been of a normal weight, I've never been comfortable in my own skin. It's obviously hopeless trying to pinpoint the exact moment in my timeline when I became conscious about my body's proportions, but I do have an obscure memory of comparing my appearance to that of my friend's as a nine-year-old. The first time I decided I should loose weight was at the age of 11 and ever since I've struggled with variable body issues. Through my teenage years, especially during the first ones, I honestly thought I was fat, which draw me at the edge of an eating disorder. In a sense, I never crossed the line but it was almost like the disease was lurking in the shadows, waiting whether or not it would have a chance to take over me.
I read probably every translated novel concerning eating disorders that I could find in the library hence I'd gathered quite a lot of information around the subject. For years I convinced others and myself that I couldn't possibly fall ill for I knew better, thanks to those books. Only recently have I began pondering did reading about that stuff actually do any good in the end. A distorted mind can easily turn information absorbed from a novel into an applicable form to be put into practise in one's own life. On the other hand, I also became highly aware of my issues and was frightened of someone else noticing. I feared so much that my mother would see what was going on that I never managed to cause much harm to myself. I couldn't fast for remarkably long periods, nor be in total control of what ended up on my plate since my mother was mostly the one preparing my food. Around other people I'd whine about my huge ice-skater thighs and how my stomach was never flat enough but suchlike behaviour being so common amongst girls, I don't think anyone got a hint of the seriousness of the situation.
In addition to the fear of people seeing how sick I was, another thing that kept me from starving my body was skating. As young as I was when my problems expanded, I still realised the importance of proper nutrition when training and competing. I never skipped meals if I had skating scheduled. But then again, exercising goes easily overboard and that happened to me at times, as well. I'd let myself eat as long as I'd been sweating long enough. Even on vacations I'd do extra workouts to deserve the food my system needed and craved for. I was never even close to a perfect skater but I was always striving for a perfect body. An apt example of my distorted body image is the way how I absolutely loathed wearing pants of any kind because of my thigh muscles. I only wore skirts and dresses because through them no one could really make out the shape and size of my thighs. Being obliged to put on a piece of clothing including legs used to make me feel ill at ease in my melodramatic self-consciousness.
By revealing the tremendously fascinating chronicles of my body image issues I wanted to empathise how wide a leap I was required to take to be mentally able to publicly wear such a tight and, in its plainness sort of revealing outfit as my cosplay costume was. Without even a hint of exaggeration, I felt completely and utterly amazed every single time I looked in the mirror with that costume on (and let me tell you, I totally had to check that my eyes weren't lying by using every window or other reflecting material I passed by as a mirror) because despite that I recognise the fact about how tiny and pretty I am, it is not often that I actually feel particularly good-looking.
I can without notable difficulties look in the mirror and be satisfied about my choice of clothes, hairdo, accessories and make-up whereas feeling beautiful as a whole has been quite a rarity. Many people who feel insecure about their looks prefer baggy clothes not drawing attention to them while others, like myself, hide under layers of bright colours and variable shapes. Decorating myself was a way to distract people, including myself from seeing my shape and to occupy them with what I was wearing instead.
You must at a complete loss with my excessive and unsystematic mix-use of past-tones and present. The excuse is that time is a big ball of wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff (Doctor Who strikes back) and even I'm unsure of the current situation. If I claimed that these things only were and have been I'd be a liar since they simply intensify and diminish in irregular cycles (exactly in line with my other personal stupidities).
Where was I?
The irritating shortness of my attention span added to the impossible broadness of this topic make it somewhat challenging to keep this chunk of disorganised thoughts from exploding.
Have a picture.
|Oh, I can add captions now. How cool is that. I'm trying to gain back a sufficient amount of concentration to continue.|
Let's try again.
Why is any of this remarkable then?
This past year (I fail to apprehend years the way they're put in our calendar) has taught me a lot about things that don't equal the end of the world (ignoring the fact that I've managed to develop almost equalling number of other possible causes for such an event). In plain English, I'm more relaxed than I used to be, at least when it comes to eating and my appearance. For instance, under no circumstances could I have enjoyed a slice of pizza or a chocolate bar without a considerable amount of distress, say two years ago, whereas now I'm actually dreaming of travelling around Italy from restaurant to another. But let's not be pretentious. Whenever some unexpected occurrence prevents me from carrying through the exercises I've planned to do I immediately get unreasonably stressed and moody. I need to have my sports for otherwise everything might come crashing down. Also, I have this bad habit of overeating when I'm in a certain kind of stress, which makes me absolutely loathe myself afterwards.
I don't expect to ever get completely rid of these struggles, albeit they seem to have eased a little lately.
Nevertheless, there's an infallible medicine for any anxiety whatsoever: dancing, for when moving with music I always feel comfortable and, in a way invincible. Even now when I haven't got any dance classes running I occasionally create routines in my mind. Through dance I've found some respect and love towards my physics and simply being forced to see my reflection in those wall-sized mirrors during dance classes accustomed me to observing myself in teeny-tiny clothes amongst other dancers (the bodies of whom I sincerely envied).
I don't know if I've truly taken a step ahead and further away from the devastating lack of self-respect or is this just an unexpectedly serene phase in this chaotic and stormy emotional life of mine.
Whatever it were, it's unspeakably pleasant to feel this way for a change.