The truth in behind-the-scenes photos

Mental Health

Messy hair (don’t care), bright coloured heels awry, outfit perfect (but hours old): this is the photo someone snapped when you weren’t expecting it, but thought it cute to share anyways. These are the photos we share on social media of our wild nights and exhausted mornings. Imperfect, but planned. We laugh about these moments, when things didn’t go perfectly. These are what we say are our happily shared “behind the scenes” photos.

These can, and should, be compared to our second exhibit: photos post panic-attack. Messy hair (from being fanned by a worried flight attendant), bright coloured mask (allowed to be removed to help with breathing, but kept on because of COVID anxiety), outfit perfectly planned for the airplane (but completely irrelevant to the panic): this is the photo you take to remind yourself of how it felt. I was in it. It was me who scream-cried on a crowded airplane. Me, who could not breathe. I gasped for air, clutching the overheating scarf like a life vest. The world spun and my eyesight blurred. The flight attendants assured me I wasn’t dying; I knew it but did not believe it.

A little over 2 weeks ago, I boarded a plane traveling back from South to North America (an eleven hour flight). Despite my best efforts to pay and upgrade my seat, I sat in economy where both my eating disorder and I quickly realized I did not fit in the chair between the two immovable arm rests. In actuality, the objective reality of “fitting” or “not fitting” does not matter. I potentially could have squeezed in. All I knew was that due to my body size I was not perfect for the average seat. Add to this excruciating sciatic pain, leg spasms triggering medical anxiety, and the stress of two weeks of traveling. After two attempts to quietly barter for support from busy flight attendants, I had a panic attack. 

Now, being equipped with an army of flight attendants while mid-panic attack provided great insight into what worked, and what doesn’t work, for me in those moments. Enjoy a brief ranking.

Attendant #1, fanning me with a safety pamphlet: 6/10, the sweating and claustrophobic thoughts appreciated it

Attendant #2, holding my hand: 5/10, no better or worse for it

Attendant #3, telling me to “be calm”: 1/10, thanks, hadn’t tried that

Attendant #4, asking repeatedly if I needed to get off the plane before departure: 2/10, the anxiety was terrified they’d kick me off no matter what I said

Attendant #5, sneaking me food from first class: 8/10, bottled water meant the water wouldn’t shake out of the cups in my hand and the brownie was great

Attendant #6 and #7, briefing each other on the shit show going down: no ranking, potentially the same as previous attendants but I wasn’t keeping track

I took this photo, hungover from the true terror I experienced moments before, as a tool. I could write about this attack as a therapeutic exercise. All I want to do is delete it. Forget that I couldn’t fit in a seat, forget that I embarrassed myself, forget that it ever happened. 

This is not an ode to a more inclusive world built for all. Nor is it a memento of strength and perseverance. This is, simply, what I want to see. I want to know I’m not alone; not alone in not fitting in seats, not alone in panic attacks, just…not alone.

A Message to My Eating Disorder (Warning: Language)

Mental Health

Warning: Language is a poem written about and dedicated to my eating disorder. I’ve been told, by myself and others, to be small with my voice and small with my body: this is not that.

Fuck you

Fuck you for telling me that I’m worthless and useless

And promising me that I could be something great

Like I’m not that already

Telling me I need you

Like I don’t already know that I need you even if I don’t really need you

Fuck you for making me need you when I’m not supposed to need you

Your toxicity makes me worthless and useless

You make me worthless and useless

Just like you tell me I am

Fuck you for making me feel worthless and useless

Telling me I am nothing close to great without you

Like I could never be great, except for you

Like every sense of pride and joy I’ve ever felt were lies

Lies I tell myself to hide the worthless, useless, hurting

Toxic stop talking stop talking stop talking

Fuck you for making me the person who needs you

And telling me I need you

Promising me I want you

Making me feel that together we could be

Hiding any strength I have to fight back

I am not weak but I am weak with you

You are the one that I hate, and that I hate, and that I will never love but need

Because I am weak and any strength I have to fight back

Is hidden

By you

So fuck you

Fuck you, you fucking asshole that is every voice that tells me not to swear

To be quiet and calm, to fit your idea of who I am

To be small with my voice and to be small with my body

I am six fucking feet tall and god knows how many pounds

Because I’m not allowed to weigh myself because I’m too weak

Fuck you for telling me I’m not loud when I am so fucking loud

My voice echoes down halls and my laugh turns corners and I stand in front of crowds and I am fucking loud

I am vibrant and big and can be confident when you’re not there

Because when you’re there I’m worthless, worthless, useless

And small

Small for you.

But I am six fucking feet tall and god knows how many pounds

With limbs in all directions and a fucking voice that needs to scream sometimes

Not because you make me want to scream, and you make me want to scream

But because I have things to scream about that aren’t you

And I will scream

And fuck you for telling me this won’t work

I’ve read the words of anger from the people who aspire to write the words of anger that inspire people to be the people who write words of anger from a place of aspiration and inspiration and fuck you that can be me

I am authentic and imperative to my world and a force of nature that will destroy and create

Aspiring myself to be great, inspiring others to be great

I can change my world, the world, the world of others

Fuck you for telling me to be small 

And not do any of this

Because I have limbs that go in all directions and fat that stretches my clothes

And fuck you for telling me to be small when I’m anything but

I’m going to scream and change the world

I’m going to scream and change you

I’m going to scream and change me

Fuck you. You will not win. We will not coexist, happily or otherwise.

I will fight. I will scream. I will lead the charge.

I will never stop fighting, screaming, leading the charge. 

So, fight back, scream back, you fucking coward

Because you’re going to need to.

An Exercise in Vanity and Challenging My Eating Disorder

Mental Health
Photo by Chelsee Taylor,
Makeup and hair by Robin-Miranda Vince, @robinskivinski

This is me.

This is my body.

This is who I am.

I am more than the eating disorder that tries to define me. I am more than the stomach rolls that make me nauseous. I am more than the underarm fat magazines tell me they can help me lose.

I asked for these photos to challenge my anxious thoughts and intrusive self-hate. I talked to the photographer and makeup artist about wearing clothes I normally don’t wear, boasting makeup that accentuates my features, and posing to show off my body. Collaborating with positivity and talent instead of the deal I made with my eating disorder to hide my body, hide my curves, hide my fat, hide me.

The challenge was: there is no difference between me and the gorgeous models I see, accept a talented photographer and make-up artist. You can decide for yourself, but in my mind, we came through pretty damn well.

Because, I am also the stomach rolls that look so gorgeous in this photographer’s camera lens, the underarms that show off a classic style, and, whatever happens, I am the eating disorder I continue to battle. I am these things and the grief that consumes me today is the power that I can leverage to move towards acceptance tomorrow.

These photos were my way of taking charge of my own narrative and creating evidence that can debate the hate that consumes me. This is me, my body, who I am, and I can love it, accept it, and live with it.

Photo by Chelsee Taylor,
Makeup and hair by Robin-Miranda Vince, @robinskivinski

This is also me. I can be both.

I can be fabulous and awkward, fierce and anxious, beautiful and scared. I can choose some of the things that I am, battle against others, live with many.

This photo exudes the energy of someone who is sensual and confident and, honestly, loves their leg. Sometimes, it’s alright to stack the odds in your favour when you want to be something that you don’t feel. Book a photographer, organize the makeup artist, borrow that dress, and become everything you want to be.

Photo by Chelsee Taylor,
Makeup and hair by Robin-Miranda Vince, @robinskivinski

And this, this is also me. I am more even than these photos. I asked for this photo, chose this proof, and love very breath of it.

An orthodontic surgeon once told me that I smile with too much gum and that, while fixing a scheduled dental issue, could fix this as well. My parents brushed off this request and moved on. I suffered for months with the first real opportunity to change my body. Eventually, I decided that although I didn’t love my smile, it was my smile. I see it in the mirror and use it to greet friends. It’s the first impression I offer and how I laugh. I may not love it, but I don’t hate it…it is simply, me.

I asked for this photo because I wanted to see me. In case these photos became something more and I lost sight of my every day me, I wanted one photo that I could connect to. In the end, this photo completed the set. It is perfect, just like me.

So, here they are. Three of the photos that I booked, posed for, selected, and now own. They are gorgeous and fierce and joyful and make me want to write, which is the ultimate sign for me that I can be passionate about myself. This was an adventure of self-indulgence, vanity, and decadence. I could not be more proud.

Blog featured image

Photo by Chelsee Taylor,
Makeup and hair by Robin-Miranda Vince, @robinskivinski

Accepting Mental Illness as a Journey, Not a Quest

Mental Health

Growing up an aspiring fantasy author, I studied the many paths my characters could take. An adventure is a trip without a destination. A journey is where the trip itself matters most. A quest is a trip to accomplish a specific task. I dreamed of romantic journeys, wild adventures, and life changing quests. As a character in my own personal epic, mental illness was just another quest: something to overcome and move past. I did not just reject the idea that mental illness could be an ongoing journey, I completely ignored any consideration of it.

I have worn many labels in the form of my diagnoses: generalized anxiety, major depression, panic disorder, and, most recently, bulimia nervosa. Each label is a new quest, a new challenge to overcome. A series of quests to the “perfect mental health”. That was true, at least, until I sat down to an online mental health seminar titled The Imperfect Recovery.

My goal in attending this seminar was recovery: to beat bulimia and move past it once and for all. This workshop was aimed at” “imperfect recoveries”, and recovery was there in the title and thus essential to the plot. My quest was already laid out for me.

I closed my computer barely minutes in when the realization of the true title hit me. The Imperfect Recovery: they were talking about adventures, journeys…not quests. Accepting an imperfect recovery meant that the story might not end as nicely as I had hoped. A potentially never ending road of battles and…I closed my computer barely minutes in.

An imperfect recovery simply did not compute with my own, deeply held, need for perfection. Never properly analyzed, I still have no idea what this perfection meant. What is “perfect mental health”? The absence of mental illness? A never ending tirade of smiles and happy days?

As a health educator, I should have known that “perfect mental health” did not exist. As a health educator, I often describe mental health as being similar to physical health: there are good days and bad days, temporary injuries, chronic conditions, and sporadic pains. I held conversations with others in order to help them come to terms with mental health being an essential part of wellness, to overcome the burden of stigma, and to explore options for support before they were inevitably needed. I held the conversations, designed the posters, hosted the events, and yet still held on to my own internalized stigma. I would not accept good days and bad days, for I was on a quest for “perfect mental wellness”; mental illness would never be chronic, not for me.

As I battled with my latest diagnosis, bulimia nervosa, The Imperfect Recovery hit on deeply held beliefs that I had never fully acknowledged: my need for perfection and my consequently internalized mental health stigma. Although not all mental illness will be chronic, I had never properly considered that mine might be.

If perfection is defined as the complete lack of mental illness (which I would argue it’s not), we are setting ourselves up for inevitable failure. It was gently pointed out to me by my therapist that, like physical illness, the complete lack of illness is sometimes impossible. For someone with Type 1 Diabetes, this would require a new pancreas. For me, a new mind. Perfection is an impossible quest.

But, the loss of perfection does not mean the loss of joy. Similarly, accepting a life with mental illness is not giving up. It is accepting just one battle in your life, one opportunity to fight, one story where you strength will shine. It is the first chapter of an epic saga.

I can try to find joy in progress. I can celebrate every small accomplishment and search for room for innovation in every setback. My imperfect recovery with mental illness will include trials and tribulations, good days and bad, and I can continue to grow through each and every one. I can accept this journey that stands in front of me. This is not a quest that I am failing at because I have not reached the end – this is a journey where the trip matters most and a set of adventures to explore. Perhaps I will never reach my destination, but I can find joy in the constant innovation and creativity that it takes to move forward each day. Acceptance is not done – I will have to practice it every day. But, I am on the journey and that brings me joy.

Why Isn’t My Bitmoji Fat?

Mental Health

Why isn’t my Bitmoji fat?

Bitmojis, although currently used more often by mothers, aunts, and teachers, used to be hip, cool, and a fun way of signing off emails or replying to messages. Bitmojis are small cartoon versions of yourself that act as personalized emojis. Apparently, the app is still on my phone. In a moment of boredom, I opened said app and flipped through the fun designs, ultimately fixating on, as I often do, body shape. As it turns out, my Bitmoji is thin. My Bitmoji is skinny. I, on the other hand, am not. I knowingly designed my Bitmoji to not only not be fat, but to distinctly not look like me or my body.

This isn’t a new phenomenon. If I still owned a Wii, the question would instead state: “why isn’t my Mii fat?” I have designed all personas of myself to hide this particular aspect of my body. I have lived in denial and hate to the point that I actively change the way I portray myself.

Am I fat?

I am not in a healthy enough mental state to google what qualifies as fat; seeing any numbers or ranges would simply send me into a self-hate, anxiety spiral. I, of course, think that I am fat. I compare myself to bodies and see myself as fat. When I ignore my therapist’s advice and weigh myself, the number screams “fat”. While this doesn’t necessarily mean that I am fat by all standards, why do I care? This is the real question, “why do I care?”, not “am I fat?”. This is one word, one descriptor: why have I given it such immense power?

“Don’t talk to my friend like that”, I scream.

I wrote the title before realizing this statement could go two ways. When I was younger and more naïve, I would scream this at people who called my friends “fat”. How dare they insult my friends. Now, older and slightly less naïve to the world of fatphobia and diet culture, I might yell the very same thing at a friend who said they hated their own “fat body” (still used as an insult, instead at themselves). Because how dare they use a simple physical descriptor like “fat” as an insult when it isn’t. Fat is your body type, nothing more. Fat is beautiful. Fat is sexy. Fat is healthy. Fat is strong, passionate, and fierce. None of these terms are mutually exclusive with being “fat”. I see other people who may define themselves as fat or plus size, and I have no trouble seeing their beauty.

And, yet, I can’t hear my own words.

Hypocrisy is really not fun.

Let’s name it: internalized fatphobia

Welcome to my journey of battling against internalized fatphobia. The world has taught me that fat is wrong, and if I am fat, I am wrong. I have bought into the message of my oppressors that my body weight defines my self-worth.

Do I truly believe that hating myself will allow me to be accepted into a world I don’t want and don’t believe in?

Why isn’t my Bitmoji fat? Why can’t I design something that is supposed to look like me, to actually look like me?

I want to not hate myself. I want to not hate my fat self. I am trying to not hate my fat self.

So, here’s to trying. Here’s to faking it ‘till you make it. Here’s to hearing my own words that fat is beautiful, because it is, and actually listening. Here’s to my fat bitmoji.

Pink Hair, Tattoos, and Eating Disorders

Mental Health

There’s something about being wild.

Something about pink hair, tattoos, and red lipstick that screams freedom. Freedom in the same way it feels to have wind in your hair and to laugh into the future. In a life often weighed down by anxiety, depression and bulimia, this freedom is compelling. But, I don’t dye my hair pink as a form of escape to a better world. Nor are my tattoos a desperate grab for control over the final pieces of my life. When you see me wearing red lipstick, think not of my illness. Think instead of the freedom you feel when the wind blows through your hair.

Why do I dye my hair? I dye my hair to experiment with who I am and what I see in the mirror. A changing appearance can make me feel like a different person: one with spunk, sass, and confidence. At the same time, my hair reminds me of who I am. That I can be the vixen beckoning to me in my dreams. Because of my pink hair, for the first time in months, I took selfies today. Yes, this practice is mocked by many as self-obsession and vanity. As someone obsessed with self-hate and tearing apart her body, I could really use a little bit of that vanity. And, for the first time in months, I liked the photos I took. I liked my wild hair. I saw my smile lines and laughed. I chose outfits that complemented how I felt, powerful and coy. Liking your body is hard with an eating disorder. These photos showed not my body, but instead me. Hello, me. You look great.

Why did I get my tattoos? This is a question I am sure my mother asks herself every time they flash under my shirt sleeve. My tattoos have many explanations. One is owning my body, marking myself with who I am and want to be. Another is a grounding mechanism, to remind me of the choices I can make to shape my world. The final reason: I like them. Don’t let anyone tell you that a better reason is needed. My tattoos are simple and small…for now. They are perfect.

Why do I wear red lipstick? This is often my coping strategy with stress: exams, presentations, even late night studying. I adorn red lipstick or fancy earrings to remind me that as I wear them, I have my life together enough to succeed. I am not lost, I am wearing red lipstick. Red lips laugh as my earrings flash in the moonlight, and suddenly I am heading somewhere much bigger than my desk chair or couch. This is a strategy I picked up in high school that I carry forward to late nights writing grant proposals. It is a reminder that even when everything is falling apart, you can still pick up the pieces to put it back together. As I battle against bulimia, I now realize that I seem to have forgotten to try this coping strategy. Mirrors have instead become the bane of my existence. Perhaps, tomorrow I will put on that pair of giant hoop earrings and flirt with the reflection I claim to despise. There’s a chance that I won’t, but also a chance that I will.

There’s something about being wild that endears itself to me. Something about my goody-two-shoes, controlled persona that likes small acts of deviation. I’m not jumping out of planes or swimming with sharks, but my hair is pink. As a reminder, this is my wild, not yours. These acts may not even qualify to the rest of the world as wild. This is my door to wide open fields, distant mountains, and cool sea breezes. Even during the darkest of times, I can still imagine the wind in my pink hair and laugh into the future.