Without a Filter – The Story of My Body | RIA

"Feelin' good"

Sunday, early morning. A beautiful summer day. I am thirty-one. I cry. Rage. Shout. My husband packs his things and moves out. There is someone else. Prettier, younger, more naive. I don't understand. My world collapses.

The self-torture begins. I'm ugly. Just look at my body. I'm incapable of anything — I can't even keep a man beside me. Total self-devaluation. Now that's a real Black Friday.

I suffer and hide. Jeans and a T-shirt become my uniform. I drag myself to work. I claw my way forward with all ten fingernails. I want to get through this as quickly as possible. I want to heal.

What I don't know yet is that I've chosen the wrong medicine.

Then someone smiles at me. Says beautiful things. Comes upstairs. I'm happy. I think: this is it. I submit to everything, do everything he wants. For one moment I feel beautiful.

He deceives me and leaves.

I fall even deeper.

I cry. By now I'm so good at crying I could win a world championship.

I eat.

I cannot believe what I look like.

I shut myself away and barely leave the apartment. I see a helper, and they do everything they can, but it still isn't working. Perhaps I don't even want it to work. At least I know this misery.

A little later, another stray smile. And I can already see our entire future together.

He cannot.

Can you fall even further?

Oh yes.

Why am I not good enough? I did everything. I wanted it so badly.

Crying. Sadness. Self-confidence somewhere below the backside of a diving frog.

My God, what do I look like?

I hate my hair. My face. Everything.

I haven't looked in a mirror for quite some time.

Then one morning, after another sleepless night, the penny finally drops.

I keep making the same mistake.

I have to understand what I'm doing wrong — and why.

Dr Csernus.

He cuts straight into the wound.

He takes me apart, but I am the one who has to put myself back together. I see him once. I don't need another session.

Afterwards, I cannot sleep for days.

The questions and realisations arrive.

Why did I never say no to anything? Why was I always the good little girl? Why did I do everything for everyone? Why did I make my own happiness depend on somebody else's? Why was I afraid to be alone? Why can't I accept myself as I am? Why do I punish my body?

The work is not pleasant, but the picture becomes clearer. The paralysing tightness begins to release.

My body follows.

I start doing things that used to terrify me.

I go alone to a dance class.

And look at that — I enjoy myself.

I cut my hair short. I never liked it long anyway.

Then suddenly, there He is.

I wasn't looking for him. I hadn't planned anything.

He came.

He stayed.

I love him.

Very much.

Time passes. Then I start gaining weight again, seemingly without being able to stop it. Fine, I still eat more than I should, sometimes late at night. I cut back.

I keep gaining weight.

We want a child. It doesn't happen.

I panic.

A long series of examinations. Cysts. Insulin resistance.

Something switches inside me overnight. I follow the prescribed treatment and diet.

In a year and a half I lose twenty-five kilos.

The cysts disappear.

I love being able to dress properly again.

But something is still wrong.

I am tense. Restless. I take my frustration out on other people. I work from morning until night.

Hormone tests.

It turns out my chances of having a baby are getting smaller.

I begin picking all this apart with Him and with my dear helper.

Why do I work myself to death when I don't even get a pat on the back? Why am I still the dutiful good little girl at work? I no longer have to play that role with my partner — so why everywhere else? Who am I? What do I want? Why don't I let the child inside me come out, play and look at life with curiosity? Why am I always focused on other people? Why does it matter so much what anyone thinks of me?

Then, slowly, it begins.

Like enormous stones falling from my body.

I straighten up.

I read a great deal again. I do charity work. I still work hard, but now I set boundaries.

I take Argentine tango lessons from a brilliant teacher.

I learn photography from an extraordinary person who may not even know how much he inspires me.

So, Norbi, I'm telling you now so you know.

I research my family tree and discover a great-grandfather who was a photographer.

Well, would you look at that.

I stop obsessing over having a baby. If it is meant to happen, it will.

My weight is almost where I want it too.

I know who I am now. I don't want to be somebody else.

I give space to my cynical black humour. Apparently I have one or two functioning brain cells as well.

I hate superficiality in everything.

I expect from other people only what I expect from myself.

Some people don't like that?

So what.

I don't care.

I push my boundaries, and I adore my husband, who becomes a full partner in all of this. As a real, confident man, he walks beside me — and also tells me if I'm heading in the wrong direction.

I have accepted and learned to love my body because it has gone through and experienced so much with me.

I put myself first.

---

I'm not afraid to say what I think, but I don't need to talk constantly either.

Somebody doesn't like that either?

Fine.

I have arrived.

Sunday, early morning. Foggy, rainy November. I am forty-four.

I'm the only one awake. He is still sleeping.

I write.

I drink my favourite cocoa.

Feelin' good.

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