Recently, I said to the love of my life: "I know that one day you would leave me. I know I'm not attractive, and you're just putting up with my shortcomings out of pity. Very soon you'd find someone better good-looking, and I won't matter."
The love of my life was livid. "I feel hurt," she said. "Really hurt that you think little of me. So, you think I'm with you because of what you look like?" she added. "I love you, Michael. I'm with you because there's no one I'd rather be with. You comfort me."
Over the past one year I have felt deeply unattractive. I have gone months without staring myself in the mirror. I have reduced human contact. Every time I and a longlost friend arrange to meet, I say, before-hand, "I have put on weight oh! Don't act so surprised when you see me." I cannot believe how deeply insecure I have become.
I have become cynical. (Cynical: believing that people are motivated purely by self-interest; distrustful of human sincerity or integrity.) And, to be honest, I know there are more pressing issues in the world than my body; like the war in Syria, the Nigerian recession, budget padding, etc., but, then again, this is what I know how to write about-- body image, love for ones' self, and the psychology of it all.
Today, on the parade ground, a female friend of mine, watching as a boy held up a selfie stick, said laughingly: "I find it funny, that a boy should be using a selfie stick. It's feminine," and giving her my reserved look, she added, "it's just my opinion, though."
After collecting our NYSC certificates we took many pictures. I stared at all of them, at my face, how chubby my cheeks have become, and I felt fading.
I'm not sure when you talk about 'body image' people, a lot of times, imagine men at the centre of it; so this makes it even harder to talk about. What comforts me, though, is having true love; being with that special someone, making fresh orange juice, taking long walks, and knowing that the extra lumps of skin on the sides of my stomach won't make her love me any less. In all honesty, that is what true love has come to mean to me--not acceptance of the unhealthy, but acceptance of who I am on the inside. She sees that I am capable of love(to love and be loved by).
As I grow older, new struggles sprout from nowhere. It's almost like I see myself for what I truly am and I must accept it. I see the hidden trauma's, those pent-up inadequacies from childhood come to life. For a long time now I haven't been able to articulate these feelings. I think the inadequacies began when Father said, "I don't like how Michael has added weight," or when Mother said, "Why did you barb your hair? Now, you look older."
I have felt that my ageing, for my parents, has been a reflection of time fading. I don't know if everyone passes through this: waking up one morning and realising people call you Sir, or Ma. And even though these are terms of endearment, in the begining--in your middle and late twenties--they can start off sounding like people have just come to discover that you're no longer as attractive as you once were. And why should it matter? Why should talking about ageing matter? Because, I feel, that deep down, it is a topic that affects us all, at some point at least: we compare our present selves to our former selves, and the realization of loosing that vibrant youthful look becomes daunting. We want to age gracefully. We want people to look at us and say things like, Wow. You're forty five? You look thirty five! Because complements that border on looks have always had the ability to brighten our day. I see how Father waltzes whenever I say to him, "Daddy, you look good in that caftan; in that agbada; or in that shirt."
These days, whenever the love of my life rubs my belly and tells me how much she adores it, I quip salaciously, "You love it, baby? You don't mind screwing your finger in my navel, do you?" and she laughs.
In my teens, and even not too long ago sef, I wanted to put on a lot of weight. I was tired of being skinny so twice everyweek I bought hamburghers, and voila! Present me. Ha, ha, ha, ha.
No jokes, though. I have started to eat healthy; started staring myself in the mirror once again. Every day, the love of my life brings me closer to loving myself, and all that self-hate is starting to dissipate.
Now that I'm done with my youth service, I will be going to script writing school in January. I'm taking life by the bootstraps and riding with it. The way I see it is, It's too late to let fear cripple my life. Love has healed me, and it's time to show her that her therapy, through my service year, has worked wonders.
PS: I love my man boobs; they are adorable. I should start wearing a bra.