Self Image - article by Jodi Miller
found this over at fbbworld.com and i really liked it. it's a good read.
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Self image
By Jodi Miller
Backstage...
A group of critics stand with arms folded, mouths pursed, and brows furrowed. Their eyes travel over a myriad of colors in the painting on display. With intense scrutiny, they pick apart every feature, thus concocting their own opinions. In this art gallery, subjectivity reigns.
The bodybuilding stage is no different. Seven pairs of eyes intently travel over the lines of muscle fibers and the curves of round, full muscle bellies, making a competitor feel much like the painting on the wall. But unlike the framed images on display, we are not devoid of human emotion, and when harsh critiques bombard our ears, we begin to lose a sense of reality.
I honestly don't remember what my body looked or felt like before I began powerlifting. That was almost twelve years ago. Thus, when I examine my physique, I don't compare it to a previous Jodi. Instead, I compare it to the most recent time I was on stage, or I compare it to another female competitor's physique. After all, isn't that what the judges do?
But is that healthy? What does that do to the self esteem? And exactly when does self-examination cross the line and begin overshadowing the daily rituals of life?
I entered the sport of physique competitions with a self esteem shaped much like a spiral staircase. Round and round, no matter where I stopped, I seemed to dizzy myself with negative thoughts. This haunts me to this day. With an affinity for extracting others' opinions and to subsequently overanalyze their words in order to determine my own thoughts, I never reach the pinnacle of self-satisfaction. So the question has always been, how do I maintain a sense of pride and acceptance when the public acts like vultures and picks apart every body part in a feeding frenzy of personal likes and dislikes? In an atmosphere such as this, staying sane sometimes seems out of reach, and constant conflict instead hovers over me.
See, in choosing to sculpt my body and change my lines-much like the artist and his masterpiece-I seemed to have opened the floodgates for rubberneckers. No longer can I meander through my daily errands without attracting some glance or glimpse from the public. I go through stages where sometimes I completely cover up my body-much like an Eskimo getting ready for a hiking trip in the Arctic air-in an attempt to simply blend in with the mainstream, and then there are other times when I want to flaunt my striated shoulders, my highly-peaked biceps that so few girls can brag of, and my grooved abs. After all, I worked incredibly hard for these body parts, right? I encountered this very situation just two weeks prior to the 2002 Junior Nationals when I walked into the gym on a warm, summer day. My head high and my shoulders back, I headed right towards the dumbbells and began my arm workout. Within ten minutes, I felt the heavy weight of stares. Upon looking at my reflection in the gym mirror, I soon understood why. My arms, freckled and pale, displayed veins that ran up and down the length of the muscles like rivulets of water through the soft bed of a rose garden. Where veins didn't exist, deep striations did. I felt like an alien. I knew I was different and the looks on other people's faces (some in awe, some in disgust) spoke that idea loud and clear. I wanted a T-shirt, and yet I felt a surge of satisfaction at having something that no one else in that gym could brag of, least of all any woman. And so the cycle goes, with me wavering between embarrassment and pride, for the previous experience is definitely not the only one.
I learned quickly that competitions put me directly in the public eye whether I want it or not. No longer is it just me who looks at my body; now, everyone in the gym admires it as well. Discomfort comes with this realization. I simply enjoy lifting weights. I lift hard. I lift heavy. To have others watch as if I am an act in a circus may seem complimentary, but the stares burn right into me. As it gets closer to a show, I tend to pile more clothes on when working out. Ironic, huh? Here I am, building the best physique I can, and I shroud it in rumpled sweats rather than baring it for the public to ogle. I have actually taken my T-shirt off while working out, noticed the looks, and put the T-shirt right back on. All for the sake of privacy.
It goes further than that, though. In knowing that I am on display, for it seems that even when dressed in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, my muscles are still evident, I am also aware of the fact that the public watches for changes in my physique. I am held to a higher standard, and I feel this pressure constantly. A simple remark from a photographer asking how lean I am or a question from a fellow gym member inquiring of my next competition can send my focus right to my abdomen, and my hands briefly check to see if the six pack indeed remains.
And what if doesn't? What if the veins aren't popping out, the striations aren't evident, and the cuts aren't as deep? I remember the Tuesday morning after my very first physique competition on the Galaxy stage. I had not had a chance to eat what I wanted until that Monday evening after the show, and for some strange reason, Taco Bell sounded quite appetizing (yes, my taste buds were completely out of whack that night). I slurped my Coke, munched on my burrito (three, to be exact), smacked my lips, and went to bed quite satisfied. Little did I know what dismay awaited me the next morning; lo and behold, when I awoke and took my top off before getting into the shower, I found a completely smooth stomach staring back at me. I freaked. Completely freaked. Tears sprang into my eyes. I could not believe I had spent months-months-getting the blocks to show up on my flat stomach, and now they were gone? Just like that? Luckily, I had friends who later explained that the sodium content in the Taco Bell food (probably enough to rival the Dead Sea) had made me hold water like a whale, and if I drank enough water and cut down on my carbohydrates and my sodium intake for a few days, I would drain myself of the excess.
To this day, I still check my abs to make sure they still exist, much like a child reaches for the furry comfort of the teddy bear in the middle of the night just to know she is safe. I don't think this is normal or healthy. But in allowing myself to be judged on a superficial level and to be critiqued from head to toe, I've also allowed my physique to dictate my lifestyle. I cannot eat a cheeseburger and chocolate shake without wondering what they will do to my body. No, that's not correct. I do know what they will do to my body. I know exactly. And I watch for the changes over the period of days that follow the treats. Then, I do everything in my power to return back to the pre-cheeseburger and shake days, for the fear of losing the very thing I've labored over for years sits on my shoulders like a ton of bricks. The sad thing is I don't think I'm alone in this.
Every mirror I encounter throws my image in my face and laughs at me. I can walk into one store, try on a pair of jeans and tank top, look at myself, and silently smirk and do a jig. Then I can saunter over to another store, see my image in a new mirror, and walk out of the dressing room with tears in my eyes and a new resolve to work harder in the gym to perfect the flaws that stared back at me. I teeter on the edge of satisfaction and disappointment, and when fellow gym members tell me that I look the best when I'm lean and striated for one show and then come back to tell me I look even better when I've softened up for another show, I begin to doubt all compliments and wonder where the truth lies. And my own objectivity is shaky at best, especially when the stress of a show looms ahead of me.
To top it all off, my acute awareness of the changes my body goes through depending upon food and water intake leads to a clear comprehension of my own mortality. I am a living being. And all my hard work can disappear like the seeds of a dandelion in the wind with just one strong whoosh of fate. I know that I live my days struggling for one moment in the sun. The spell of instant gratification, of being on stage, being adored for a physique that cannot be maintained past that day, is much like the blast from a space shuttle. So much anticipation and flurry of attention builds up to the ten seconds of fame that leaves the rest of the audience in a smoke cloud, and then everyone else goes about their business while you are left in the darkness, floating alone through an atmosphere that can either render you helpless in a sea of depression or leave you in awe of your own accomplishments.
And so it goes. We all start with a blank canvas, with only DNA to act as the paintbrushes and our own integrity to draw in the lines and create the shadows. I'm in the midst of creating my masterpiece. And while there are times when I want to tear up the canvas and start over, I know this is not possible. So I forge ahead and break through the barriers of my doubts and insecurities just so I too can hang on the wall with the best of them and be scrutinized all over again. Now, if the price of my sacrifice matched that of a Picasso, then that would be the icing on my cake, the cheese in my burrito, the fudge on my sundae, the . . . you get the idea.
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found this over at fbbworld.com and i really liked it. it's a good read.
****************************************************
Self image
By Jodi Miller
Backstage...
A group of critics stand with arms folded, mouths pursed, and brows furrowed. Their eyes travel over a myriad of colors in the painting on display. With intense scrutiny, they pick apart every feature, thus concocting their own opinions. In this art gallery, subjectivity reigns.
The bodybuilding stage is no different. Seven pairs of eyes intently travel over the lines of muscle fibers and the curves of round, full muscle bellies, making a competitor feel much like the painting on the wall. But unlike the framed images on display, we are not devoid of human emotion, and when harsh critiques bombard our ears, we begin to lose a sense of reality.
I honestly don't remember what my body looked or felt like before I began powerlifting. That was almost twelve years ago. Thus, when I examine my physique, I don't compare it to a previous Jodi. Instead, I compare it to the most recent time I was on stage, or I compare it to another female competitor's physique. After all, isn't that what the judges do?
But is that healthy? What does that do to the self esteem? And exactly when does self-examination cross the line and begin overshadowing the daily rituals of life?
I entered the sport of physique competitions with a self esteem shaped much like a spiral staircase. Round and round, no matter where I stopped, I seemed to dizzy myself with negative thoughts. This haunts me to this day. With an affinity for extracting others' opinions and to subsequently overanalyze their words in order to determine my own thoughts, I never reach the pinnacle of self-satisfaction. So the question has always been, how do I maintain a sense of pride and acceptance when the public acts like vultures and picks apart every body part in a feeding frenzy of personal likes and dislikes? In an atmosphere such as this, staying sane sometimes seems out of reach, and constant conflict instead hovers over me.
See, in choosing to sculpt my body and change my lines-much like the artist and his masterpiece-I seemed to have opened the floodgates for rubberneckers. No longer can I meander through my daily errands without attracting some glance or glimpse from the public. I go through stages where sometimes I completely cover up my body-much like an Eskimo getting ready for a hiking trip in the Arctic air-in an attempt to simply blend in with the mainstream, and then there are other times when I want to flaunt my striated shoulders, my highly-peaked biceps that so few girls can brag of, and my grooved abs. After all, I worked incredibly hard for these body parts, right? I encountered this very situation just two weeks prior to the 2002 Junior Nationals when I walked into the gym on a warm, summer day. My head high and my shoulders back, I headed right towards the dumbbells and began my arm workout. Within ten minutes, I felt the heavy weight of stares. Upon looking at my reflection in the gym mirror, I soon understood why. My arms, freckled and pale, displayed veins that ran up and down the length of the muscles like rivulets of water through the soft bed of a rose garden. Where veins didn't exist, deep striations did. I felt like an alien. I knew I was different and the looks on other people's faces (some in awe, some in disgust) spoke that idea loud and clear. I wanted a T-shirt, and yet I felt a surge of satisfaction at having something that no one else in that gym could brag of, least of all any woman. And so the cycle goes, with me wavering between embarrassment and pride, for the previous experience is definitely not the only one.
I learned quickly that competitions put me directly in the public eye whether I want it or not. No longer is it just me who looks at my body; now, everyone in the gym admires it as well. Discomfort comes with this realization. I simply enjoy lifting weights. I lift hard. I lift heavy. To have others watch as if I am an act in a circus may seem complimentary, but the stares burn right into me. As it gets closer to a show, I tend to pile more clothes on when working out. Ironic, huh? Here I am, building the best physique I can, and I shroud it in rumpled sweats rather than baring it for the public to ogle. I have actually taken my T-shirt off while working out, noticed the looks, and put the T-shirt right back on. All for the sake of privacy.
It goes further than that, though. In knowing that I am on display, for it seems that even when dressed in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, my muscles are still evident, I am also aware of the fact that the public watches for changes in my physique. I am held to a higher standard, and I feel this pressure constantly. A simple remark from a photographer asking how lean I am or a question from a fellow gym member inquiring of my next competition can send my focus right to my abdomen, and my hands briefly check to see if the six pack indeed remains.
And what if doesn't? What if the veins aren't popping out, the striations aren't evident, and the cuts aren't as deep? I remember the Tuesday morning after my very first physique competition on the Galaxy stage. I had not had a chance to eat what I wanted until that Monday evening after the show, and for some strange reason, Taco Bell sounded quite appetizing (yes, my taste buds were completely out of whack that night). I slurped my Coke, munched on my burrito (three, to be exact), smacked my lips, and went to bed quite satisfied. Little did I know what dismay awaited me the next morning; lo and behold, when I awoke and took my top off before getting into the shower, I found a completely smooth stomach staring back at me. I freaked. Completely freaked. Tears sprang into my eyes. I could not believe I had spent months-months-getting the blocks to show up on my flat stomach, and now they were gone? Just like that? Luckily, I had friends who later explained that the sodium content in the Taco Bell food (probably enough to rival the Dead Sea) had made me hold water like a whale, and if I drank enough water and cut down on my carbohydrates and my sodium intake for a few days, I would drain myself of the excess.
To this day, I still check my abs to make sure they still exist, much like a child reaches for the furry comfort of the teddy bear in the middle of the night just to know she is safe. I don't think this is normal or healthy. But in allowing myself to be judged on a superficial level and to be critiqued from head to toe, I've also allowed my physique to dictate my lifestyle. I cannot eat a cheeseburger and chocolate shake without wondering what they will do to my body. No, that's not correct. I do know what they will do to my body. I know exactly. And I watch for the changes over the period of days that follow the treats. Then, I do everything in my power to return back to the pre-cheeseburger and shake days, for the fear of losing the very thing I've labored over for years sits on my shoulders like a ton of bricks. The sad thing is I don't think I'm alone in this.
Every mirror I encounter throws my image in my face and laughs at me. I can walk into one store, try on a pair of jeans and tank top, look at myself, and silently smirk and do a jig. Then I can saunter over to another store, see my image in a new mirror, and walk out of the dressing room with tears in my eyes and a new resolve to work harder in the gym to perfect the flaws that stared back at me. I teeter on the edge of satisfaction and disappointment, and when fellow gym members tell me that I look the best when I'm lean and striated for one show and then come back to tell me I look even better when I've softened up for another show, I begin to doubt all compliments and wonder where the truth lies. And my own objectivity is shaky at best, especially when the stress of a show looms ahead of me.
To top it all off, my acute awareness of the changes my body goes through depending upon food and water intake leads to a clear comprehension of my own mortality. I am a living being. And all my hard work can disappear like the seeds of a dandelion in the wind with just one strong whoosh of fate. I know that I live my days struggling for one moment in the sun. The spell of instant gratification, of being on stage, being adored for a physique that cannot be maintained past that day, is much like the blast from a space shuttle. So much anticipation and flurry of attention builds up to the ten seconds of fame that leaves the rest of the audience in a smoke cloud, and then everyone else goes about their business while you are left in the darkness, floating alone through an atmosphere that can either render you helpless in a sea of depression or leave you in awe of your own accomplishments.
And so it goes. We all start with a blank canvas, with only DNA to act as the paintbrushes and our own integrity to draw in the lines and create the shadows. I'm in the midst of creating my masterpiece. And while there are times when I want to tear up the canvas and start over, I know this is not possible. So I forge ahead and break through the barriers of my doubts and insecurities just so I too can hang on the wall with the best of them and be scrutinized all over again. Now, if the price of my sacrifice matched that of a Picasso, then that would be the icing on my cake, the cheese in my burrito, the fudge on my sundae, the . . . you get the idea.
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