Back in September, I put out an open call for a Body Reclamation project idea that asked “What does reclaiming your body mean to you, and why are you ready to do it now?”
Today I am sharing the indelible response I received from Deanna Stover. A story written in her own words about what recovery from childhood eating disorders, adult body dysmorphia, and generational trauma has been like for her.
Shenandoah by Deanna Stover
My mother admires the shape of my body as we hike in the Shenandoah Valley, the awesomeness masked by the cloistered trees. She reminds me that my legs are different than they were last- “thinner,” “more toned.” She’s right, at least, that now it’s me who could keep going further into the wilderness while she, a little drunk, a little stoned, needs to sit on an old, fallen tree to rest. She sets down her walking sticks, the hernia wounds on her stomach just healed.
My mother has me take two pictures of the two of us together on the log. We look happy, and I wonder if we are, or if that’s just the pot. We walk slowly back, stopping along the way to identify the round, bulimic-green, fleshy pods of black walnuts with our phones.
My Mother looks in the mirror when we get to our vacation rental. Her hair is dyed a light rosé-brown, my own dark hair soberly greying. I think to myself how much smaller she’s become. She compliments my piercings and I remember back to the first one, the one where she said: “You used to be beautiful.”
My mother and I reminisce over dinner about wearing matching clothes while I was in college. We laugh about her disowning me after I got my nipples pierced, and I wonder if she knows they still are. I finish most of my entree and Diet Coke and stop when I am full; she eats only the appetizer slowly, leaving a bite, polishing off the wine.
My mother compliments my “restraint at dinner.” She finds another glass of merlot, the red staining her mouth like a wound. She reminds me that I look “more me,” “more beautiful,” than I was last, but what she really means is thinner. She turns to look at her bruises and the crepey parts of her body she tells me she hates.
My mother misses the sad irony of feeling too big or too much or too old amongst the ancient vastness of the Shenandoah Valley, but I don’t this time.
So I hug my mother goodnight, and walk up to the room alone where I look in the mirror, care for my piercings, and admire my own body, not because of it’s shape, but because of its capacity to heal.
Shenandoah is where Deanna’s story begins on this blog. I am grateful that she trusted me with this very personal reflection and to create a piercing experience that honours her and her story. I look forward to working with her and sharing the next chapter here in good time.
Bye for now!
