The Oscars are a case in point. Forget the films: it’s all about the dresses. Waistline over plotline. Botox over box-office. Big bad Hollywood, pimping out its daughters. I’m so disgusted I almost stop scrolling. But I don’t. I’m blinking back sequins. My eyes are starving and I can’t rip them away.
Not that it matters. These people aren’t real and there’s no harm in looking. They don’t affect me or my thinking. They. Are. Separate. Like my body and me. Cold and unlovely and disconnected.
When does the disconnect occur?
When do we stop listening to what our bodies tell us?
The constant tiredness. The clenched stomach. The tension that runs like a ribbon through our veins.
When did the warning lights become threats? Instead of helping and pointing us to something else, we turn upon them. We make our feelings the problem. We ignore them, medicate them and silence them until we can no longer read them at all. We funnel our feelings into behaviours. Those behaviours become disorders. We forget what we were running from and wonder why we feel so numb.