Writing the Body [March 17]
I don’t have any tattoos but there is plenty of stuff written on my body.
Last year I went to see a dermatologist to check for any dodgy results of my lifelong habit of spending way too much time on beaches. I have pale Anglo-Celtic heritage but I can’t bear to stay out of the sun. She showed me all the marks the sun had left on my body and then cut bits out of me to test for skin cancer. I’ve been lucky, so far. But my history is written on the epidermis that covers my body.
I never got tattoos because I don’t like the idea of self-inflicted pain. But my history is written in my body in the form of ongoing self-inflicted pain. Right now my lower back has an ache that dates back to a prolapsed disc in the lumbar region just over twelve years ago. This injury resulted in a hospital stay and spinal surgery, the result of years of not looking after my dodgy back. The disc prolapse and surgery also coincided with the end of a nine year relationship so by association, almost every time my back hurts I remember that particular grief.
I have another scar on my body from surgery to remove my gallbladder when i was in my early twenties. Soon after that surgery a man came to visit me at home – a married man who I had, not long before, come very close to having an affair with – so every time I see that scar I remember that particular near-mistake. The history of my emotional life is written on, and in, my body.
Right now my eyes are a bit dry from a lack of oil in my tears. This is an inherited condition, and the reason why I never used contact lenses but instead spent my adolescence and young adulthood wearing thick plastic spectacles. Then in my thirties I had laser surgery on my eyes and threw away my spectacles, which felt like a miracle, until recently when I have had to get spectacles again, because now I’m middle aged and my eyes are too tired to do what they’re meant to do. The history of my eyes is written in my personality which was shaped, at least in part, by my adolescent experience as a wearer of thick, unfashionable spectacles. Behind which I hid.
Now that I am nearly fifty I often see my body as a series of small problems to be managed. My friends and I have a ‘five minute limit’ rule. We can only talk about the problems with our bodies for five minutes and then the conversation has to move on or we will talk about it for hours. We will tell each other the history of our bodies until we have bored each other to death. Because the history of our experiences is written on, and in, our bodies.
I have just finished writing a memoir about my lifelong battle with one particular temperament trait: shyness. That battle is written in and on my body because my body had been the locus of agency in this battle, a fighting, protesting, self-sabotaging entity that often seemed to have a mind of its own.
Psychologists label shyness ‘social anxiety’ and one of the key symptoms is self-consciousness. According to one expert, ‘if you suffer from shyness, you worry a lot about the impression you’ll make on others. You are constantly self-monitoring, creating a vicious circle of clumsy behaviour, social avoidance and an impoverished repertoire of social skills.’ The shy person is constantly standing outside of their own body, critiquing it, trying in vain to control it and to control the impression it makes on other people.
Social anxiety often leads to digestive problems. The mind is in a pact with the gut, both trying (unnecessarily) to protect the shy person’s body from perceived danger from other humans. The history of my anxiety is written in the lining of my over-reactive guts.
Psychologists have identified a condition called ‘body identity integrity disorder’, the feeling that one of your limbs doesn’t belong to you, and the accompanying desire to have it surgically removed. Sometimes I wonder if shyness been like for me like one of those unwanted limbs, a perfectly normal part of me that I simply cannot acknowledge belongs to me.
Writing a book was an attempt to come to terms with the fact that shyness does belong to me. We are inextricably bound together just as I am bound to the image of my body I see when I look into a mirror. The history of my shyness is written in, and on, my body. And, now, in my book.
(This article was published in The Victorian Writer magazine in February 2016. My academic essay on Writing the Shy Body can be found in the Published Proceedings of the 2013 AAWP Creative Manoeuvres Conference.)