We interrupt my series “A-Z Of Reasons To Recover” to fully exploit the opportunities that NEDA and b-eat’s establishment of the annual National Eating Disorder Awareness Week has served us up and to spread a short, simple but powerful message. Running this year from 22-28 February, I have found the internet bombarded with messages in support of recovering from all brands of eating disorders, from anorexia nervosa to bulimia to binge eating disorder. This is a fantastic mechanism which works to promote the idea that you are not alone. No-one is alone in this fight against a massive evil. And NEDA and b-eat make it their mission to ensure that all ED warriors are aware of this. That is why it was my pleasure to brand my body with their symbol of recovery in December 2015…
Okay, so I added a bit to the simple symbol…but it’s my body so hey-ho, do what I want.
Having this on my stomach reminds me of my bravery. It reminds me that I am fighting the greatest war of all, the war against the self, and I deserve to come out on top. I deserve to feed my body. I deserve life. We all do. Be brave. Make the first step to recovery. It isn’t easy (in fact, it’s the most difficult thing I have ever done) but I have faith that in the end it will be beautiful.
My heart is torn on the issue of National Eating Disorders Awareness Week. It angers me that we need to dedicate time to speaking out about an issue which pollutes our society so deftly. Having a dedicated week suggests that the other 51 weeks of the year are spent in silence, this cruel monster given the rest of the year to slowly but surely kill off any poor soul that falls under its captivating but fatal spell. This should not be the case. I encourage all ED warriors to speak out all the time, no matter what. Scream it from the rooftops. Shout it from the mountain. Heck, stop a random individual in the street and tell them your story. People need to know. The world needs to know. Your voice, your words could save a life.
It is time to educate. It is time to inform. I am sick and tired of having to explain to people my condition, how it affects me daily, how it will continue to affect me for the rest of my life. We need to destroy the stigma, dispel the illusions, kill the myths and legends about eating disorders. The truth needs to be revealed. And we have the power to do that. I only hope that the internet popularity of National Eating Disorders Awareness Week is not just a fad which will be forgotten about as soon as Monday morning arrives on our doorsteps. Don’t let it be a fleeting shadow. Let this week be a spark which ignites a flame to burn an entire lifetime. It is time to kill eating disorders once and for all.
It is no secret that I am an admirer of anyone who is brave enough to use their body as the foundations for a beautiful piece of artwork to be embedded on their skin, telling a tale of one aspect of a person’s life for the remainder of that body’s existence on this planet. However, there are some people who disagree with these beliefs of mine.
No more have these beliefs become apparent to me than over the past fortnight, this past fortnight having been the first one I have spent with my new baby…ladies and gentlemen, I give you the latest addition to my collection, making my tattoo total equal the mighty number 2 (okay, I know, bit of an anti-climax…give me a break, I’ve only been legal for five months or so).
Needless to say, my initial reaction (an emotion which remains even two weeks after completion) was one of sheer admiration, love and amazement at the fact that someone (Mr. Martin McKeown of The Human Canvas Tattoo & Art Studio) should have such a talent for creating this amount of detailed artistry on the human body after a few hours spent with some ink and a needle. Tattooing is an art form which will never cease to fascinate my quizzical mind, which is jealously lacking in such creativity.
That being said, whilst 99.999% of outsiders’ reactions to my tattoos have been complimentary and positive on the whole, they have always tended to be clouded with a mask of doubt and an undertone of disapproval. Look, I know you’re trying to be complimentary with the ol’, “Oh, like, I wouldn’t get it done, like, I don’t like tattoos but, I mean, you really suit it, like, you’re very brave”…but you must try harder.
Nevertheless, I shan’t be deterred. And do you know why? No? Well, allow me to tell you why I am insanely proud of my tattoos.
On my back, not my navel, in case you were concerned…
I find it extremely difficult to deny the overwhelming beauty of my tattoos when I consider the symbolic significance of what they both mean to me. I also find it extremely difficult to verbalise this significance, an emotional barrier forbidding me from ever truly revealing this sacred secret to many people beyond the realms of my closest circles. But I’m going to try my best.
I have never treated my body with the respect it truly deserves. I have subjected it to the most extreme punishments, ranging from starvation and malnutrition to excessive exercise, in order to achieve a level of inner peace through the medium of the “ideal” body image. At this precise moment in time, I continue to pursue this enigmatic end goal, invisible as a result of having no decided concept of what this “ideal” really is. What is the “ideal” body image? If you hold this holy grail of answers in your grasp, please feel free to forward me your knowledge on a picture postcard.
The “ugly” aspects of my body are a result of my own actions. The downy hair. The dry, dull skin. The goosebumpy flesh. The brittle nails. My less-than-feminine figure. The really yucky protruding coccyx which is prone to getting bashed against things, resulting in lengthy periods of being unable to find a comfortable sitting position (I type this whilst drowning in a sea of cushions and balancing awkwardly on my Dennis The Menace knees). All of these things I have done to myself.
So, if I accept the “ugly” things I have done to my body…why shouldn’t I take unquenchable pride in the artwork with which I have adorned the vessel that I have admittedly mistreated for such a long time? My tattoos are a gift to my skin, an attempt at apologising for all of the wrongdoings. THIS is why my tattoos are the most beautiful aspect of my body.
At 18 years of age, about to embark on student life and begin a brand new chapter of my life (…hopefully, results permitting), some wise old people may accuse me of being naive, of being too young and brash to make decisions with such permanency which I may regret in the future. I disagree. As I take these first baby steps into adult life, I vow to do my utmost to establish a truce between my mind and my body. My tattoos are the white flag.
Today, I treated myself to the viewing pleasure of my own personal premiere of Christopher Nolan’s Memento, after approximately six years of promising myself every Saturday that I would watch it that evening. So here I am, on a cold Thursday evening in January, sitting in a darkened bedroom trying to come to terms with what I have just borne witness to and attempting to join the dots in my mind. I am currently getting nowhere. I am still drowning in a cloudy haze.
Despite my wavering viewpoints on various aspects of this film (if you haven’t seen it, I would highly recommend it…I’ll be keeping this post spoiler-free so that everyone has the opportunity to experience this heightened sense of disorientation), there is one topic upon which I have a very definite opinion. And that is the role of tattoos in the film.
For the benefit of those who are unacquainted with the plot of Memento, allow me to enlighten you briefly. Leonard Shelby (Guy Pearce) suffers extreme short-term memory loss following a traumatic incident in which his wife was attacked. The film concerns him seeking revenge for the wrongdoings that have been performed against him and his late wife…however, this is no mean feat considering he is incapable of making new memories, thus forgetting all events within a few moments of them occurring. In order to combat this, Leonard conditions himself to make note of all those events which he deems to be significant. Those events of the greatest importance? They’re noted in ink on his skin.
There are two very distinct and opposing viewpoints represented within the film in regards to these tattoos:
1) They are of massive significance to Leonard. They allow him to live. These are mementos of his past, objects through which he can progress and eventually achieve his ultimate goal. For him, they are essentially a lifesaver.
2) In the words of Natalie (another character, portrayed by Carrie-Anne Moss), they are freaky. Weird. Sure, it would be difficult to caress a hairless chest with the words “JOHN G. RAPED AND MURDERED MY WIFE” scrawled across it. But is the opinion of this one character representative of the ceaseless stigmatisation of tattooed men and women in the media (and in reality) today?
For me, tattoos are a means through which we can illustrate our skin with permanent souvenirs of the most pivotal, monumental moments in our lives. They are a commemoration of our successes in life. They remind us that we have survived. Isn’t this an art-form we should celebrate? Even in its most basic form of the ol’ stick-and-poke (an act which we see our Leonard perform on himself in a scene which I found particularly intriguing…so much so that I had to rewind it to hear the words that were being spoken because I was simply too enthralled by the nifty movement of his fingers), surely this co-existence of science and art is something not to be frowned upon but acknowledged for what it truly is…the creation of a permanent masterpiece on the human body?
Honestly, this is one of my favourite topics of debate. Please, feel free to share your opinion with me. I am genuinely interested. Drop me a comment. Go on. I dare you.
Au revoir, mes petits pois!
PS-if you did not swoon over Guy Pearce’s strangely alluring bleached blond punk hairdo in this film, you are wrong.
PPS-if you were not cast adrift in a sea of your own tears after Leonard’s heartfelt speech about being unable to adequately grieve and get over the death of his wife because he has no concept of time, then you have the kind of emotional stability I crave in my life and I envy you. I really do.
…that is, in the humble opinion of The High Priestess.
Ladies and gentlemen, behold the icons of my idolatry. Darwin’s fittest females in accordance with the evolution of mankind. My Perfect Ten. It is time to unleash the green-eyed monster.
10) Edie Sedgwick
Andy Warhol’s muse and the only person who can wear those disgustingly extravagant earrings and not look like Pat Butcher (she somehow makes those mini-chandeliers look like the epitome of elegance): the glorious Ms. Sedgwick. Unfortunately, the wildness of the era and the whirlwind world of fast-paced youth got the better of our Edie and she sadly passed at the tender age of 28 in 1971. However, her memory lives on in the multitudes of stunning photographs of the superstar, Warhol’s films and Leddra Chapman’s haunting ode ‘Edie’ (please excuse the dodgy video). Long live the It Girl.
9) Siouxsie Sioux
The lead singer of Siouxsie and the Banshees, many (including myself) would claim that Siouxsie Sioux is the ultimate Queen of the Trad Goths…for obvious reasons. The androgynous style, the raven’s nest hair, the dramatic eye make-up; Siouxsie has it all, not to mention her stellar music! It’s official. Siouxsie is the perfect Gothic package.
(Excuse the profanity…you have been warned.)
8) Agyness Deyn
At one point in every girl’s life, she will lay eyes upon the one woman she aspires to look like. Her true style icon. For me, that woman is Agyness Deyn. I dare say anyone who knows me well would be willing to stand up in a court of law and proclaim that my obsession with Agy is unhealthy. Every night I pray that I wake up the next morning looking like her. She is the definition of flawless. I cannot even convey how much I want to be her. It’s not fair. Life is just not fair.
7) Annie Lennox
Is it becoming pretty evident that I have a mild infatuation with buzzcuts? Considering I often get called ‘Mini Annie Lennox’ by my colleagues, it would be completely unfathomable for me to exclude the gorgeous Annie from my list. As if her fashion sense (THOSE SUITS!), cracking hairstyles and angelic voice wasn’t enough to make you jealous, she has the personality of a saint and a delightful Scottish brogue. I love her. Especially in this music video.
6) Kat Von D
She is the woman who worked wonders for inked ladies all over the world, highlighting the power and beauty of tattooing and encouraging everyone to embrace their bodies as a human canvas. Not only is Kat Von D a magician with a needle and ink, she also has a killer fashion line (which I plan on doing a blog post on once the online shop is up and running again following a devastating fire) and a fabulous Gothic make-up range. With talents galore, it is impossible not to adore this masterpiece of a woman.
5) Twiggy
The Bambi eyes. The boyish figure. The pixie cut. The button nose. The pouting lips. Twiggy is my vision of idealistic beauty. She is the woman who made me fall in love with vintage fashion many, many moons ago and for that I am truly thankful. Thank you, Twiggy. I owe you big time.
4) Kate Bush
As if having outrageously brilliant talents for choreography, singing and song-writing isn’t enough, Kate Bush just had to throw in the fact that she is stunningly gorgeous and can work a tweed suit better than any Fleet Street businessman or Oxford English Literature lecturer ever could. She is also insanely intelligent and isn’t afraid to make controversial political statements (Army Dreamers, anyone?). In your face, Patriarchy. IN. YOUR. FACE. Altogether now: I’M COMING BACK NOW, CRUEL HEATHCLIFF, MY ONE DREAM, MY ONLY MAAAAAASTER!
3) Florence Welch
I fondly recall summer 2010 as the summer my best friend and I officially became infatuated with Florence + The Machine’s album Lungs. That was the beginning of our ongoing adoration of Ms. Welch. No matter what she is wearing, be it an ethereal evening gown or a suit made from what resembles cheap wallpaper from the 1980s, the lady never seems to put a fashionable foot out of place. And speaking of feet…Florence’s perfectly pedicured tootsies are also things to be envied. Yes. She is so immaculate that even HER FEET are perfect. Ugh. And if this song doesn’t make you shed the tears of a thousand lonely sunsets, you have a heart of stone I tell you.
2) Stevie Nicks
The White Witch herself. Stevie is just completely magical. Mystical. Spellbinding. It cannot be denied that the blood that courses through her veins sparkles with stardust. If you have ever travelled through the countryside of Ireland via train, listening to Stevie’s haunting vocals whilst the rain sends floods of teardrops cascading down the window pane, you will understand the power of this woman’s soul. It is to Nicks that I owe the deepest gratitude for encouraging me to embrace the fantastical world of the paranormal, the tarot…all things dark and enchanting. Thank you, beautiful, beautiful woman. You allowed me to be who I am.
1) Dita Von Teese
Um. Yeah. I don’t think I need to go into detail here. I think we all know. There is no need. Dita Von Teese. My sin. My soul. Oh, Dita, do me a favour and lend me your coat. I swear I’ll give it back. I promise.
So, if you haven’t all drifted into the Land of Nod having been completely bored to death by my nonsensical ravings, I thank you for your attention and your patience. Now, leave me to wallow in self-pity, self-loathing and jealousy. It’s going to take me a little while to get over this post. Too much perfection. Too much envy.
High Priestess Resurrected 