Nicotine withdrawal amidst the pursuit of a nice ass

I want it all.

*CONTENT DISCLAIMER: body image, sexual assault, self-harm*

I woke up this morning and cried my eyes out.

Maybe it was the vivid dreams I’d woken up from, not too different in contrast from the vivid dreams I’d found myself writhing within during the nap which stole yesterday from me. It was a horrid nap. I’d woken up crying that time too. Feeling defeated both times, I made my way to the floor of my office, sat down on my floor cushions, and proceeded to cry some more — truly, both pathetic scenes. This morning, I sat there, cried like a baby for a solid half hour, followed by the frantic disposal of all my remaining vapes — into the garbage. I haven’t used them in four days (has it been four?), but their presence lingered in the bottom drawer of my bookshelf, in my desk drawer, in my backpack’s pocket, all vaporizing watermelon-ice flavored holes into my mind. After tossing them, I cried for a few more minutes, collected myself, made breakfast for my daughter, then plastered on a smile and pushed through the routine to drop her off. This is day four — no cigarettes, no vaping.

My heart momentarily leapt into my throat as I turned right out of the parking lot, having just acquired my shameful coffee from a certain shameful corporation. I’d not even taken my first sip before making the turn, just in time to see a Toyota RAV4 barreling through my lane in an attempt to rush past all the stopped cars that were sitting at the light, in their lane. “YOU’RE DRIVING ON THE WRONG FUCKING SIDE OF THE ROAD, YOU FUCKING COW!!!”, I shouted, admittedly to myself, alone in my car, as they had already passed me, nearly side-swiping me as they sped down the wrong side of the street. Looking in my rear-view mirror, I saw them turn into the drive-thru for their own shameful coffee. I guess they really needed their fucking coffee. The rest of the drive to hot yoga, I was pissed off. Ruminating on past arguments, both real and crafted in my imagination. Upon arriving to the parking lot of CorePower Yoga, I realized I’d still not taken a sip of my coffee, ultimately downing the triple shot of espresso during the 50 foot walk, from the parking lot to the studio’s front entrance.

“If you like to practice with an intention in mind, I’d like you to take a moment and focus on that, breathe in—” the instructor spoke, softly, as we all lay on our yoga mats, slowly easing into supine twists, followed by happy babies — still adjusting to the hot and humid conditions of the studio. “Open mouth, breathe out and focus on your intentions today—” she says, with that yawning sigh I’ve noticed many yoga instructors tack on to the ends of their sentences. “Tight ass. tight ass. tight ass. abs. abs. arms. toned arms. ass. tight.” my brain drills on repeat, the instructor still calmly encouraging us to focus on our breathing. As we all came to a seat, facing the mirror, I scanned over the room, noticing six other women in attendance. Directly in front of me, I noticed a woman who was incredibly fit. Unlike everyone else in the class, myself included, she had actual muscles, defined and protruding from every surface of her body. Jealous.

I’ve been incredibly hard on myself lately, and this goes far beyond my temporary personal crisis of nicotine withdrawal. Admittedly, I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been. Up until I was 31, I’d never worked out on a regular basis, and until I saw what touring with my wife started to do to my body (there is no workout like playing a show), I didn’t think I could tone my body. I’d performed my whole life, but not like that. Those first few tours exposed me to a whole new sensation, a form of exhausting my body I’d never experienced, and I began to crave it intensely, more than any drug I’ve ever tried. When I began to see changes in my body, at first I was ecstatic, feeling a sense of self-esteem I’d never experienced. However, after the realization that I could change my body actually sunk in, I now am more self-critical than ever, realizing I have only myself to blame for not having the defined body I’ve always wished for, and I wonder to myself if I’ll ever be satisfied. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t an all day focus, and that I haven’t become incredibly insecure in many regards, spending extra minutes in the bathroom to inspect my finally healthy, yet chipping away front teeth — or my finally flat, yet flabby stomach.

When I bend over, my stomach gathers into a teeny, donut-looking pooch around my belly button — a reminder of pregnancy, and how stretched my skin once was. I am harsh towards myself over the parts of my body permanently altered by the actions of others, both positive and negative in nature. The burn on my left arm, seared into my flesh by the hands of a high-school classmate, which I am convinced will become cancerous by the time I am forty. My blown-out asshole, permanently disfigured by a tinder date rapist in my twenties, my first (and as a cause, only) experience with anal sex. Then there are the ways I’ve disfigured myself, of course, which I simultaneously judge myself on account of, yet do persist. I could easily point to my tattoos as both results of a quest for self-expression, yet equally as much a result of repeated cravings for self-mutilation. I can point to my big, half-botched breast implants and my over-filled lips as both affirming, yet regrettable in nature. No yoga class can bring this one peace, so for fuck’s sake can it just give me a nice ass?