Etymology: Latin articulatus jointed, past participle of articulare, from articulus
1 a : divided into syllables or words meaningfully arranged : INTELLIGIBLE b : able to speak c : expressing oneself readily, clearly, or effectively <an articulate teacher>; also : expressed in this manner <an articulate argument>
I've always thought of myself as articulate. I spoke in full sentences at an early age, and reading and writing followed soon after. I've never had a problem getting up in front of a crowd and saying my piece. While the idea of meeting and talking to new people is inherently terrifying to me, randomly addressing my friends or total strangers is a piece of cake. (Or wedding cake, in the case of the previous clip.)
While being articulate is something that I constantly aspire to, lately I'm achieving the opposite.
- Function: verb
- intransitive verb : to become disjointed
Disarticulating: it's what murders do when trying to hide the evidence, tearing things apart piece by piece. It's what I've been doing lately, taking each individual part of my life and putting it under a microscope. The latest victim has been my reflection. I like to think of beauty as more of a feeling rather than a set of physical characteristics, but lately I feel like I have neither.
It's summer and I'm looking on flickr at the women in bikinis, not models, but real life women, ones that are thinner than me and ones that are heavier than me and I'm jealous. The most useless emotion there is but I'm envious of their smooth, unmarked bellies. It doesn't matter if they're flat or if they're round, the fact is there's not a piece of stretched skin or stretchmark to be seen. I curse my weight loss of however many years ago leaving me with a stomach that still looked like I had given birth to triplets even when I was incredibly lean, and I open another tab to investigate reverse tummy tucks, poring over before and after pictures when I know that the problem isn't my stomach it's me.
Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do I do this to myself? Suddenly I'm angry and upset because I know this is stupid, I'm stupid, I'm wasting time on something that doesn't matter, something I know I can prevent myself from doing. I can stop myself from going down this road but I don't and I didn't and I'm sitting here feeling sorry for me and my stretched-out stomach. Why worry about that when there's my broken-out face or my big thighs or my arms or a billion other things I can pick at. That I can pick on. I want to be beautiful,and to admit that seems shallow and vain and ultimately embarrassing. I want to be beautiful and I'm doing the one thing that makes me the most unattractive.
Nothing ever looks as it is magnified times a thousand, and yet I can't stop. I'm murdering myself, but I'm not hiding the evidence. I am disarticulated. And I want to get caught.