By Jo Jackson

I recently found myself watching the classic Bridget Jones Diary, and I swiftly concluded that it’s problematic. My interpretation of it was that the titular character is fatphobic and only likes herself when a man deems her worthy – even if the way he expresses this attraction is via sexual harassment. Gross.

 Also, I am Bridget Jones. 

I would love to say that I have moved on from being obsessed with wine, weighing scales, and deriving all of my confidence from the compliments of men, but I’m not quite there yet. I have this thing called low self-esteem; I tend to struggle to find things about myself that I value. I’m particularly unkind about my physical attributes. Occasionally, I will become aware of the delightful little internal commentary going on in the background of my mind that points out my various ‘flaws’. My arms are massive. My nose is disgusting. I’m too hairy. My teeth are wonky. So are my boobs. I sweat too much. I’ve spent so much time listening to this internal commentary that these issues feel cemented to me; I am a bit broken and wonky. Now, I’m not the type of feminist who blames everything on the patriarchy (jokes, of course I do), but I do think that our old friend the male gaze might be a tad culpable here and yes, I think Bridget was susceptible to it too. I know that it’s on me to sort out my rubbish self-confidence because I’m an adult and all that, but when I think about the origins of this ingrained poor self-image, I can’t help but ask myself: could it be, perhaps, that I have unfavourably compared myself to the all-pervasive ‘ideal woman’ narrative from a very young age, internalising this and becoming, as a result, ever so slightly misogynistic to myself? 

Deep breath. Yes, probably. 

And what is the one thing I have consistently done to try and gain some self-love and feel good about myself? 

Sleep with men. Shit. 

Now don’t get me wrong, sometimes I have wanted to. But several times, I have slept with absolute strangers because the fact that they wanted to have sex with me meant that I was, in some way, attractive and worthy. Basically, I craved male validation. I recall one horrific memory when I was invited out to celebrate a friend getting a new job. I was recently single and, after living on my break-up diet of wotsits and chips, I no longer fitted into any of my clothes. Also, I had stopped taking my pill, which had led to a fetching smattering of cystic acne over the majority of my face. A stable, confident, and secure woman would have gone out to celebrate her friend regardless. I was not any of those things – I sat and cried about how gross I was instead. I pulled myself together enough to go out and whilst I smiled for photos and dutifully downed tequila, I honestly felt shit. Each time my friend got whisked away to dance or was the recipient of a cheeky wink or smile, I felt a pang of rejection. Not from anyone in particular, just, you know, THE WHOLE WORLD. 

At the end of the night, I stood in the taxi queue feeling depressed and disgusting because I was ugly and not one man had done anything to challenge that thought. I stood nestling my end-of-night noodles and as I went to take a gob-full, they fell down my top into my bra. Without missing a beat, a complete stranger told me that it was the best plate of noodles he’d ever seen and that he would love to tuck in. This man cares not for a symmetrical bust and relishes in my food-stained one. Hurrah! I am hot. So, of course, I slept with him.

As I awoke the next morning, the stale stench of pad thai, gin-breath, and unwashed bodies lingering in the air, I felt a deep sense of shame. WHAT THE FUCK? Was I really that fragile? I slept with a total stranger purely because he showed the teeny, tiniest bit of interest in me on a night when no other male had. I would love to say that I marched off to therapy then and there, but obviously I didn’t. I ordered pizza and snot-cried on my friend (that’s sort of the same thing, right?). 

I repeated this pattern several more times. I would never slut shame anyone, you do you, but for me the best sex I have is when there is mutual respect and trust. Casual sex has some good bits, but I was only in it for the short-lived validation that I got from it, so as soon as it was over and the guy left the next morning, the little bit of self-esteem that I had carved out for the night left right along with them. So why did I keep doing it? It was sort of like the crappiest social experiment ever. Hypothesis: society says I am utterly grim. Test: society likes men and is generally ruled by them, so if men sleep with me, I am not utterly grim and must be somewhat ok. Hypothesis: not proven. 

 I can’t recall a single moment when this started to change. But it has, little by little. Conversations around feminism have been positively booming over the past few years, and thanks to our pals over in social media HQ, the body positivity movement has gained wonderful momentum. The ‘Me Too’ movement coincided with something pretty big in my life and whilst I won’t go into detail now, I did go to therapy. I have read and learnt about the immense pressure women (and, to a different extent, men) are subjected to in order to preserve their socially constructed attractiveness and be accepted in our society. I have come to realise why this is and therefore feel more confident in challenging it; knowledge is power, after all. I know that the ‘ideal woman’ narrative is utter bullshit. It has been completely fabricated by the patriarchy because reducing women to objects of sex makes us easier to control and makes bloody good business sense. See, if we feel like disgusting grot bags, we are likely to spend money to rectify our grossness. Yes, you can polish a turd: you just need to give it a wax, a decent bra, nose augmentation, teeth whitening strips, and a bucket of retinol to help it on its way. 

Don’t get me wrong, I still struggle with the odd bout of self-hate. I’ll occasionally find myself examining my wrinkles or researching trips to Turkey to get my teeth done. I still want validation from others and recognise that it feels nice if someone compliments my outfit or says that I have shiny hair. But for me, this is different to the validation that I used to crave. I no longer need to sleep with a man to help temporarily cure me of my ugliness. (I am now one of those smug bastards who is in a pretty healthy relationship – ta therapy). I have learnt to reject my need for male validation, and if I see it creeping its way into my day I try to remember where it’s coming from and try to find that same validation from within. My wonky bits are entirely normal, lovely, and do not define my worth. It’s easier said than done some days, but I’m getting there, warts (and spots, and excessive body hair) and all.