'It became increasingly challenging to eat properly because I was concerned about what my body would look like on camera'

Last month, I was given the James Joyce award by the Literary and Historical Society of UCD. It is the highest award that an Irish University can bestow upon an individual, and is reserved for those who ‘have achieved outstanding success in their given field’. 

Yes, I too am concerned that they made a terrible mistake, but I have the medal now and they are not getting it back.

Thank you to Louise O'Neill (@oneilllo) for wowing us with your presence and insights! It was an honour to host you! ☺️ pic.twitter.com/xRV86IFmre

— UCD LitSoc (@UCDLitSoc) November 21, 2017

I got my hair and makeup done for the occasion, and Dearbhla at Brown Sugar - whom I’m fairly certain is a magician - did such a good job of painting my face that I had a moment of shock when I saw her handiwork.

I was like a baby who realises for the first time that the person in the mirror is themselves, and stares at their reflection for hours, utterly entranced.

I think I had forgotten that I could look semi-decent. (After lengthy and not inexpensive professional help, to be fair. Let’s not get carried away with ourselves.)

I have spent the entirety of 2017 chained to my writing desk, finishing my next two novels, and I would wager I look in the mirror maybe twice a day while I’m brushing my teeth. My laundry has consisted of gym clothes, pyjamas, and an extensive array of dressing gowns, whilst all of my beautiful clothes languish in my wardrobe.

And while I know many highly intelligent and productive women who manage to work hard and look fantastic at the same time, (Sali Hughes, Marian Keyes, and Louise McSharry - take a bow) I have come to accept that I am not one of them.

I lose all capacity to care about my appearance when I’m consumed by a project, and hence I resemble a one-woman interpretation of the Wreck of the Hesperus.

I have spent my days either at my writing desk or in yoga class or at the gym, and it’s been interesting to see how my focus has switched from what my body looks like, to what my body can do.

The work my brain can produce, how many miles these legs can run, how long I can hold this pigeon pose. It was in stark contrast to how I spent my 2016, a whirlwind of photos taken and being on television, and how hard I found that.

It became increasingly challenging to eat properly because I was concerned about what my body would look like on camera, and my weight subsequently dropped.

I thought a lot about how I looked, whether I was attractive enough, what a bad photo said about my worth as a person, while simultaneously being driven mad by the understanding that all of this was contradictory to what I was telling teenagers and young women.

I was encouraging them to take up more space in the world, not less; to fight back against the social messaging that told them that their value could be measured by a number on a scales or the amount of male attention they received.

I think I wanted them to believe what I was saying so badly because I didn’t want them to reach their thirties and still struggle with these kinds of issues. Our young people deserve so much than that.

This column isn’t about disparaging fashion or makeup. I have been vocal about my love for both, the incredible artistry the respective industries represent at their zenith, and how misogynistic I find the dismissal of traditionally feminine pastimes as superficial or frivolous.

The enjoyment I derive from finding the perfect outfit for an event is just as much a part of who I am as my love of literature or art or the theatre.

I sometimes pity men who aren’t given the same room for creative expression in their choice of clothing, and when I look at a beautiful red lipstick or a flawless winged eyeliner, I think how dull the world would be without cosmetics.

But on the other hand, when I see how productive I am when I don’t care about my appearance at all, it raises certain questions about the time-tax that women are expected to pay in order to be deemed ‘presentable’.

Hillary Clinton goes to an event with a bare face, and it makes headlines worldwide.

If a woman works in a job that demands she wear makeup or have her hair styled a certain way, that’s time and energy spent every morning that her male co-workers simply don’t have to worry about.

And when you add in the rest - shaving your legs and underarms, dying your hair, getting your eyebrows waxed and tinted, etc - it’s frightening to think of how many hours that adds up to over a lifetime.

Our culture tells women that our appearance matters a great deal, that we must think and worry about our bodies constantly.

Are we too fat or too thin? Are our clothes too revealing or too prudish? Are we ‘good’ enough to deserve love and happiness?

We are deemed shallow if we enjoy makeup, unsightly if we choose to eschew it. It feels like we can’t win and at times it’s difficult not to surmise that it’s a clever trick, a giant conspiracy theory designed to keep us stuck in a cycle of self doubt and self-recrimination, forever attempting to attain unattainable ideals of beauty.

And where are the men during all of this? Never mind. They’re too busy running the world.

Louise O’ Neill is the author of Only Ever Yours and Asking For It

Louise Says

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