I know I've written briefly about this before, but it was more about my personal journey with feeling undesirable after I became paralyzed.
This is for ALL women-something I know we all struggle with. How can we not? We've been fed a visual meal of what a woman is supposed to look like & even be. We swallow it, choking on self-hatred. Throwing it up-the bitter aftertaste lingering in our throats. We first encounter it as teenagers. Glossy spreads in 17 & Teen Magazine. Lips parted like an open purse for a manboy to enter. Perfect hair. Teeth pearls. Skin porcelain. Later, we compare ourselves to Victoria's Secret models, sashaying down the cat walks. Abs tight, hair flowing spirals, legs granddaddy long.
I first remember feeling inadequate at the age of ten. I was smart. I was creative. I was funny. But, I was too skinny. I had glasses. I read too much. I was too tall. And confused: On the playground-the first time I was embarrassed about my body: What are those things sticking out of your shirt, Bethany?" Laughter. Pointing. Covering my chest in my new t-shirt dress, with my arms crossed, fists clenched tight. I never wore it again.
Boys liked my best friends, not me. I quickly learned that getting a man's attention was paramount. Without a boy wanting me, how could I complete myself?
Age 12: I didn't have glasses anymore. I knew breasts were good. I made sure to wear shirts that showed them off. I learned that being skinny was to be appreciated. I got my first boyfriend. I was finally okay.
The years went on, and I licked the sweet taste of envy from other girls & the stares and catcalls from men like the outsides of the cigars my daddy used to let me taste. The tanning bed in high school. "Wow, Beth. You were pretty before.... But now, you're hot."
Nourishment.
Nutrition.
I have known girls who shoved even fingers they found too stubby deep in their mouths, gagging on triump. Women who refuse to let their husbands see them naked. Women who punish themselves with cuts etched deep into their skin, teardrops spilling out mixing with the blood. Women who bury themselves in piles of paper and laundry and children, afraid to be found, to be seen. We paint and polish ourselves to be an object-a pretty picture on the wall. Then we hide it, afraid to love ourselves, because even that is a sin.
But our bodies are not a landscape to be painted on. We are not the sum of our hips, lips, weight, skin, breasts or bellys. We have wisdom to impart, mouths we feed, faces that tell a story.
Desirability is a clever thief. It casts subject as object if it means we are wanted. But you, woman reading this, are a skyline, a galaxy of a woman, of palatable vastness. You are a ray of sun, streaking someone else's sky awake. You are a jar full of fireflies on a hot Southern night. Glow. Burn bright.
Take your body back from the only way people allow themselves to find it beautiful. Take back the title. Own it.
I'm still a long ways away from learning to truly love myself outside of my physical appearance. I am trying to learn that my beauty lies in the way my eyes light up when I smile. The way my laugh can fill a room. The way my words are a gift, a present to be unwrapped, a present to be shared. The way my tired voice drips with honey when I say, "I love you" and mean it.
But my body is strong. My body fights. My body survived. And I will learn to love my body, my face. I will carry myself like a queen, like a lover, like a song.
I wish I had the time to word this better, but for now.... I will show you someone who says it best.
Yours Truly,
Mourning Glory
