Ugly ~ Part 1

“Watermelon head”. “Bulldog nose.” How could I not believe I’m ugly? If my own cousins are saying these things, it must be true, right? I mean, who knows more about what’s really going on in life, than siblings/cousins that are a few years older? These words, among many others, would stay engrained in my psyche for many years. Even though we, ugly and I, became a steady couple when I was only between the ages of four and seven, it would take many more years before the love of my husband, my daughters, and ultimately my belief in pure love, would bring me into the skin I’m made to be in.

How tragic that something as trivial as childhood teasing can leave such a seemingly indelible mark on my life. Not just my life, but in the lives of so many women. To the extent of self-loathing. Self-abuse. Suicide… Now, don’t misunderstand, I am in no way minimizing the weight and consequences of what is now a prevalent factor of our culture, known as bullying. Perhaps, “back then”, we had what some may call “tough skin”. It seems some, those who may not have been touched by teasing/bullying, those who were and choose to deny or forget, those who were the perpetrators, would have us believe, it’s not a big deal. We/they are just weak. Survival of the fittest , of sorts. Maybe. But, as a woman who struggled with bullying from a very young age, through early adulthood, I can assure you that it is a big deal. I may not have entertained thoughts of suicide, but I fought through many years of self-loathing and self-abuse in the form of unhealthy eating. As a former bullied little girl, who became an insecure woman, hearing “you are beautiful”, “you are so pretty”, “I love your smile”, “you are funny”, felt more like rusty, jagged, darts piercing my eardrums, than words of affirmation. Receiving compliments became a game of Truth or Dare. Does he/she mean it? Or, am I being set up to be the butt of someone’s cruel joke? Again. If you have never been teased/bullied, it may be impossible for you to fathom dreams of owning an invisibility cloak, long before others heard about that, of young Harry.

As a little girl, wishing my nose was smaller. More narrow. Better. Those were my constant thoughts. Maybe if my eyes were browner. Hazel, even. My hair straighter. Longer. Maybe if I had good hair. Not the steel wool of a mass that constantly needs relaxer. Or maybe curly hair, like the mixed girls. I’m light-skinned, but somehow, some way or another, I was skipped over when it came to long, curly locks that only needed water to produce magic. Water makes my hair shrivel like Evillene. It’s not fair. Oh well.

As an adult, knowing my nose is part of my DNA. I get it from my daddy. Loving the brown of my own eyes and not that of someone else, who may long for mine. Understanding that the light of my skin is a gumbo of love created just for me. Finally embracing every single kink my hair can form. My hair is beautiful. Strong. Crazy. Regal. Funky. Fancy. Classy. Fierce. Mine. It took my daughter, and her wisdom beyond her years, to finally get me to understand the unique treasure hidden inside my tresses.

So, here I am today. 41. Free. Me. Being who I am created to be. Nope, I don’t have it all together. I will be taunted by my old lovers… Insecurity. Fear. Doubt. But, I now know that those things are not who I am. They all represent elements of choice, in my life. I choose happiness. I choose freedom. I choose a peaceful way. That little girl? The one who wanted to be pretty. Who wanted to be noticed. Who wanted to fade away into nothingness. She’s happy these days. She got the guy. She has a loving family. She looks in the mirror and sees a pretty face… Most days. She giggles at her reflection when she smiles. She realizes now, that all of her pain was meant to serve others. There was a reason for the pain. Divine reasons. The story is still unfolding. But, she can rest assured that she is seen. She is beautiful. Because she is fearfully and wonderfully made.

Our speaker, Rachel, shared a photo of herself in a bikini. Some were inspired to share photos similar to hers. Others shared photos that amplified their own version of insecurity and vulnerability. All shared photos that ultimately created a sense of empowerment. No. I don’t have a pic of myself in a bikini. Nor do I plan to ever share one. But what I do have is a couple of pics of me this afternoon. My under garments betrayed me but somehow, I still felt pretty. Cute even. To say that I was once a strong size 22 and am now a squishy 14-16 is quite empowering. My middle carries the fat of four babies, a botched tubal ligation, a hernia repair and many years of emotional eating. But, I am now free to work the “runway” of my living room in the skin I’m in! Of course, in the meantime, I’ll be working hard to shave off a few more inches. But for now, I’m feeling pretty good about life.