30 Days of Truth: Day Two - High-Fiving Myself

(sorry. i know this isn't exactly the day after my last post but i'm busy trying to rebuild a camper before november 5th)

(also, OMG, I just remembered NaNoWriMo. Shit.)

Okay. This may not be the most comfortable of subjects but, at the same time, sometimes I really like being conceited. Since I ragged on myself pretty harshly last time, it's time for some emotional redemption!
 

Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.

I'm going to be a little contradictory from last post, because I know you'll allow it. Just go with it.

I love my hair. It's thick and wavy. It's really long. It's a pretty natural blond color that bleaches out in the sun to make it lighter with even whiter natural highlights. And if that's not working, I *may* help it along a little!

Since my self-hating post of 2001, I've managed to learn some new tricks. I use Paul Mitchell shampoo which, believe it or not, actually does what it claims: It's made my hair's texture a bit smoother and stronger. If I use that shampoo and go to sleep with wet hair, I wake up with beautiful, soft curls. A little hair polish creme, and I'm usually good to go. If I straighten it, my hair appears thinner (not always a bad thing), and it looks a bit more shiny.

My hair is so long now that I can tuck it into my waistband. Sometimes I leave it long, sometimes I put it up in a messy up-do, or sometimes I style it into a 1940s style. Regardless of what I do, people look. People always - almost every time I meet someone for the first time - say something about it.

My students at school, as much as I hate those fuckers, always say nice stuff about my hair. They want to know if it's extensions. They want to know if they can touch it. They want to know if it's real. Strange, strange kids! But they're all black, Hispanic, or Asian, and none of them really 'get' white girl hair so they always want to touch it. I had a girl pet me one year and it was creepy. Now I just tell them 'sure, but make it snappy.' This year, I'll probably tell them I don't like to be touched and leave it at that.

The other thing I really like about myself are my eyes. Yeah, they're kind of big, but I've learned a few makeup tricks to help with that. The color really is very pretty and not a day goes by that someone doesn't say something about my eyes to me. Again, I think I have one student who doesn't have brown eyes - his are hazel - and so they're always staring at them, asking me if they're real, and so on.

Even as I'm writing this, I'm still thinking about all the other things I hate about myself. It's weird how I always try to negate it.

Well, besides the camper that I need to get back to, my laptop battery's about to die and there's no plug out here. I'm going to run for now, but I do promise that I will be back soon to keep writing. Troy is taking a new job that will put him offshore for 2 weeks at a time, so I think I'll have lots of free time now. :-(

30 Days of Truth: Day One - Giving Myself the Finger

Sure, I'll jump on the bandwagon. One of my biggest inspirations, Anastacia over at JurgenNation.com, was the first person I saw to post it. After a bit of investigation, I've seen several bloggers working through the same month-long unintentional therapy exercises. Before I begin, I'll give you the whole 30 days of topics, in case you want to join in.

Day 01 → Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.
Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17 → A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 → Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 → What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 → Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21 → (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 → Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 → Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 → Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 → The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 → Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 → What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 → What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 → Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 → A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself

I wrote an essay/editorial/article type thing for a second-rate woman's magazine many years ago that was all about the things I hate about myself. They also prompted me to write an open letter to Victoria's Secret, cleverly disguised as an open letter to the "lingerie industry." Sure. I'm sure Bali has pissed off a TON of people...

Anyway, I digress, as usual.

Back in 2001, I wrote a fairly honest and painful essay about all the things I hate about myself. I'm republishing it here, with a few things updated because, LUCKILY, I've changed a bit.

"I hate this hair. This ashy, thick, course hair. The type of hair that used to be so pretty when I was a young girl, but soured with age, along with my personality. The kind of hair that frizzes if you even joke about rain. The kind of hair that never looks good or nice without a stylist's attention.

I hate my eyebrows. They are clear and thin and cannot be sculpted.

I hate my eyes. My big, blue, overpowering eyes. The bug eyes that people made fun of my whole life. These eyes leak way too much. They get bloodshot for no apparent reason. These eyes will not tolerate being opened underwater. These eyes resist the use of contact lenses, no matter how many times I try. My eyes were borrowed from my father, but he grew into his. Particularly distasteful is the left eyelid; the one that bares the white scar from my ex-husband, who tried to claw out my eyes in a fight. Also distasteful, the right. The right eye with the perpetual dark circle - only noticeable if pointed out - that still remains, years after another fight with my ex-husband, where he blackened my eye, dark as night. (if they're the windows to my soul, it seems quite like he was trying to get at and kill my very essence, now wasn't he?) These eyes, that remain puffy for a day or two after a crying jag. These eyes have no spark left, and I just can't stand them. The older I get, the more people comment on them - in a good way.

I hate this nose. The nose that has large, clogged pores, broken blood vessels around the nostrils, and permanent lines drawn across it. This nose is hypersensitive to the touch, and freaks out at the slightest hint of cat dander. This nose is a small distraction, with its upturned and pointy end. My father lent me his nose, as well, along with all of its allergies, skin characteristics, and complications.

My teeth are a disgrace. Besides the coffee stains and white spots from mineral intake, they are crooked. They won't ever be straight. I could never get braces now, even if I could afford them. My bottom teeth overlap and are so close together that they split the floss. They're getting inadvertently ground down on the molars from complications with TMJ.

I hate my shoulders. My masculine, straight-across, non-sloping shoulders. It's hard to buy shirts that fit. When I find the right size, they're made for women with more boobs than I got. I hate having to remove all the shoulder pads out of all my clothes because of those shoulders. I have to admit, though, sometimes they're pretty cool.

I hate these fingers. These short, stubby fingers that churn out these words. They're ugly. They're plain. They're my mother's fingers. I wanted my own. I wanted fingers that look long and elegant, that look feminine, that look pretty with jewelry on them.

I hate those fingernails that finish the ends of those stubby fingers. In an attempt to lengthen my digits, the nails grow long. Whore-ish. Wal-Mart-Cashier-ish. Trashy. Those strong, thick nails that make a tappity noise on my keyboard, rub a hole in my space bar, and scrape all the paint off my E and N keys. I hate them. They resist polish and refuse to stay nice. They're so tough that, when they break, they snap all the way at the bottom near the nailbed.

I hate my breasts. I have none. I look like a little child who has not reached puberty. I feel like a man, and I look like one too. I look terrible in swimsuits, summer clothes, and dresses. I have always been teased, and I can easily see why. I hate that I can't buy pretty underwear or cute clothes without looking like a little girl playing dress-up in something just a tad bit too big.

I hate my stomach, which used to be flat and strong, and is now slightly round and soft. The skin is loose and squishy, and if I'm not very careful to hold it in during my bloated days, I sometimes resemble a pregnant woman. I get tired of people asking me if I'm pregnant. I hate children. My weight fluctuates so much - by 10 or 15 pounds - I can never get myself looking quite right.

I hate my legs. My hips are getting a little big, but my legs…they're too short and tree-trunk-ish. I have my mother's legs, too. My legs seem to stay pale these days, as I don't like to go out in public scantily-clad. These legs are always tired from running. My calves are too thick to wear the most sexy boots. I get ingrown hairs on the widest parts from the constant friction on my jeans. And my leg hair, while I'm at it, is sparse and totally clear which, I guess, is actually kinda cool.

I hate my feet. They, too, were inherited from my mother. With short, stubby little toes that have very little nail. One touch from a brush and they're polished. Feet that are a little smaller than average, yet the stores are always out of my size.

This skin that holds it all in, yes, I hate this skin too. A nasty, pasty, slightly orangey pale color, that is never properly hydrated. I hate it, as well. This skin, that is dotted with small, dark colored moles in the most inconvenient of places, that makes me look like I'm spotted with mud. This skin that struggles to stay clear and blemish-free, no matter how I treat it.

And that's just what you can see. Think about everything that is inside of me that I wish I could kill. All the things inside of me that I wish would die and just go away…Think of all the things inside of me that I cannot change. Things that I can change, but don't know how. Think about all the things inside of me that I don't even understand.

I hate how I always need to be needed. I hate that I need people, because they don't need me. I hate that I never *really* have anybody and, if I do, it's only temporary. I hate that I'm so dependent, and that I'm so pathetic. I hate that I will throw 100% if myself into something when I never get half of that back. I hate that I am biologically unhappy, and nothing can change that. I hate that I failed at the most simplistic of tasks -- suicide. I hate that I have fallen in love with people that I can never have, and can never get over. I hate that nothing is ever good enough. For me, or for anyone else. I hate that I give my all to something, and no one notices. I hate that I feel I am unloved, unappreciated, unnoticed, unattractive inside and out, and that I am destined to be alone. I hate that I try and I try so fucking hard to get ahead, but all I manage to accomplish is just to hold it together for one more day, before I break down and bawl at the end of the evening. I hate that all the energy I spend on just keeping it together is the same energy that other people use to get an education, or jump-start a career, or have a family. And what do I do? Merely get by.

I hate me. I hate almost everything about me. I hate almost every single, solitary thing about myself, and I don't even have the energy or the motivation to change even the things I have control over. Mostly because I don't think anyone would notice or care."

Admittedly, I'm still not thrilled with myself but I think I'm in a much better place than I was when I wrote this 9 years ago. 25 was a really bad, bad age for me. I'd like to think I've become more objective with myself and have realized that I need to work on making a difference in the things I hate about myself. So far, I think I've been pretty successful.

Honestly, I'm not too jazzed about Day Two. Oh well. I've made a commitment.
 .

Just a Thought from Middle School

As a public school educator, I was required to watch a PowerPoint on bullying to avoid getting bullied by my principal. Since I like to see this woman as infrequently as possible, I'll do anything to prevent a conversation, a nod my direction, or an email. I went to the library to login with the special password and watched the PowerPoint. I actually learned some things, statistic-wise. But it also got my brain churning with unresolved mental issues and some events that became the push out of the plane I received to start a terrifying freefall through adolescence; one I was lucky to survive.

But I don't need to rehash the whole story. All I really need to tell about this time is one of the stand-out moments from being a middle school girl. This crumb of emotional cafeteria food is a constant reminder of what came after.

I was part of a group of girls, like most girls are. I know we had some that came and went on the fringes, but it started out as a core group of us: Me, Saundra, Debra, and Cammie. I'd known Saundra for quite some time, but we met the other two girls at the beginning of 6th grade. We were also in Girl Scouts together. Saundra was the fat girl, Cammie was the jock girl, Debra was the delicate and sick one and, without trying to sound conceited, I was the pretty one. Mind you, I was totally unaware of this at the time. I was still innocent enough to be blind to the stereotypes. No, that came a year later. Until that time, I was friendly to everyone, seemed to be the kind that could float between all different kinds of groups and work with anyone in class. I was an honor roll student who participated in Student Council, yearbook, newspaper, intramural volleyball, and band. I was well-liked (or at least not hated) by just about everyone in school. In fact, I knew the name of every student in my middle school, regardless of grade. I guess you could say I was popular. But I was humble.

The first thing that tipped me off that maybe I wasn't with a group of real friends was the subtle exclusion. The other girls would do things together - sleepovers, shopping, movies, bowling - and I wasn't invited. At first, they did a pretty good job of hiding it. Eventually I would hear things: Laughter in the restroom over something that had happened at the mall. Gasps of surprise as the small audience that had gathered in the locker room listened intently to a story about how they prank-called Thomas at a sleepover and they all got to hear his voice. A sleight of hand movement to scoop up a dropped Polaroid of Debra flat on her back, in the middle of a lane at the bowling alley.

After a couple of months, it became much more obvious. Debra's family owned a bowling alley in the neighborhood. Their shirts were really neat. Debi said she'd bring us shirts - even asked what color we wanted - and promised to bring them. The very next day, there was a pink shirt, an aqua shirt, and a white shirt. No purple. She gave out a sing-song "I'm sorry," and gave the others a look while promising to bring mine. Of course, that day never came, and any time I asked about it, she'd say the same thing in that same voice, and the others would giggle. I still hadn't caught on yet. It didn't make sense. I didn't believe they were deliberately being mean to me because I hadn't done a thing to deserve it.


Debra got very sick with mono. She was sickly to start with, so it affected her very badly. She lost probably 1/5 of her body weight. When she was healthy again, she was thrilled to be back at school. Everyone was glad to see her and we all rallied around to help her catch up on the stuff she didn't understand from the classwork brought to her. To celebrate her recovery, she held a party at the bowling alley. Guess who wasn't invited. Guess who didn't even know about it until people talked about it the next week at school.

Cammie stole a school project of mine and passed it off as her own. We had the same teacher, but different periods, so I had no idea. As "best friends," we all had each other's locker combinations. Her English was early in the day, mine a bit later. I didn't even realize it was gone until I needed it. When I noticed it was gone, I had about 3 minutes to get to class. I tried to ask my "friends" if they'd seen it, but they were always mysteriously 10 feet ahead of me and couldn't hear me calling them. Being a perfect student who never missed an assignment, I was speechless when my teacher berated me in front of the whole class. It was only later in the week, after I had redone a much-less-impressive project for a late grade, that I actually told my teacher what had happened. That's when she told me Cammie had submitted mine as her own.

At that point, a counselor intervened to separate fact from fiction. The truth came out somehow - I think it was a call to Cammie's mother, who admitted she'd never seen the assignment - but nothing came of it. My substandard project was graded as if it were on time, and I received a B- on it, rather than the A I would have gotten with my original one. I also got my locker combination changed. At that point, I thought I was just losing Cammie, but I realized it was a package deal. For a reason I didn't understand then, the girls sided with her and I lost the other two as friends as well.

I started hanging out with some of the outcast girls. They were oddball freaks I befriended on an in-class basis, except for one - Janine - who I met in the library and we began eating lunch together. We really hit it off, although I was pretty sure she was one of the most socially awkward person I knew. I also started reconnecting with older friends I had grown apart from. Most of them had started down a wrong path but, the truth was, it was better to be with bad friends than it was to be alone. I knew they were bad for me, but they accepted me with open arms and I was no longer alone in hallways and had someone to talk to in class.

I thought it was all over then, but I was grossly mistaken.

Not too long after I just gave them what they wanted and left them alone, the really bad shit started.

Everything was stolen out of my gym locker, which I shared with a girl I hardly knew. They got to her, bullied her or bribed her into opening the locker for them. If I had to guess, I would have said it was Saundra, although Cammie appeared to be the one with sticky fingers.

They openly teased me, laughed at my clothes, my hair, my shoes. They would throw things at me. They convinced a boy to give them a chunk of his surf wax, balled up little chunks, and threw it in my hair whenever they were close to me.

At this point, I gave up even trying to eat lunch in the cafeteria. If it hadn't been for the mercy of my language arts and math teachers, who allowed Janine and me to eat in their classrooms, I may have literally died from embarrassment, humiliation, and degradation.

That's when the death threats started.

Every day, new promises of what they would do to me if they got me alone would fall out of my locker at some point. They were smart enough not to sign them, but you've all seen the handwriting of a teenage girl; it was distinctive. To say this took a toll on my mental health would be a severe understatement.

The counselor, although nice, really didn't do anything. She was the sweetest woman but there was no real action taken, regardless of the fact that she knew damned well who was writing those letters, as did the parents.

I was sexually assaulted on my school bus by an older student. The kids who were left after the majority of stops just sat there and either watched silently, or stared stiffly ahead as if they didn't know what was going on. The bus driver never once looked up in that long, horizontal mirror that was strategically placed to alert her to that very type of misbehavior.

I never told my parents. I tried calling my mother while she was at work, to beg her to come home and 'fix' it. Choked up, I had a hard time getting anything out at first. She became irritated, which flustered me even more, and all I could whisper was "I have to talk to you." She told me she was too busy at work and that she didn't have time for me. I knew that if my father found out, he would either try to handle it legally and nothing would actually happen, or he would try to handle it his way and he'd end up in prison. The fact that my attacker was black would have made it even worse. I was too broken to do anything about it and, besides, the damage was already done. I knew enough to know the future of that asshole was dead-end, anyway. He was trash, with no chance of ever becoming better than that.

I eventually found out that the girls had planned it all. Together, they saved up enough money to bribe Saundra's older brother into giving them his Air Jordans. The girls had them "signed." That's all it took for a boy to become a sex offender: a pair of inauthentically-autographed basketball shoes.

Oddly enough, that was one incident that never got around school. I guess all the kids were too shocked, scared, disgusted, pitiful, or embarrassed to say anything. Everyone tried to forget about it, but every time I saw them, I could still see their wide eyes, staring, frozen, as I was being assaulted.

The school year after that, I started doing a lot of things I shouldn't have been doing, but I didn't care. All of that, however, is a different story. There is no reason for me to get into that here.

You know, I've always felt like this was just the life I've led. I wasn't totally sure this was an unusual thing for a kid to go through - it's not like I talked about it with people - but now I'm realizing my story is sort of like something you'd see in a Lifetime movie. Now that I'm older, I CAN talk about it with people and I realize it's a little fucked up.

Anyway, that took me quite some time to actually write. I had to take a few breaks. Heavy memories, they are. Funny how something can flash through your head so quickly in just a matter of moments - snapshots of faces, snippets of sound, clips of anguish - but it takes so long to wade through the river of mud to relate it to a blog.

Needless to say, I'm kinda worn out for today. I'll try to come back a little more often from here on out. Sorry about that.