Not all my posts this year will be super- long ones: sorry to ruin your fun, TL;DRers.
When I was 18 I went to New York City, where I discovered an entire museum filled with what some people call “art,” and others call “garbage.” Oh, MOMA, what wonders you wreaked in my psyche. Suddenly, I too could express myself artistically without shame (as can many others. It’s okay, Artists never get too far if they aren’t shameless.)
I love deconstructing stuff. It’s fun, it’s easy (though it takes skill to do it well), and it is cheap therapy. In 2011, I was at the Art Mecca that is Costco, when I found a copy of “Wreck This Journal” by Keri Smith, who is a genius who makes money by telling people to wreck stuff. AND THEY DO IT!
I’m almost finished wrecking the journal, so since I wanted to do some more damage, I downloaded the “Wreck this App” wherein I can wreck the same stuff OVER and OVER. I also bought another app called “This is Not an App”, which is kind of confusing because it is, but that’s just life lived in paradox.
Anyway, the picture above is my first attempt at wrecking something on my phone; lucky for me, my phone itself remains perfectly functional.
Because she is awesome (and no, I am NOT a paid spokesperson), please go buy Keri Smith’s stuff at Amazon and at your appropriate app store (available for both iOS and Android)
Okay, so it’s eight days into 2014, and I’m blogging after a wee hiatus of OMG SIX MONTHS. Time flies when you’re procrastinating and/or avoiding.
By now, a lot of people are either going crazy fulfilling New Year’s resolutions (it hurts so gooood!) or beating themselves up because they’ve already fallen by the wayside (it feels so baaaaad!) Well, I’m giving myself a break: there’s always next year..
I’m not much for New Year’s Resolutions. When they fizzle out, I am left feeling defeated, like a failure. So, about 15 years ago, I have up NYRs for what I call “Ongoing Goals.” Many of these have been on my list for many years. Many have shown progress, some, not so much. Nearly every year (excepting the years I totally blew them off) the list is updated. Since it is now 2014, I have 14 on the list. I may add one each year. I may not. The list can get unwieldily once you creep into the twenties. Nonetheless, Here are my Ongoing Goals, put forth for your entertainment (or scorn, if you’d rather be scorning something. Cool word, “scorn.”):
1. Beauty and Order
I will do my best to instill beauty and order in my life, to maintain a clean and inviting home, to purge excess clutter, to choose my possessions using the mantra “Is it meaningful? Is it useful? Is it beautiful?” Also I will accept that even if something is most or all of those things, if it doesn’t have a proper place, it would be happier belonging to someone who would love and appreciate it as it deserves.
2. Happiness
I will accept that I am not responsible for anyone’s happiness but my own. I can not make anyone else happy, and no one else is responsible for my happiness. They are not duty-bound to make me happy. I will work on fostering my own happiness by counting my blessings, doing things that are fun and adventurous, and seeking support and encouragement when needed from people able and willing to give it. I will do my best to encourage others with my compassion, empathy, love, and kindness, without any expectations for the outcome.
3. Co-Dependent No More
I will no longer be “nice” to my own detriment. I will set solid boundaries for myself and others and realize that I am not obligated to explain, defend, or justify them. I will say no or yes as I see fit, and accept responsibility for my own choices and actions. I will not allow myself to be used or abused.
4. Acceptance
I will accept that my destiny is my own to create. I will accept that there is positive and negative in my life. I will embrace the blessings and do what I can to change or acknowledge and accept the challenges. I will meet people where they are, and accept that they have differing points of view, and that I can care for someone even when they disagree. I can accept the fact that there are certain people who do not belong in my life, and let go of the anxiety that someone may not like or care about me. I can accept honest criticism about my actions or behaviors, and listen without knee-jerk defensive reactions. I can accept responsibility when necessary, and stand my ground if need be. I can accept myself as a flawed-yet-perfectly good being, developing, learning and growing as I go.
5. Creativity
I will nurture and express my innate creativity, spirit, and intelligence in a variety of ways. I will seek ways to do this through creating art, writing, reading, introspecting, learning, working, adventuring and experiencing the world. I will share my creativity with others joyfully. I will make time to do this, and live in the moment as I create, immersing myself in the process.
6. Connection
I will make new friends, as well as keep in contact with my present friends. I will, when possible, make an effort to reconnect with people who have been meaningful in my life, without expectations regarding the outcome. I will take time to socialize with people in real life, and visit as many of my friends as I can. I will work towards the goal of meeting all of my internet friends in person. I will send personal notes, letters, cards, and packages to people with no expectation of return.
7. Devotion
I will nurture my relationship with God/dess in all of his/her forms which speak to me. I will spend time in devotion, mediation, vigil, prayer, and ritual. I will attend temple and circle when possible. I will reach out through my anxieties and fears to meet people of like mind, and will look for God/dess in the eyes of every person I meet. I will read spiritual materials, and work on wending my way through the spiritual wilderness. I will accept any challenge that brings me closer to God/dess, whether it be sacrifice, pilgrimage, periods of specific spiritual devotion or practice, observance of holy days, etc.
8. Compassion and Empathy
I will do my best to have compassion for all people, even those whose behavior and opinions are distasteful to me. I will recognize that having compassion for someone does not mean you have to agree with them or have them as an active part of your life. I will also practice empathy, refusing to dismiss or minimize the feelings of others, simply because I feel uncomfortable. This includes being open to confronting my own prejudices or actions that hurt or wound others without defensiveness (see Acceptance).
9. Activism
I will pursue and educate myself about issues for which I feel strongly. I will stand up for these issues, and fight for justice and equality for all people. I will choose a few to defend passionately, and will support others’ work towards their pet causes. I will focus my attention on what I feel are pressing issues. For me these are education, especially women’s education, eradicating sexism (rape culture, shaming, etc.), and female empowerment (especially for young girls and those living in poverty.) I will lend my voice to all work for justice.
10. Health
I will do what I can to develop and maintain my physical, emotional, and mental health. I will find healthy ways to get my needs met. I will seek support and help when I need it. I will move my body and nourish it. I will nurture and respect myself in every aspect. I will have compassion for myself when I am not as strong as I wish to be.
11. Detachment
I will work towards compassionate, loving detachment from outcomes and expectations which cause distress and dissonance when not met. I will work on forgiveness and letting go of old hurts, grudges, and blame.
12. Adventure
I will seek and accept the call to new adventures, big and small. I will step fearlessly into the future. If I can’t do that, I will face my fears, and step forward with courage instead.
13. Service
I will give of my time, energy, and money in service to causes I care about. Although I can’t support every cause, I will choose one to three charitable organizations to give to every year. The ones I am currently committed to are sponsoring a child in India, supporting the Alumnae scholarship fund at my high school (both supporting the cause of women’s education and empowerment, as well as poverty), and choosing a cancer research organization every year in memory of my nephew Liam.
14 Random Acts of Kindness and Beauty
I will do nice things for random people at random times without expectation of gratitude or return favors. I would also like to participate in public art, or do something beautiful for others to enjoy.
Lofty goals, yes, butI have the rest of my life to work on these, and a lot less pressure than if I was telling myself I should be working on these at all times, because I’m a big fat loser if I’m not perfect by December 31. Of course, being a procrastinator of the highest degree, there is certainly a chance that I could make no progress at all, but its not likely. Progress happens, even if sometimes it feels as if it’s by accident.
It’s Midsummer* already, and I feel as if I am riding the equinox, straddling the line between dark and light. I’ve been stuck again. Those who know me well know that this happens often. I can say that I’m really busy, but in reality, I’m just stagnating creatively (and socially, and intellectually, and emotionally, etc…)
I can usually tell when these periods of stagnation are about to be interrupted; there are signs. First, the urge to create begins to emerge. It starts with a small push and grows, if unattended to, into a persistent, desperate anxiety, a pulsing ball, lodged firmly somewhere between the heart and the throat, leading me to a cliff edge, where I teeter precariously, afraid that I will leap, knowing I probably need to.
I’m not quite there yet. Sometimes, I am able to circumvent the anxiety by accepting that I am in a place of stasis because something good is germinating. I’m reading, or imagining, or thinking something through that will eventually come out as art or writing, or some life-giving venture. If only I can push through the despair, the “shoulds” and the self-shame/blame/berate game, I’ll get there.
Several weeks ago, I was handed the opportunity to take over a project, a group (at the moment on Facebook, but destined, I believe, to be more) focused on empowering women. I took it over because I fiercely believe that it is important, and the work done by the woman who began it was too valuable to let die. Of course, since then, I have been stuck. I feel that I am not really prepared to take on this monumental a task; I am not smart enough, not dedicated enough, I am bound to fail, and let down these women who have put their faith in me. After all, it’s happened before. I never finish what I start.
These are lies I tell myself.
I am dedicated, I am strong, and most of all, I wish to find empowerment for myself and other women. Therefore, fears aside, I am pushing forward.
This stasis has not been in vain. I have been thinking. I have been reading and watching some things that I thought might help me find focus on my journey. I have thinking about what empowerment really means. I have thinking about happiness, and positivity, and power, and healing. I have been looking at it from a more holistic sense: body-mind-spirit, and a more wholistic sense: self-community-world.
What makes a woman feel empowered? What gives her a sense of strength, satisfaction, happiness and wholeness? I believe that working on finding one’s own power is important, but it’s not enough. Women can often find themselves by looking outside themselves. When we help one another, we heal ourselves.
What makes people happy? Studies have shown that extrinsic goals such as money, status, and appearance are not enough. Sure, it helps to have enough, to be cared for, and to feel satisfied with your own beauty, but self-acceptance is only part of the story. What really helps is to move outside our selves, to seek (healthy) relationships, to experience new things, to count our blessings, and to help others.
I have decided that, in order to make our group, the Tribe of Sacred Women a truly empowering global entity, we need to work as a team. I have invited a group of women to help me “lead” the Tribe, but the hope is that we will all become leaders. We are a community, and no one is lesser than another.
Some other things I would hope we could focus on:
Personal Empowerment through creativity of all kinds
Awareness and discussion of “Women’s issues” including sexism, gender roles, sexuality, abuse (physical, sexual, emotional), traditions, family, politics, etc.
The Sacred nature of the world, and of ourselves: the women who inhabit it. The Tribe is not religious, per se, but the exploration of the sacred self is a powerful thing, and is part of the inherent nature of women.
Acceptance including size acceptance, self-love, healing (all kinds), health issues, sexuality, forgiveness (of self and others), spirituality, etc.
Discovery of self through adventures and (sane) risk-taking, big and small
Community Service finding ways tohelp other women in our local communities
Global Awareness/Service banding together to understand the struggles of and help women worldwide.
By participating in these activities, we learn to “talk the talk and walk the walk,” as it were. In my experience (a mere 40+ years), trying to find power in isolation is like walking on a treadmill and hoping to end up somewhere new. It takes a friend, it takes a village, it takes a country, it takes a world of women to accomplish what each of us are truly born to do: heal, help, find joy, and feel whole.
I know it’s not easy. I often feel alone. I moved to a new state in January of this year (2013) and I literally have no friends in this town. I do have a few acquaintances, and a couple potentials I have been woefully lax in keeping up with (I am going to remedy that), but my entire base of friends is well outside this place. I have not explored my own city. I have sat here being stuck.
My personal goals are deeply entwined with my hopes for the Tribe of Sacred Women. I want to inspire and be inspired to grow, heal, explore, create, and give. This is not just what I want, but what I need. If you need this too, then you are welcome here, as is any woman you know who feels the same.
To become part of the Tribe of Sacred Women, like our page on Facebook (Men are welcome to “Like” us too!)
Soon to come: FB groups (women only) focusing on each of the topics outlined above. All of the topics will also be addressed, in less depth, on the main page, and in the Global group.
I hope to see you there, my sisters. (And brothers, too.)
Please feel free to share this information with anyone you feel will like it, might need it, or might be interested in joining me (us) on this adventure.
*Midsummer is the traditional name of the Summer Solstice. The Irish name for November, Samhain, means “Summer’s End.” It seems as if in the Celtic lands, there was, at one time, just two seasons: Summer and Winter.
I don’t actually have one. There are a lot of good poems, a lot of bad poems. I like may writers in many genres, but not every writer in every genre. Poetry is very subjective, so I’m not going to go on record here saying “This poem sucks.”
Well, except this one.
Last year, as a challenge I wrote a…
Bad Love Poem
Because I love you, I feel pain Because I love you, I walk in the rain Because I love you, my feet are aching Because I love you, my heart is breaking
Because I hate you, I called you a louse Because I hate you, I burned down your house, Because I hate you I told you to fuck off Because I hate you, I jacked your duck off
Come back to me and I’ll stop talking Come back to me, and you I’ll stop stalking Come back to me or you’ll wish you were dead Come back to me or I’ll cut off your head.
I gave you this poem so the voices would stop I gave you this poem and you called the cops I gave you this poem cause you’re such a whore They’re publishing this poem on poetry.org
Now I’ll be famous, and then you’ll see Now I’ll be famous, you’ll wish you were with me Now I’ll be famous, I can get laid all the time Now I’ll be famous, and you will be the one crying boo-hoo-hoo, you big ugly , mugly, fugly, slugly slime.
I feel cheerily confident in the suckitude of this poem. It is trite in topic, and has bad meter and rhyme. It mentions rain and pain and is all about personal emotions that do not touch the universal. If you disagree, then you’re more than welcome to your love of my bad poetry. 🙂
I just made up a word there, by smooshing two words together. That was pretty cool. How Lewis Carroll of me! As a writer, you can do that. You can also do that if you are a stoner. I’m usually only one of those, and I’ll leave it to you to decide which one it is.
April is National Poetry Month, and since I have been “in transition,” I thought I’d challenge myself a bit by writing and posting some poetry to this here lonely blog. I looked up “poetry challenges,” and of course, found the Tumblr 30 Poems in 30 Days Challenge that I half-completed last year. No way I’m going to force myself to ever write another effing acrostic, however, I did put it aside as I never officially finished the challenge. I found several others, and if you dig back far enough in your search engine of choice, I’m sure the possibilities are practically fathomless.
So, I am going to post some poems: some mine, and some belonging to others (usually one of each) for each day of April. Of course, I’m a bit behind, so skooch over, children, and let me get all up on in there. I’ve got some words to wrangle.
Here are a few challenges if you want to try some of your own. I’d love to see the results!
I have been having a hard time keeping up with this blog for many reasons, most of which I blame conveniently on “transition.” There have been a few, but honestly, there will be more, and then others, all of which, if used as a convenient scapegoat, will derail my writing permanently.
The real culprit is my old nemesis perfectionism, and the narrow-minded inner critic that decided, for no particularly good reason, that since I am a writer, who wants to work as a writer, this blog needs to be about writing. Now, what the hell does that mean? I have a few as of yet unpublished posts who are just sitting in the queue right now because they need to be plumped up and polished like apples on display: they are essays on the art of writing. In the meantime, actual bloggers are getting off their asses and blogging daily. Now, who is the writer?
I have come to the conclusion that any art there is to writing in a blog lies in the writing of it, and that blog should consist of writing, pure and simple. Here goes everything.
This is a post I began writing last October, before I went overseas to India and came back only to immediately have to pack up all my crap (yes for a fourth time since late 2009/early 2010) for my move to the Bay Area. It took me some time to get everything (mostly) in order. I am proud, however, to announce that I no longer have to rent a storage unit.
I admit, I haven’t been so great at keeping this blog up and running, but like the common cold, I assure you I’ll always come back again, you just might never know when. I have been feeling the fire in my belly to write, however, and have several unfinished posts I’ve been keeping back, so perhaps/maybe/probably you will see a flurry of new postings.
So, last fall, I was turned onto a fantastic blog (The Nearsighted Owl), written by a beautiful woman named Rachele. Rachele is a body acceptance activist, and she also has really amazing hair. She posted an awesome link up called “Proud of my Size.”
I have not always been proud of my size. I spent my teen years feeling fat and unattractive, when I was, in actuality, thin (117 pounds at age 15), and cute. Because of my lack of self acceptance, I sought validation by having a long series of boyfriends, none of which, of course, could fix me. Most of them got tired of my needing/wanting fixing, and I don’t blame them.
The summer after I graduated high school, I gained 25 pounds (I blame loneliness and Carvel’s “Fudgie the Whale.”) Still cute.
Over the years, my weight has gone up and down. My top (recorded) weight was 194, my average hung around 175. I am 5’4″ and no matter what size I am, I have usually been perceived by those who love me as being cute, sexy, pretty, and whatnot. I have not had trouble finding lovers. I have, however, had trouble finding complete success in self-acceptance. (See my last post for more on that.)
What does this have to do with writing? Well, at the beginning of my adventures into freelancing, I was given a job writing for a blog as an advice columnist, short story writer and expert on relationships. (A job which was rather blithely described as “sexpert.”) The idea was to write for couples who were stuck in long-distance relationships and wanted to keep romance alive. Now I don’t mind writing about sex, but I did mind that, even though they said that the topics were wide open as long as I didn’t get too explicit, they refused to print any of the articles/stories I wrote dealing with homosexuality. Soon, they switched me away from that job, asking me to write some articles for an “emergency” project. Once again I asked for guidelines, and they gave me none. I was supposed to write a “flirty” profile for a girl, and some blog articles. Turns out, it was for a site where women were asking men to pay for their boob jobs, and promising “before” and “after” pictures, as well as sexy chat, in compensation.
Now I’m the last girl in the world who would ever want or need a boob job. Seriously. I also became suspicious when they would not give me any details on this person I was pretending to be, which made me realize that the whole thing was likely some sort of scam, although they did provide “before” and “after” photos. When it came down to it, I also thought, if it WAS true, it was pretty sad that these women felt that they had to exploit themselves to men in order to make themselves “more appealing” to the same men. The more they wanted me to do this, the less comfortable I became. I decided quickly that I would no longer be available when they called. I also promised myself I would never do this kind of craptastic, sexist, exploitative work again.
As I grow older, I am learning to appreciate, if not unequivocally adore, my body. It is healthy, it works well (as long as I take care of it; I do have a wonky back, but have since birth), it’s good in bed (I should know, I sleep with myself nightly), and it looks great in well-fitting clothes. I have recently taken on a promise to love myself. I have always said that a healthy body is beautiful at any size. I also believe most any sized body can be healthy. Because of my specific health problems and risks, I have recently begun to work out and lose weight, but in a slow and healthy way. I will stop when I feel strong and pain-free. That’s all I want: pants size be damned.
I am not a very active activist (a pactivist?) but I often feel the need to speak up on behalf of thin women (of which I am not one.) There seems to be a lot of backlash against skinny girls in the wake of the movement towards fat acceptance. Not from fat activists, who have a lot more awareness than the average person, but from men and women who, no doubt pushed to the edge, spend far too much time on the defensive. A new slew of “skinny girls are not ‘real women'” and other derogatory comments are made and posted every day on social media sites. Models, actresses, and thin women on the streets are automatically assumed to have eating disorders, just as fat women are assumed to be lazy gluttons. A couple of years ago, I was caught out doing this very thing, and I am still ashamed and regretful. The woman I hurt is a real woman, and also a thin woman. I can’t apologize enough.
Twenty years ago, I lost 40 pounds on Weight Watchers. Part of the reason I left (and gained all my weight back plus some) was that they engaged in relentless body shaming. “Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.” Bullshit. I can think of 25 things off the top of my head that taste just as good if not better. Also, as I lost weight, I was bullied. “Aren’t you thin enough?” a woman snarked at me (it wasn’t the leader or anyone who worked there, of course. They would have been happy to keep me there for another 10 pounds or so.) On top of that, I piled on the self-imposed shame: I was a bad feminist, trying to mold myself into the Barbie ideal. I didn’t deserve to be slender. Also bullshit. I deserve to be whatever way I want to be, to make my own body choices, and to be as fat or as thin as I want. My size has nothing to do with whether I’m a good feminist or not. (I also shave and occasionally wear thong underwear and high heels. Sometimes all at once. Some people would take my feminist card away for that, too.)
Twenty years later, and I’ve joined the ranks of the weight watchers once again. I chose to return for a few reasons. The program is easy, and you can eat whatever you want on it, which means I can choose to eat healthy in any permutation I choose. I like the accountability that comes from the weigh in, and the tools they provide online to keep me aware of what I’m eating. And they have, for the most part, given up the mantra of thin, thin, thin. In fact, they even changed the phrase, which now states, “Nothing tastes as good as being in control feels.” I can get behind that.
Of course, everyone says “healthy” these days, and by healthy they mean thin, but I can ignore that, and replace it in my mind with fit. There are a lot of nice big fit girls out there. Also, I don’t give a flying pig if anyone else wants to be fit or not. I make my choices only for me.
However, I have another reason for being part of Weight Watchers these days. I’m there to infiltrate. I am a little crazy. A little bit of a rabble rouser. I speak up and say things in meetings. Things about self-appreciation, and self-esteem, and loving yourself where you are. I don’t plan on stopping. I want ALL women to know that their bodies are beautiful and acceptable just the way they are. Even if they want to change them, the change won’t make them any more or less attractive, bring them a soulmate, or cause their lives to magically become perfect. I find it sad when people are in despair, and think that they are hideous and unworthy of appreciation, when they are not.
Sometimes I want to stand on a chair and say: “Listen to me. There is someone out there who will love you and think you are sexy whether you are a size 0 or size 30, whether you have big boobs or no boobs; whether your stomach is concave, or round as the Venus of Willendorf. Someone will find you beautiful if you have excess hair on your body or even if you have a beard. This person will find you beautiful if you are tall or short; if you are able bodied or have a disability. If you have flawless skin or acne scars… whatever your flaw is, someone somewhere can see through it to YOU.”
How is this possible? Because ugliness and beauty come from the inside. There are ugly people, and some of them look flawless from the outside, but cruelty, bigotry, selfishness, and/or manipulative behavior makes them hideous.
Last Fall, a picture of a Sikh woman with a beard was going around the interwebs. Personally, I thought that she was quite attractive, regardless. She proved herself beautiful when she responded with kindness to those who bullied her.
The woman, Balpreet Kaur wrote, in part:
…I’m not embarrased or even humiliated by the attention [negative and positive] that this picture is getting because, it’s who I am. Yes, I’m a baptized Sikh woman with facial hair. Yes, I realize that my gender is often confused and I look different than most women. However, baptized Sikhs believe in the sacredness of this body – it is a gift that has been given to us by the Divine Being [which is genderless, actually] and, must keep it intact as a submission to the divine will. Just as a child doesn’t reject the gift of his/her parents, Sikhs do not reject the body that has been given to us. By crying ‘mine, mine’ and changing this body-tool, we are essentially living in ego and creating a seperateness between ourselves and the divinity within us. By transcending societal views of beauty, I believe that I can focus more on my actions. My attitude and thoughts and actions have more value in them than my body because I recognize that this body is just going to become ash in the end, so why fuss about it? When I die, no one is going to remember what I looked like, heck, my kids will forget my voice, and slowly, all physical memory will fade away. However, my impact and legacy will remain: and, by not focusing on the physical beauty, I have time to cultivate those inner virtues and hopefully, focus my life on creating change and progress for this world in any way I can.”
I feel like weeping when I read this. It is a beautiful testament, and something every young person should be taught at an early age. I believe bullies are mostly made, through emotional abuse, insecurity and/or bad example. People who don’t like me or others based on superficial reasons (such as looks) should mind their own business.
I know I wasted a lot of time hating my body when I was younger (and ironically, at a very socially “acceptable” size.) I feel sexier and more beautiful now at 43 and in size 12-16 range (women’s clothes vary in crazy ways, and I am a different size on the top than on the bottom) than I did at 15 wearing a size 7-8. I was ashamed that I wore an 8, however, if my weight loss continues, I’m sure I’ll fit into one again. Of course, in the early eighties, when I entered high school, a standard size 12 was made (according to Commercial Standard (CS) 215-58, retracted in 1983) to fit a 125 pound woman of my height (5’4″), with a 26″ waist. Even when I weighed 117, I had a 27″ waist (no hourglass figure, here: straight up and down, except for the lady lumps.)
Today I vow that I will never whore myself to public opinion. By that I mean I will not exploit myself, punish myself, or measure my self-worth against negative opinion in order to gain validation or acceptance. This means I will not censor myself because other people might be offended. This means I will not hide my face, body, feelings, creative outpourings, or opinions. I will express myself freely, however I need to. It won’t always be easy. Do I like, want, and (some days) need words of approval and validation? Yes, every person does. However, there are plenty of people who love and appreciate me just as I am, and so do I, and that is all I need.
I work these days to maintain a healthy body by eating nutritiously, walking, and doing yoga. I try not to deny myself any kind of food, albeit in moderation, and I refuse to poison my mind with “shoulds” whether the scale goes up or down. I feed my mind and my creativity by reading, and observing the world, and talking with people, and living. I refuse to write sexist trash or for people whose point of view counters my ethics, just so I can make a buck or two. Today I weigh 155 pounds. I have a 37″ waist. I wear a size 12 (thanks to manufacturer vanity sizing. People pay more to live in denial.) I dream, I take notes, I do small articles, write this blog, and take jobs which feed me in more ways than one. I feel good, and happy, and smart, and beautiful. I hope you do, too.
This morning, a friend, a sister, wrote on her Facebook about the difficulty of believing in one’s own beauty: something I have struggled with all my life. While I try to find the beauty in everyone and everything (even things/people not conventionally beautiful), I still have a problem fully accepting that I am beautiful. Then another sister posted a photo she took of herself. Nude but not revealing (Facebook, y’all) and without makeup, she looked so strong, so naked, so real: inspiring.
The light was lovely today, the sun through the venetian blinds casting interesting stripes over the bed, so I took some photos of myself (some before showering or putting on makeup, and some after, with mascara and a little lip gloss.) Taking selfies is something I have often done over the years, ever since I bought my first digital camera in 2004. In these photos I take of myself, I can finally see my own beauty. From the outside, it may seem vain, but in my experience, it’s not vain as much as it is healing.
Photos expose reality, good or bad. When I see a photo (especially one taken by someone else), I can not longer deny my flaws. No one can. One may be fat, or short, or wrinkled or a bad dresser. One may have rough skin, or pimples or uneven color; they may be “too” white, too brown, too freckled, or not freckled enough (personally, I like my freckles.) One may have cowlicks, or be balding, or have too much unwanted hair, or be going grey. However, when one is in control of taking their own photo, they can also control what is displayed for the viewer’s gaze (even if only their own.) For me, this is self-validating, and internal validation is more important than the external, because admitting to myself that I AM beautiful is a very difficult thing. Maybe the most difficult thing, along with believing that I am good, and smart, and talented and worthy. (Which I am.)
Intellectually I know that I am attractive, and that other people think so. I’ve received plenty of external validation, and it’s appreciated; however, my inability to internalize this knowledge is something deep and psycho-emotional. Something about my inner child is insecure, wounded, and vulnerable.
I think most people suffer from this in one way or another, this inner-child insecurity and doubt. For some it’s centered around their looks, or their abilities, or their intelligence, and sometimes all those and more. It is certainly the Inner Critic who cuts the child down, who remembers all the times they had a bad hair day, or was extra spotty or plumpy (“ugly” on the outside), or less than ethical or kind (ugly on the inside.) The Critic recalls in painful detail each time the inner child was wounded: not only as a child, but when the grown-up Self got turned down, rejected, or cheated on, or lost an opportunity, or looked at a magazine and forgot that the photos were all airbrushed, or looked in their wallet and it was empty, or looked at their life and saw only failure. All of these things batter human beings. It’s a fight to have healthy self-esteem, and much easier to give in to crippling doubt.
I suspect an attempt to comfort this inner child is at the root of the Mary Sue/Marty Stu, the too-perfect character which indicates an author’s attempt to insert themself into the story as hero/heroine. The child in us wants to be a princess or a superhero. They want to be gorgeous, and perfect, and perfectly loved by a perfect mate; they want to be powerful, outrageously successful in both business and in pleasure. By creating the perfect Self in text, the author is trying to heal the one within who never got that dream. It doesn’t work, though. Mostly because no one ever got that dream, and intelligent readers get pissed when some character they are supposed to relate to exhibits impossible perfection. How can anyone relate to perfection? We have already tried it all of our lives, and failed.
So, by taking private photos of myself, dressing/undressing, making up/not making up, posing as I wish, editing the results or keeping them as they are, I can make my own Mary Sues privately, in pictorial form. This here is the perfect Sarah. Look, she is flawless, she is ideal, she is beautiful.
I can also take risks that are hard to take under another’s gaze. This is the imperfect Sarah. Look, she is flawed, she is scarred (inside and out), she is beautiful.
I get defensive when people question why I have so many selfies. Why do they care? Who is it hurting? Are they calling me egocentric and vain? My inner critic would be happy to agree.
However, most of the selfies I take, no one else will see. That’s okay. They are for my eyes only; they are my compliments to my Self, my F.U. to the Critic, that wicked bitch.
In the end, this is why I have so many pictures of myself. This is my secret: each photo is a mantra worth a thousand words, and each of them has the difficult job of countering a thousand self-inflicted words of doubt.
I know this blog post was “supposed to be” about submission, but I have (obviously) not posted it (or anything) here lately, and it’s been a very long gap, so I have decided to write instead about my struggle with resistance.
My resistance is powerful. It is insidious. It keeps me from doing things that are good for me; things I want to do, often until it’s too late to do it well, or in a timely manner, or at all. I have broken promises, let people down, arrived late for dates (once a guy left because I was 10 minutes late), delayed deadlines, or missed them completely (such as the one for that college writing scholarship.) I have lived life under intense pressure, believing I worked better that way (see the word lie in believe?)
This struggle has been my enemy for as long as I can remember. Some might call it procrastination, or ADD, or anxiety, or downright stubbornness, but what it really is is resistance.
At night, I resist going to sleep. Then, in the morning, I resist getting up. I resist doing the yoga that keeps me from feeling pain. I resist taking the painkillers that keep the pain from becoming unbearable. I resist the housework that keeps my life out of chaos and prevents me from losing things. I resist eating in a timely manner, healthy eating that prevents me from binging and choosing my foods poorly. I resist leaving the house, not going outside at all for days in a row. I resist looking for or completing work. I resist praying, meditation, developing my intuition, and counting my blessings. I resist writing/answering e-mails or reading the thousand e-mails in my box (many newsletters and articles that I have “saved for later.”) and of course, I resist my own creative writing.
What, you might ask, do I actually do? I do a lot of puttering. I do some art (nothing serious or time consuming; wouldn’t actually want to produce something), I do some research, a little scribbling, I make lists and shop for groceries. I read. I dabble in long-abandoned projects, whittling away at a years-long “To Do” list. I watch bad T.V., I take care of my husband, I feed the cat, and I spend way too much time online. And what does this get me? A feeling of absolute guilt and shame that I have done nothing, produced nothing. At least, not any of those things that I should have been doing. (Should, that evil word. Of course, I need to and I have to are often just cheap substitutes, ways of trying to avoid the evil word, yet producing the exact same results.)
Over time, I do, through little bursts of determination and action, produce things, but I cant help but feel I am nowhere near where I could (read: should) have been without this dreaded, this evil resistance. (Of course, that feeling’s yet another form of non-constructive self-flagellation.)
For years, while I was lost in a soul-sucking situation of my own making, I refused my deepest needs: for respect, for self-sufficiency, and for creativity. The last one hurt the worst. I resisted writing, probably because I was in such deep denial, I could not risk opening the door to the truth. Finally, in 2009, some of it began to emerge:
I’d like to forget
That it’s really my doing
That I’m not where I thought I’d be.
That I live in chaos.
That I don’t have a child.
That I’m not a published poet.
That I have no money.
That I don’t live la vie boheme.
That I am fat, and unsatisfied.
It would be so easy, and I want to
Just blame someone else,
Like my father. My husband. Dame Fate.
Since I can’t, I try to beat myself down,
Destroy myself so I have Me to blame,
When no blame is really necessary.
No blame.
Only action.
So, why is that so hard?
It’s hard because I am scared.
I’m scared that I don’t want to be happy;
I just wouldn’t know how.
I’m scared I’d be neglectful, and my husband would be cruel.
I’m scared I’d resent him and use my child against him
I’m scared we’d fuck up. I’m scared that I’m not meant to do this. I’m scared of being poor. I’m scared of things being just the same, but worse.
I’m scared stiff, so stiff that I can’t move. I can only live in anxiety and fantasy, and this deep, deep denial. Something’s gotta give. Something’s gotta move. It’s gotta be me. Me. It’s gotta be me.
Something is going to give me a shove, and it’s going to be me, with all my best laid plans, all my good intentions, laid in the roadway before me. All my hopes, my lost and half-forgotten dreams. I can’t even get writing, I can’t even get rest, sleeping. I can’t find answers, dreaming.
The anxiety grips me and won’t let me go. I need to climb out of this hole. Make a phone call, keep a promise, one step at a time, one day at a time. one task at a time. Just go. Just go. Just go.
Here I am. I haven’t written in two weeks. Where’s my discipline? Where is my drive? I need to write, to write to stay alive. I feel half dead. this anxiety is my life force struggling to stay alive. my last gasping breath, my intense inner nature. I don’t want to die, I don’t want to be alone. I want a child. I want a home. I want to live in balance; neither order nor chaos… I am going to read tonight, and get some sleep. Tomorrow is a new day. I’m going to begin fresh and get some things done. Truly. Tomorrow is a new day. A new day. Why then, am I still so scared? Because I am so full of possibility just waiting to be squandered for nothing.
I believe now, as I did then, that the answer is just do. However, resistance is often a brick wall; a obdurate obstacle which makes such a simple solution seem cruelly glib.
In 2009, I broke through. All it took, I believe, was a near-death experience. Not of the body, but of the spirit. In a long-overdue move, I left my common-law husband. I met new people, and kept close with the friends who had stuck by me through thick and thin. I wrote over 60 poems that year. I forged a new life, one in which I am loved, happy, and much more secure.
In chaos, where I spent years and years of my life, inertia was a form of self-protection, the symbolic fetal position I rolled into to protect a fragile psyche. It was also a form of rebellion, of clinging to my own miniscule bit of personal power. The power to shut down, to resist, to do nothing, especially those things I should do.
Even now that I feel more centered (or as centered as one can feel with a lifetime of chaos-baggage dragging behind her) inertia creeps in, insidious as ever. Perhaps it’s the old demon insecurity. Perhaps it’s the thrill of being rebellious, even when I don’t have to be. Perhaps it’s the feeling that I have all the time in the world, a cushion that will catch and protect me if (and when) I fail or fall. Any way I look at it, however, the truth remains thus: persistent resistance is a suicide of the spirit.
Today I went to see a friend; an intuitive counselor who has agreed to help me move through my resistance. The first assignment she gave me is a week with no shoulds. And I am taking this step, by writing about it. This morning I did yoga, and prayed my prayers, and did my meditations. It felt good. I wanted to do it. Slowly, slowly, I will move through this. Some blocks are there for a reason, to keep one from straying down a wrong path. Some blocks are there because one is not yet ready to face the challenges behind the walls. Others are there to present a person with opportunities for growth. For these, there is no way out but through. There is no solution but just do. Not because I should, or need to, or have to, but because I want to, because I love myself and my life enough to want to fill it with things that are good, and creative, and lovely, and soul-nurturing.
And I do want to.
Next time on The Freelance Dilettante: Picture Perfect: Healing my Inner Mary Sue
Writer * Educator * Artist * Adventurer 