Wreckage Woman

“I keep a record of the wreckage of my life.”

There is a distinct difference in how I present myself online and how I look in real life. Filters are a bit of a habit of mine and if I can slim down my face I will jump all over the chance. But is that really me? That is a yes and no kind of answer. The photo itself is of me but it’s so heavily filtered that it is almost hilarious how different I look in person. I only feel comfortable posting these types of photos of myself for the world to see. There should never be shame in what one does to feel comfortable. Filters, surgery, wigs, makeup, it’s all the same and the before is just as beautiful as the after. You are you underneath the layers. It’s strange how I can feel so strongly about the matter when it comes to everyone but myself. Every tree has its roots, though.

The pressure to be someone I’m not began at a young age and with the woman who birthed me. Her consistent critical nature left an already fragile youth completely shattered. There was rarely peace in my home and despite my will to carry on through it, it still left scars deep in my soul. It had a small start and grew in to this malignant thing that shackled my self-esteem and drowned it in the depths. I describe it so heavily because that weight has ruined me. There are more days than not that I feel like a shell of a woman. It didn’t matter what it was, she insulted it. My weight, my hair, my makeup, my very existence. Mother would mock and sneer until I turned tail to run. Even at my back she would hurl insults like knives that sliced through my flesh and in to my psyche. The words were like fire at my feet, burning me alive but with no way to cut that ropes that bound me to the stake she built herself.

“You look like a street walker.” I heard this about a pink tank top when I was twelve.

“You’re a whore just like your sister.” This was tossed my way when I changed middle school boyfriends.

“You should have died with your father.” A nice one given to me on Christmas day around friends. Unprompted.

“I should have aborted you.” I was talking back.

“Your makeup looks like you worship Satan.” In ninth grade when I slapped on too much eyeliner.

“Your entire appearance disgusts me.” When I walked out in popular Goth pants for the first time.

“You just keep gaining weight, you’ll look like your (obese) father soon enough.” I was 97lbs at 5’8”.

“No one likes a fat bitch.” Talking back, again.

“You will die alone.” When I mentioned being in love with a girl.

“You’re a disgusting slut.” When she found out I was having sex (with one man.)

These aren’t even the tip of how many she has given me over the years. Once puberty hit it was game over for me. I couldn’t win no matter how hard I tried to please this hateful woman. It was at least one a day and never failed to leave me crying in my closet or bathroom. As I searched my soul to find who I wanted to be as I grew, she stifled the flame I was nurturing. And she took joy in it. What made these insults especially hard was just how happy she was to offer them. I could see in her nearly dead eyes that she enjoyed inflicting this pain on her second born. For years I chalked it up to her projecting her own insecurities but it wasn’t that. It never was. It was about the thrill of having complete control of another human. Much like a doll she could tear and break to pieces. She was the little girl who took pleasure in ripping her toys apart, limb by limb. Everything she did and does to me was and is about control on her part. She’s a true born psychopath with a taste for destruction. She is the real reason I developed anorexia at thirteen. She’s the cause of my deeply rooted issues about my appearance. If you hear something enough, it can, in a twisted way, become your truth.

My twenty-seven year old self may be able to maintain a steady job, pay bills, and keep healthy relationships, but inside? I am broken. That little girl never knew a mother’s affection and in the way I present myself, it shows. My fear of being perceived as not good enough is prevalent. My desire to be accepted as someone I am not is a problem. Therapy has shown me that my mind is wired to think the worst and I am working towards not relying on other’s perception for my ego to feel fulfilled. It doesn’t matter how many likes my filter frenzied photos may get, it doesn’t replace that love I in-fact need. I look back at photos of myself from years past and my first words are always the same, “Wow I was so skinny!” This shouldn’t be the initial thing that comes to mind, I really am more than my weight. I’ve been through unspeakable traumas and yet, here I am still living and walking towards a tentatively planned future. The words at the forefront are not my own, they are hers, and I am not who she says I am. I work hard and play even harder. I’m happy and alive. The pounds on a scale may make a difference in my health but they don’t define my entire existence. I am so much more than she said I was going to amount to and I am so proud of that.

Regardless of what anyone has said you are beautiful on the outside so long as the inside matches. We will all make mistakes, but we’re human. Some of us are skinny, some of us are chubby. Does that mean we deserve any less? Of course not. Show yourself some kindness going in to 2020 and I have plans to do the same. We, you and I, are worth more than the insults slung our way. If a filter or some other tool makes you happy, then just do it. There’s no shame in how you learn to love you. Happy New Year, may this one be gentle and as loving as you deserve. You and I deserve so much. Be kind, be you.