They tell us times are tough
And we question how we got here
We make choices and shake ourselves down
Trying to understand what the hell they’re talking about
We try to tell them all the heartache is self-inflicted
That life can’t possibly be that cruel on its own
We create the illusion of destruction
We destroy ourselves
In the pursuit of some plastic dream
We see others break and bleed and call it winning
The wiser strap packs to their backs and hit the trails
Flushing consumerism and media from their systems
We ask how we got here again
And they place pills in our hands and tell us to get in line
Join in with everybody else
Because once the eyes start straying
The real destruction begins
Sometimes…no, almost always, writing is my therapy. I needed a session today and I’ve decided to share it with everyone. I hope this helps someone else out there too.
I’ve always tried to believe that beauty was in the eye of the beholder. That it came from within. That we should be looking at personality, not looks.
All the cliches, all the words of encouragement given to you by people who didn’t understand what it was like to look in the mirror and see a monster. To feel like someone, but have the reflection of someone else. A person who is unwanted, unattractive. Lumpy, large, freckled, pock marked…whatever it may be that you see. That I see.
Now, some may try to put the blame on society and the media for putting people, especially women, under a certain scrutiny. We are forced to play with Barbies with disproportionate bodies. We watch music videos and shows with young women with skinny bodies, perfect skin and long, glossy hair. Advertisers tell us how easy it is to become active, get a gym membership. Take these diet pills. Follow this. Do that. All the while raking in the cash of women who believe that what they are being told is true. That if we do this, we will feel better about ourselves. I do believe this has a very large adverse affect on our thinking, but it’s not all. Because it’s not always about our environment…
It is about us. Our sense of being, knowing who we are, what we look like and feeling less than enough. We are in constant competition with ourselves, we want to be better, do better. But our best never seems to be enough. I speak to all those women who fall victim to self doubt, lack of motivation. To those who see what I see when they look in the mirror.
I want above all things to allow myself to just be…to be who I am, not what I look like. I want to believe those damn cliches and I want to feel better. I want to fall prey to trends, I just want to let go and fall. But I don’t…because despite this all, despite the fear of reflection, fear of rejection and the all consuming grief I can feel sometimes…I know I AM better than this. I am beautiful, even when I don’t feel like I am, even when I can’t get myself into the store to try on new clothes, or when my skin breaks out and I try to turn away from people’s gazes. And you are too.
I just wanted you all out there to know, that I see you. I feel you. You’re beautiful, we all are.
Cliche, yes please.
If someone told me when I was twelve
All the things that I know now
I would have shook my head in disbelief
And probably wondered “how?”
In my short twelve years of life
I’d absorbed a thing or two
About all the ways to doubt myself
About all the ways to feel blue
I’d learned to compare myself to others
And scrutinize myself in the mirror
To count calories and fats like a mathlete
I’d learned everything except how to see myself clearer
I’d been conditioned to hate my body
And dislike all the features
I’d listened to our mass media
Shouting from their soapbox like a preacher
It took me years to love myself
And embrace everything I am
To value what I have to give
And lend myself a hand
If I knew at twelve all the things that I know now
I could have saved myself a lot of hurt
I would have tuned out all the noise
And learned to put myself first
Peering into the mirror as she removed her makeup, she knew she was doing what she was born to do. Even if she had to do it in the wrong body.
Only moments ago she was dancing under pulsating lights and heaving music. She strut her sparkly self down the stage, feeling invincible in towering platforms. She shimmied and shook her body for patrons and the money rained down on her like blessings from above.
She felt empowered and sexy.
Even now, as she wiped lipstick from her mouth, and rouge from her cheeks, she was high, high on something so much more powerful than drugs. The bare light bulbs that circled her vanity mirror cast her in an angelic glow and she ran a finger lightly down her chin, grinning a little as stubble prickled under her touch.
The makeup transformed her so that her outside would match her inside. She felt no less sexy, no less beautiful with a bare face. She still loved her thick brows and her five o’clock shadow as much as she loved her full lips and exaggerated eyes. It was all relative.
She pulled the blonde wig from her head, shaking it out and then tossing it on the wig stand. Running her fingers through her cropped hair she let out a sigh and began pulling her fishnets off. She always felt a little hollow as she peeled off the layers of her costume. It was a little like undressing in front of a stranger, it felt risky and private.
When she was done, and dressed in jeans and a baggy t-shirt and sneakers, she stood from her vanity, pushing in the chair. She gave herself one last glance in the mirror before she switched the lights off. She knew she would be back again, next Tuesday, but it felt like years. She craved the stage, the attention, but most of all, she craved the acceptance.
People at the club didn’t care about what she looked like, they cared about who she was. And she was herself. And that was enough.
100 followers? Kick ass! Seriously. That is so awesome. In spirit of this, I’ve decided to take us back to the beginning. Well, not the beginning of this blog, but part of my start into writing. I used to be famous for writing my thoughts on the notepad on Facebook and posting them all the time. This little gem is from six years ago, when I was much younger and much more naive, but I found it intriguing that my thoughts on the actual topic haven’t changed much. It’s interesting to think that I was only a teenager back then, not out in the real world. Yet, now as an adult, I can still find myself thinking the same way. Although my thoughts are a little more matured, less obtuse, I found pride in myself for my ability to think critically even back then. Despite the total lack of talent in the writing itself. So, go old me!
I walk through my society, and I feel no security. I know when I go home, I am going to have to worry about where I find my next meal. I know soldiers are dying over seas for a cause that is obscure. Government officials are pathetic. I`m tired. I`m tired. I`m tired. My thoughts are spinning, think of this what you will. But I refuse to have pride in a society, and a world where we are not all treated equally. Those at the top, enjoy your security, and those at the bottom, enjoy sleeping on the streets.
Apparently I didn’t post yesterday, whoops! Sometimes life gets in the way. But that’s okay, isn’t it? To be so involved in your life and the things you do that you forget to go on social media sites? As much as I love blogging and writing and anything else that I do on the internet, sometimes it’s good to just disconnect. I’ve always wondered how it would have felt being in a time when technology wasn’t around. Not even the 50’s or 60’s, as I know those times were much different then now, but the 1700’s-1800’s-1900’s. When there were no vehicles or proper washing machines. Would we survive in those times? If all of our technology was to be taken away, all of our engineering and scientific discoveries, undiscovered, how would we react? How would we function, seeing as we’ve never been asked or required to do it before? What are your thoughts on this? Do you think you could handle if we had a technology blackout?