Nobody was going to make me feel good enough if I had decided already that I wasn’t. I am very stubborn, see.
Over the past few years, I have started to change my own mind.
The thing is, to do this I’ve had to accept that the way people have hurt me in the past has not been my fault–that I do not deserve to feel afraid or unwanted or burdensome–that this isn’t my life’s default. Their treatment of me was not a reflection of my inadequacy, but instead something of theirs that they had not yet dealt with.
I was joking with a coworker the other day, “God that lady hated me.”–speaking of a customer who gave my wild hair and bleach-stained shirt a kind of disgusted look. “I can’t imagine anyone hating you.” she said back. Sincerely, too. She said it sincerely.
This shocked me. I cannot imagine seeing me this way–as an unhateable person. My first thought was to respond with an appropriately dark, self-deprecating half-truth. Something like, “I have like, two decades of experience, so I know for a fact it’s possible.” But I didn’t because kids, deflection doesn’t make friends.
Thing is, I don’t hate myself. I hate feeling like I’m not enough. I hate that I used to put myself in situations where I was being made to feel inadequate. I hate that my past is blotchy–stained with clear images of how hard I was to love. I’m angry. (And, I suppose, dramatic. Oh well.)
I’ll elaborate on these situations, mostly to make it clear they weren’t West-Elm-Caleb-y. Speaking of him though (just for a moment I promise, dear reader) my thoughts on the matter are as follows: if you take a stance simply to be a relevant part of an online conversation, you’re a turd.
I’ll say no more so as to not cross into hypocrisy.
Anyway. These blotches–these people who chizeled their way through my sense of adequacy–left no aspect of me untouched.
I was criticized, constantly.
My eyebrows–too bushy. My hair–why is it always fucked up? My legs–too big, then too small, then ugly knees. The way I walk–uneven steps–too hesitant. My “attitude”–too cautious, too careful. My teeth–gapped and too big. My body–too thin and short. I was called “Skeletor”, regularly, by someone who had also said “I love you.” I was called stupid so regularly that I really started to believe it.
I was told by the same person, “You’re lucky I think you’re pretty, because you’re a crazy fucking bitch.”
It’s hard, ya know. To stop believing those things when they come from someone who had once worked very hard to gain your trust. Someone who was kind at the beginning–someone who used their trustworthiness and your vulnerability (this was about 6 or 7 years ago) to tear you down from inside. It builds, slowly, until suddenly you’ve denounced every part of yourself.
Four years ago, I hit what I imagine to be the lowest low I can manage–both physically and emotionally. I had taken myself to such a place that there was nothing left to denounce. I had lost, conceivably, everything.
It was from that point that I began to pick up the pieces I had been told repeatedly to cast aside–I could go no further down, and so there was nothing left to lose. I picked them up, looked at them, and decided, no matter how I felt about them, they were all I had.
It took years to fit them all back together, and sometimes it is still very hard. I am happier now, however, even in the sadness that often takes days to fully move through, than I have ever been. This is because I’ve realized I do not need to denounce any part of myself. That my worth is reliant upon being exactly the person I am, not manufacturing what I imagine to be perfect.
I am now with a man who does not tear me down, but who encourages me to be exactly who I am. God, he’s great. My friends, also, see me. My writing, my work–it reflects who I am instead of what I imagine to be some distorted version of perfection.
My worthiness, it seems, is inherent to being myself. The further I get from that girl, the less I can give to anyone else.
Dear reader, this lesson was incredibly hard-won. You do not, like me, need to tear yourself apart to find this to be true. You can, and I am confident of this, believe that your worth comes from your specific imperfection, without losing everything. It is my hope that you believe this, too.
I love you.
X. Allison
Girl Seeking Peanut Butter 