The biggest of the "wrong"s? My body. This is an issue that I believe everyone will face. I bet there's not a single person reading this blog that cannot name at least one physical appearance that they would change if they could. I am no exception. My stomach is too big, my boobs are too small, my thighs touch, my feet are super long, my cheeks are chubby. I could keep going, I won't, but I could. Honestly, I don't mind my body. I'm used to it, it's a part of me. Society on the other hand, well it's not ok with my body. Here's the thing about the society we live in. It's not enough for society to not by ok with you, it wants you to not be ok with you.
Does that make sense? In other words, society as a whole isn't satisfied with supplying you with a label, oh no. In addition to giving you a label, society wants you to believe in the label(s) you were given. Those labels will then determine where you stand in society. You're too fat? You can go in this corner with the other "wrong" things. You're rail thin? Come to other corner with all the other examples of perfection. (For the record, this post is not about fat-shaming, or skinny-shaming, and I'm fully aware that BOTH are a problem). So let me give a personal example of what can happen when you find yourself in society's "wrong" corner.
I have a rocky past, I won't get into that here. All that's relevant for this post is that because of some of the rocks in my past, food was an issue for me. I had very little control over myself or the world around me. So I controlled one of the few things I could, food. However, instead of restricting the amount I ate like some would, I sought to eat as much as I could at all times. That way I could also control my size in addition to the food.
Needless to say, by the time I was a fifteen and a brand new freshman in high school, I was not a little girl. At 5'6'' and 170 pounds, I was easily the target of many nasty comments from my peers, and occasionally adults. It taught me to hate myself. I stared in the mirror, cursing my stomach, my thighs, all of the fat I saw, even as I knew I wasn't going to change it. The idea of self-love was completely laughable to me. Maybe I could love myself if I was thin, maybe I'd love myself if that fat roll would disappear. Then, disgusted with my body I sought out comfort food.
I recognized the cycle I was in, but I wasn't able to break it. I didn't have the courage to ask for help, nor did I think I could change. However, as hatred continued to build up inside of me, things got worse. I became depressed and eventually suicidal. I spent my afternoons after school day dreaming about death, thinking about the multitude of ways to end life, and writing suicide notes for all the people I cared about. I felt completely numb, hollow inside. I started thinking that I was invisible, but more than that, I was convinced that nothing would ever make me feel anything again. I remember thinking that I could walk in front of an on-coming car, and it would go right through me. It wouldn't hurt, and I probably wouldn't even feel it. Then I discovered a dangerous new friend.
The first time was an accident. While working on a sewing project I accidentally pricked my finger (to this day I still loathe thimbles). A single drop of blood welled up from the small puncture wound. I stared at it, the prick didn't really hurt, at least I didn't register pain. All I registered was that I was bleeding. In spite of feeling dead, in spite of feeling like nothing existed within me, I was bleeding. I kind of smiled to myself as I realized that for the first time in a long time, I felt something. The blood also let me feel alive again. I didn't feel as empty as I had the split second before. I wiped off my finger, got a band-aid, and put away my sewing, feeling happier than I had in months.
The next day, girls at school began their tormenting. By the time I got back home, I felt dead again. I was sitting in my room when I saw my sewing basket. I thought if it worked once, maybe it would work again. I opened the kit, took out my needle, hiked up my skirt, and started drawing the needle back and forth on my skin. It stung a little, but pain was a feeling. Little by little, the cut got deeper, and it started to bleed. I smiled, I was still alive.
From then on it was a cycle. A cut here after a rough day, another one right underneath it to make it even. One for the failed quiz, one for being called a "fat pig". A small one from a rough day, a series of ten from when I broke off my engagement and consequently found myself single again. Sometimes, I didn't make a new cut, I simply picked at the scabs from the healing ones. The effect was the same, a little pain, a little blood, an overall feeling of relief.
Things changed, my life changed for the better, and a retired my needle. For a time. That's the thing about cutting. It's not dangerous because it doesn't work, it's dangerous because it does. So you can put it away for a time, then go back to it like you never stopped.
Something that always struck me odd about cutting was it's much easier to hide the healing cuts than it is to hide the scars. When someone sees a healing cut, there's a million excuses, especially if it doesn't look deep and you avoid the "hotspots", like the wrist. "The dog jumped on me" or "I accidentally brushed past an exposed screw and it caught me". However, you can't do that with scars. Scars are a mark of trauma to the skin. Therefore "scratches" shouldn't leave scars. So when someone spots the white line on your thigh because your shorts rode up, that's much more difficult to explain than the narrow scab in the same place.
So I got in the habit of hiding mine. That's another thing about society, mental issues are quite frowned upon. Naturally so is self-harm. I believe self-harm is a 'taboo' subject, not because of the fact that it's morbid, but rather because it mostly comes from a deeply rooted mental health issue. Am I proud that I'm a cutter? No, I'm not. However, I am proud that I'm a RECOVERING cutter. So in a way, I'm proud of scars. I'm proud that they are scars, not scabs.
Society will tell you to hide your imperfections. "No one wants to know about that," "That's waaaaaay too personal", "That topic makes me feel uncomfortable". Good! We need a little more uncomfortable. Why should I hide something that is a part of me because it makes you uncomfortable? Are you more important than me? Is your discomfort more important than my own ability to feel comfortable in my own skin? No, it's not.
This is me. I'm not perfect by your standards, I'm perfect by my own. That includes my plus-sized body. That includes my frizzy hair. That includes the patches of small white scars that adorn my thighs. I'm not "wrong" because I did something "taboo", I'm unique.
The last thing I want to share is a quote I saw and absolutely fell in love with: "Never be ashamed of a scar, it just shows that you were stronger than something that tried to hurt you.". I love that! Notice it doesn't say, "Never be ashamed of an accidental scar" or "Never be ashamed of a scar, unless you caused it,". That's because scars show the things we conquered, and sometimes, the thing that needed to be conquered was inside our very being.
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