What DO looks have to do with it? Well, like most women, what I look like has always been of some concern to me. And not always in a healthy way. When I was young, and supposedly in my prime, I thought of myself as fat and ugly. I had trouble taking pictures as a result. I would freeze and be totally unable to relax in front of the camera. As a teenager, I also had a bad case of acne. And of course, braces. This concern about looks started early. As a child, I was teased a lot. All the current attention being paid to bullying by kids towards other kids who are different brings up familiar feelings for me. I can truly relate. Was it because of my own awkwardness? Looking different somehow? Or was it the mentally ill woman dropping me off at school? I don’t know.
As an adult looking back at the few pictures that I have seen of myself from that time, I think now that I was kind of cute. I have always worn glasses. But the “kat eye frames” I sported in elementary school were pretty typical for the times. And like most children, I would make a scene if my Mom tried to make me wear something not in style. I pretty much forced the issue by not being willing to wear the glasses unless they WERE in style. That led to one whole year in which I hid my glasses in my locker and refused to wear them. THAT sure didn’t make homework easy! I was thin in early childhood. Not the least bit fat. I did look a little more filled out as I went through adolescence. But certainly not fat. I wasn’t tall and slender. In fifth grade I was tall. By eighth grade, I was one of the shortest kids in the class. I had hips. I remember someone saying I had child-bearing hips. Not something a teenager wants to hear, but it was a fact. I also had a chest. But as a youngster and teenager, I was absolutely convinced that I was hideous. Where did that come from? I have a couple of theories.
First of all, I think that I was so conscious of how my Mom looked that I took on her obvious problems. While I bathed regularly, I felt like my Mother being so visible made people think that I looked like her. Now, at one time that wouldn’t have been a problem. My Mom had great legs. Then there was that lovely black hair. I thought she was beautiful, even if she was overweight. But as I have said, by about 8 years old, my Mom’s looks had started to deteriorate. I couldn’t take enough baths to make me feel like I wasn’t exactly like her. And that leads to my second thought. I simply felt ‘different’. There was always a feeling that I was “less than” my peers. I thought that I “stuck out like a sore thumb”. Which clearly might have had something to do with the fact that my Mom was so obviously mentally ill. So, between the teasing and the fact of my Mom, I was sure that I was ugly. I am not sure how I mentally made the jump between the fact that I had a mentally ill mother and my belief about my looks, but I did. In some pictures I see the stress on my face. As I got older, it was sometimes pretty obvious that I was going through something. I couldn’t relax.
As a teen, I dressed like a ‘hippie’ in disgusting jeans and T-shirts. Like most kids at that time. My Dad used to tease me that he hadn’t seen my legs since I was a kid. But underneath it all, was it really that bad? No, I wasn’t glamorous. I was OK. I was pretty in my own way. But I thought I was ugly. I thought I was fat. And the adjectives that I used to describe myself went down from there. I was stupid. I was incapable. I was nothing. I remember arguing with my Mom about bathing before my high school graduation. Did she bathe? I don’t remember. I kept threatening to skip the graduation. I know I went to the graduation. Did she? I don’t remember that. All I remember is the fighting. And the dress I wore. Isn’t it obvious why my pictures from those years look stressed out to me now? And isn’t it obvious that my looks did matter to me? Those pictures from childhood and my teenage years were of a young person in considerable pain. And that is what I saw whenever I looked at myself. If you were to see them, you might see something completely different.
As an adult looking back at the few pictures that I have seen of myself from that time, I think now that I was kind of cute. I have always worn glasses. But the “kat eye frames” I sported in elementary school were pretty typical for the times. And like most children, I would make a scene if my Mom tried to make me wear something not in style. I pretty much forced the issue by not being willing to wear the glasses unless they WERE in style. That led to one whole year in which I hid my glasses in my locker and refused to wear them. THAT sure didn’t make homework easy! I was thin in early childhood. Not the least bit fat. I did look a little more filled out as I went through adolescence. But certainly not fat. I wasn’t tall and slender. In fifth grade I was tall. By eighth grade, I was one of the shortest kids in the class. I had hips. I remember someone saying I had child-bearing hips. Not something a teenager wants to hear, but it was a fact. I also had a chest. But as a youngster and teenager, I was absolutely convinced that I was hideous. Where did that come from? I have a couple of theories.
First of all, I think that I was so conscious of how my Mom looked that I took on her obvious problems. While I bathed regularly, I felt like my Mother being so visible made people think that I looked like her. Now, at one time that wouldn’t have been a problem. My Mom had great legs. Then there was that lovely black hair. I thought she was beautiful, even if she was overweight. But as I have said, by about 8 years old, my Mom’s looks had started to deteriorate. I couldn’t take enough baths to make me feel like I wasn’t exactly like her. And that leads to my second thought. I simply felt ‘different’. There was always a feeling that I was “less than” my peers. I thought that I “stuck out like a sore thumb”. Which clearly might have had something to do with the fact that my Mom was so obviously mentally ill. So, between the teasing and the fact of my Mom, I was sure that I was ugly. I am not sure how I mentally made the jump between the fact that I had a mentally ill mother and my belief about my looks, but I did. In some pictures I see the stress on my face. As I got older, it was sometimes pretty obvious that I was going through something. I couldn’t relax.
As a teen, I dressed like a ‘hippie’ in disgusting jeans and T-shirts. Like most kids at that time. My Dad used to tease me that he hadn’t seen my legs since I was a kid. But underneath it all, was it really that bad? No, I wasn’t glamorous. I was OK. I was pretty in my own way. But I thought I was ugly. I thought I was fat. And the adjectives that I used to describe myself went down from there. I was stupid. I was incapable. I was nothing. I remember arguing with my Mom about bathing before my high school graduation. Did she bathe? I don’t remember. I kept threatening to skip the graduation. I know I went to the graduation. Did she? I don’t remember that. All I remember is the fighting. And the dress I wore. Isn’t it obvious why my pictures from those years look stressed out to me now? And isn’t it obvious that my looks did matter to me? Those pictures from childhood and my teenage years were of a young person in considerable pain. And that is what I saw whenever I looked at myself. If you were to see them, you might see something completely different.
No comments:
Post a Comment