This is in dedication to those who have or still suffer from anxiety, eating disorders, emotional/ physical trauma, substance abuse and anything of that sort, who find it hard to cope with life. This is for you who suffer from severe self scrutiny to uphold impossible feats of perfection. This is to simply say, you aren’t alone.
I see it everywhere, I feel it in my bones as I watch you, comers and goers, my closest friends, my flesh and blood- the ticking time bomb inside of you that doesn’t in some aspect feel good enough. I see you, because I am you. Of course we cannot be the same person. I am uniquely me as you are uniquely you. But I see you, I feel the gestures, the flutter of your eyes, the hesitant voice that sounds of desperate plea to share, the dismissal of original thought, because I, too, suffer from not feeling good enough.
We suffer daily from talking down to ourselves in mostly private thought. A cocoon of swarming lies we tell ourselves, because that’s what we’ve grown to believe and accept. I am not advocating for victimization. I want to reveal what truly goes on in the mind, in this case, mine. I think it is extremely important to share the parts of us no one sees, that we don’t dare give chance to be heard. We so often think fluidly without saying what’s really going on from fear of being misunderstood on some level. I want to share a very personal moment that I usually keep to myself or a very short few around me. Here is a poem that is from the darker, more ‘repulsive’ as I call them, parts of my mind I tend to push aside. It is quite vulgar, just a forewarning, as the mind can get very much that way.
“Stored Inside The Fridge”
I feel the fat fold over my pant line as I sit. Tears form uncontrollably in rage. I scold my self, ‘You dumb fuck, how could you do this to yourself again?! Haven’t you learned your lesson?’ I feel every inch of how it lay, protruding from the seam, how it snugs against my shirt that once was too big: too small, too big and then too small again. It’s like an endless cycle of torment to myself, looking at every chance of reflection to see if I’m good enough, am I approvable to the eye. ‘I must be perfect, I must be perfect..’ Thoughts that scowl inside. ‘You will get hurt again. They’ll call you names behind your back and reject you like they have before. So many times before.’ Like the times you walked in late to class in 8th grade and they greeted you by calling you fat ass. Standing on 3rd base to try out for school softball, pants snug mid stomach high, wind blowing your shirt against the rolls that formed around the clothes that never fit well, how could you ever forget the way that felt. And the same boys laughed at you from the sidelines. You quit that very day. Instead you came home to pull out the tub of whip cream from the fridge for your extracurricular activity. And boy did you eat the whole thing in one sitting, watching Harry Potter, always waiting for your invitation of escape. Or the moment you first realized what fat even meant as you watched your family obsess over their bodies, your young eyes absorbing what love was supposed to mean, doing the exact goddamn thing you are now. Showing your own girls the gift of the trade. Or the time you gained so much weight from carrying children and then your husband didn’t love you anymore, and you thought for sure it was because you failed again, you weren’t perfect. I curl my fists tight now in thought, hate permeating through my fingertips. I feel it’s heat boil through and onto now sweaty palms. Voice finally breaks through my gritted jaw and whales in horror, “This is fucking bullshit!” Mom watches as clothes fly past her face onto the counter, the bed, the hallway. I feel her watch without watching, thick concern and building sorrow. ‘I’m dying.’ I contemplate in panic, gut rotting away in twists and turns bulging up into my chest. All I can think is ‘DON’T LOOK AT ME!!’ As my hate is put out on display. ‘Don’t see me this way.. I’m fine.’ But I’m not fine. I never was. I walk toward the kitchen spitting profanities under my breath. My fingers pull down at the hem of my shirt, and I go back again to open the fridge.
Reflection: One thing I didn’t realize until now, is that I still hold a lot of shame and guilt from my past revolving around self esteem. (Which I’ve been working diligently on healing) And because of that, it made me even more livid. The absence of acknowledging the root of where pain derives causes a reoccurring cycle of self discrimination. But it can be so easy to dismiss these flowing thoughts and feelings that consume our entirety in that very moment we’re triggered and it be deemed as ‘normal.’ So it then never becomes healed or resolved. These thoughts in the poem, “Stored Inside The Fridge,” above were verbatim of that moment I had experienced of struggling to see my entire beauty by simple clothes I put on to go for a walk that day. It really was something as simple as that. Memories flood in to relate to current situations stemmed from deep hurt of the past. And if you take time to look long enough and see why, you can then notice those feeling signatures that run deeper than the mere ‘moment’ of complete meltdown. They carry throughout your whole duration of life until you choose to look them in the face and recognize them for what they are. It took everything out of me to stare myself in that wretched mirror and identify why I felt that way. We are not in the past anymore, always in the present. Every second that passes becomes the past such as those scarred memories, so my encouragement through this whole post, is to really identify who you were and who you are right now. And that whatever caused you to feel that way happened, but only you can create the better future and NOW that you truly desire overall. We all want to heal, be it what we’ve done or what was done to us. Let’s start to recognize that what we need first and foremost is to look first inside to achieve who it is we truly were meant to be.
I love you all, —💚Bekah.