Warmer weather of coming summer is upon us and I have mixed feelings about that. I love warmer weather, but I prefer the comfort of hoodies and jeans. I prefer the coverage of hoodies and jeans. I see women my size and larger rocking their confidence in the same things fit women wear and they look stunning. Sexy. But I can’t bear to look at myself in those things. I can’t bear to imagine myself in those things. Know why? Because life can be a bit of a bitch and Depression is a lying, ugly bitch.
On the tougher days, Depression sneaks in and winds her way into my brain and tells me lies. Lies that have been told to me my whole life. That I am not good enough. I am not pretty enough. That I am not feminine enough. That I, the way I am, am not enough. I try to fight those lies, but, oh my gawd, Depression can be loud, stubborn and pushy. She brings up every flaw I have. Every flaw I have ever had. Every trauma inflicted that told me I wasn’t enough. Lately, there have been a lot of tougher days.
A childhood steeped in verbal, emotional and physical abuse. A mother plagued by her own abusive past that didn’t have the tools or skills to deal with a willful child and repeated the hurts and traumas. Being told “I don’t want you anymore.” Not worthy of love, not enough, too much to deal with.
An angry child of divorce that no one even tried to understand and instead tried to correct (both physically and verbally) and criticize and diminish. I didn’t do things the way a girl is “supposed” to. Cut my hair, criticize my taste, tell me my clothes make me look like a balloon, call me other names for fat “as a joke”, my interests are a waste of my time and you will choose “her” over me. Not enough, not girly enough, too fat, not worthy of protecting, unlovable.
Bullied for being smart and awkward and not pretty and wearing glasses. Nerd (which is no longer derogatory, but old applications stick), walking dictionary, four eyes, ugly, soooo not stylish no matter how hard I tried (quite pathetic really), weird, fat (a horrid size 7) completely invisible to the opposite sex when they were not mocking me.
Sexual trauma, assault, rape. Damaged, broken, worthless. Feeling dirty. Lower than whale shit at the bottom of the ocean. Who could love the broken? Being teased that I was easy after my rape. Garbage.
Naive. Inexperienced. Being lied to and used to become someone’s ticket to America. Cheated on. Conceiving a child with said user. A means to an end. A piece of paper, a piece of ass, a piece of trash.
The constant criticism and judgment for being a single mother. Never wed. Slut. Easy. Trash. Whore. All those things unlovable, unworthy. Bad mother.
I got married to someone I thought loved me. Someone that could look past the damage, the hurts, the trauma and love me for me. What happened is that I might as well have been wallpaper for all the attention paid after marriage. Intimacy only took place upon my initiation. Years of passive rejection. The last 5 years celibate. Not worth the effort, unloved, unlovable.
Crushing on someone who seemed good, kind, funny and smart. He paid attention. He listened. I felt like I could have talked to him forever and not run out of things to say. He made me feel seen. Suddenly he stopped speaking to me (for the most part anyway), then he stopped responding to messages and stopped reading them. I drove myself crazy trying to figure out what I did wrong. I’m wrong. Not pretty enough? Not thin enough? Not good enough? Perhaps all of those things. Now I just kind of feel stupid and foolish. Because I still like him.
I have wonderful friends that are always trying to build me up, but Depression is fucking loud and intrusive. On the bad days, the rough days, she is in my face. Taunting me with words and images that hurt. She is relentless. There are so many wounds and so much damage. It is easier to hide it/me in baggy, full coverage unfeminine clothing. I want to hide the ugly. I want to be seen, but not seen if that makes any sense. Not all days are rough days though. I have some amazing days. Most of them are great and my medication does its job. Most days, those thoughts are kept at bay. But medication doesn’t “fix” the problem. It just makes it manageable. The trick is to figure out what WILL fix it. Or, if nothing else, finding someone who understands and can help me get through the bad days and celebrate, enjoy and appreciate the good ones.
For me, I think the first step is to shed the hoodie and wear something that doesn’t hide me. It is time to be brave. It is time to take steps that make me seen, even if it hurts in the beginning. It is time to close the wounds, heal and get comfortable with my scars. And it all starts with a shirt.
My Forties Reboot 