I’m doing SO well with the whole “blogging on a regular basis” thing, huh? Oi vey. In my defense, life is beyond hectic between grad school, kids’ activities, work, and the new pony (to clarify: not MY pony, but I am part-leasing a wonderful Swedish warmblood a local barn and he is a delightful galoot), but at the end of the day, those are just excuses.
I saw something today that inspired me, and prompted me to write a few thoughts down. God bless social media. A friend of mine posted a short writing by Nikita Gill on Facebook earlier today:
"He drew her once.
Too pretty, too perfect,
like she was a work of art and she hated her
-- that beautiful girl he drew,
because her flaws are her journey.
Her slightly misaligned jaw
from ill fated punch,
her long battle with scars,
her nose that was
always a bit too big for her face.
Perhaps he sees her as flawless.
But she,
like a wild thing
which has been injured
but survived the hunt,
was more beautiful
with all her damage intact."
Perhaps I write too much about past and present relationships, but they’re what have always most profoundly affected my life, particularly over the last decade or so. Reading the words above were like a bit of a punch to the gut, as much as a punch to the gut could feel good.
Like the writer, I too know the discomfort that comes with being painted with a brush that suits someone else. For over a decade, I was put on a precarious pedestal, a pedestal that was destined to crumble. Imagine the anxiety caused by the knowledge that you could never be the image that your partner created, and waiting for him to realize the gravity of his error, never knowing when that day would come. Couple that with the anxiety of trying to hide all the aspects of yourself that were deemed ugly or unacceptable (and which, ironically, were often the best parts). I tried desperately to cram myself into the vaguely Liz-shaped container he had created, cutting off appendages in the process, becoming ever smaller and quieter. It’s been over five years since I threw out that container, and yet I still live with the scars it caused. I will always live with the scars, and quite frankly, I’m proud of them now, proud of coming through the pain, forever changed but, ultimately, for the better. Even now, I occasionally find myself searching for that container; as horribly uncomfortable as it was, it was my world for so long that it felt familiar. Not safe, but familiar. Trauma like that changes patterns and behaviors, and there is no telling how long it takes to stretch limbs that were caught tightly folded for so long. Now that I know how it feels to live free of someone else’s limits, I will never again put myself under someone’s thumb.
Friends, don’t ever let anyone else define you. We are all beautiful, amazing creatures of our own making. Allowing someone else to tell you how you’re perfect can be as damaging as allowing someone to tell you how you’re imperfect. Love yourselves, and let that love change and define you. Always be your whole selves.