Censure

I remember the exact moment that I realized that the feeling of beauty that one maintains in childhood is transient. I was twelve years old, completely content with myself, when my self image was shattered. A deranged stranger sexually assaulted me when I was walking home from school. Looking back, I would question what I had done to provoke such an attack and what kind of sin had I committed to anger God that he allowed this to happen.

Yet I cannot give my attacker complete credit for my sudden self-loathing. It was my father who had the most pivotal part to play. After that day, he never seemed to look me in the eye when speaking. He would begin screaming at me if he caught me with a smidgen of makeup on my face. No matter what I wore, it was always too provocative in his eyes. Dating was strictly forbidden, he took it upon himself to try and protect what little purity he decided that I had left. In his actions, the message was clear, I was to blame for what had happened.

These events shaped how I feel today about my appearance. I will never be or feel beautiful for fear of repercussions. I will never look in the mirror and be satisfied. To this day, I still have a hard time putting on a skirt and lipstick without feeling like a whore. I am self aware to know that how he behaved and how I feel is not reasonable, but it is truly an astounding obstacle to overcome years of false perceptions.