Distraction

I have an eleven week old. He is so chubby and getting to be big. Every time he gets a new role of fat we celebrate it. I, on the other hand, am not celebrating the extra fat my body still has from the pregnancy. I can look at him and realize what a miracle he was, and how great a thing it actually is to create a person, yet hate the toll it took on my body. How can I hate the body that produced something I love so much? My husband gained weight during the pregnancy also and I do not feel disgusted by his body, as I do about mine. I don't know if it is inherent in females to be vain about our bodies or un accepting of ourselves. I don't know how to get over the feeling of revulsion every morning when I look in the mirror. For now I will just focus on looking at our little bundle of joy and try to put my figure on the back burner. I'm lucky to have the distraction

Learned From My Mistakes.

I did not have a self esteem problem until I was married to my first husband. I was married to a man that dished out insults constantly, instead of paying compliments. Never in a million years would I have believed that being in a situation like that could take it's toll on you mentally and enormously affect your self esteem.
Everything I tried to do, he told me I would be a failure. He criticized everything I did, and choices I made - my jobs, cars, friends, clothes I wore, my body. He also had a lot of help from his family, they made me feel like I was the ugliest peron on this earth. I would advise anyone who is in a relationship like that to get out while it's early, don't make the mistake that I did and enter into a marriage with that type of person, because once your self esteem is gone, it's hell to get it back.
Luckily, I am now married to a wonderful man who compliments me daily and makes me feel great about myself. It took eleven years for my self esteem to return!

Self-Portrait

In a personal growth workshop at age forty I was given drawing paper and crayons to help me
experience my feelings. Black. Tears welled in my eyes as I drew my eyes, nose, mouth and
hair. The more I allowed myself to feel my ugliness the harder I pressed the crayon on to the
paper. Tense, tight, mesmerized, my fingers throbbed under the pressure as I used the
blackness to obliterate my face.

With unrelenting tears streaming down my face I put the crayon down and stared in stone
silence at my picture. Others left for lunch while I mopped my nose and blinked hard so I
could see between the tears. We were to write a number on our picture between 1 and 10 to
represent how strongly we experienced the feeling we discovered. When I could finally move
again I picked up the crayon and wrote: 29

My mother was impatient. She yelled and was e-x-t-r-e-m-e-l-y critical. I can't remember her
saying anything she liked about me. I heard her say my older sister is beautiful and that my
little sisters are cute. She told me I looked like a boy. At age fifty-three I was looking at
a picture of myself with my two girlfriends. I was stunned at what I saw. Three beautiful
women.

The Fat Game

I was in second grade when I first remember feeling...fat. I felt awkward and bulky around the other girls. I was a chubby kid, definitely, but at age seven I thought that I was the fattest girl in Mrs. Slavin's class. It had started when Meghan said that my cheeks were fatter than hers and that it wasn't pretty. Suddenly, nothing about me was right. My hair was too dark, my eyes too brown, my fingers to stubby. And because Meghan, my best friend, was the all-knowing girl who told me what was pretty and what wasn't, she was the standard I measured myself against. I wanted desperately to look like her...And it wasn't that she was thin, really, it was
that she didn't look like me. Part of me is really surprised that I never developed an eating disorder, but for me, it wasn't really about the weight; it was about knowing that I wasn't supposed to like myself just the way I was and that my body was a construction project.

All throughout high school my friends and I played this game, the "I'm-fatter-than-you-are" game where one person would complain about their hips and another would reply, "What
are you talking about? Your hips are nowhere near fat! But look at my arm flab," and the game would continue until the bell rang and we had to go to our next class. This was really a never-ending game that picked up on the bus home and continued when we hung out after school. And no matter how many times your friends promised you were pretty, you never felt satisfied. This need for reassurance became like an alcoholism of sorts. I drank up their comments, but the buzz wasn't there, that good feeling I used to get when someone mentioned that they liked my shirt or that my hair looked good was gone, like my compliment tolerance was so high that just one wasn't going to do it. When I was complimented, I rarely believed it because my friends poured compliments out like they needed to relieve themselves of a
minimum number of niceties each day. Boys hated the arguments because it made their jobs a lot harder. When a boy DID compliment me, I was actually uncomfortable accepting it because I knew that if I disagreed, the poor boy would argue back and then it would continue back and forth for a while. The stronger he argued, the more truthful he was and the more likely I was to *possibly* accept the reality of his statement. I wasn't even aware of how bad this addiction had become until college when James, my boyfriend, finally said to me, "Why are you arguing?" and I had to stop and think about it. I had no response, so I just said, "I don't know. Thanks." And that was the first time I accepted a compliment in over ten years.

"You're Ugly"

When I was 12, I used to walk to school through a lovely wooded street in our affluent, suburban neighborhood on Long Island. One day, as I was walking, a tall boy from the grade above mine ambled up behind me. I didn't take any notice of him. But suddenly, he shoved past me, whispering, "You're ugly."

Stunned, I stopped in my tracks, letting him get quite a bit ahead of me. I didn't want to hear that again. Most of all, I didn't want him to see how deeply he'd hurt me and I struggled mightily to hold the aching, burning tears inside of my chest. I'd almost forgotten it had happened when, a few days later, he walked up and did it again, this time snarling, "How'd you get so ugly? I aint' never seen anyone so ugly." Again, I froze, hanging my head in shame. For me, ugliness was the worst thing anyone could have accused me of. Call me stupid, fine, you're stupid, too! Call me lazy, yawn. But ugly! I couldn't bear it. And I couldn't forget it. Weeks and months and years later, I still recall the whiplash of pain those silly words, that silly, cruel boys-will-be-boys sentence caused me. And though, in the 36 years since it happened, I've learned to forgive and forget and that the people who wound us are, as the Buddhists say, our
"noble friends," sent to teach us to be stronger, I still wonder, "Am I ugly?"

Mirror Work

Naked, my image is reflected back to me, in a full-length mirror. But a woman, I do not see: curves that rise and fall like hills that would be a dwelling place for a love. I see a broken hull of what should have been a sailing vessel. It’s body has been damaged in that delicate meeting place, where the tip of the bow breaks through the water. This vessel of mine, I call “bodyE"is held precariously, in suspension, disconnected from it’s own source. It won’t let me accept the good in life. It is somewhere in between yes and no. It’s the difference between joyfully receiving what is rightfully mine and merely parting the lips of my desire, for whatever might push its way in. The excitement of forced entry is the only touch it has known. I know it as an ache that took 48 years to feel, and is more persistent than longing. I cannot describe the wholeness I seek, except to say it is a touch my body has never known. I am being healed—this much I can trust—by examining my

reflection in a mirror. And naming the damaged parts can be a way of reclaiming my self.

In Someone Else's Eyes

He was cooking and I was standing by, chatting aimlessly. He needed the olive oil. I leaned into the counter to get out of his way. He passed around me, feeling my butt ever so casually. He did not grip or press. His hand went to my bottom the way I would put my hand on a shoulder or a back: to tell someone was there. Ever so slightly his hand lingered on my derrière, hardly enough to notice, insufficient to call harassment charges. He took the olive oil from the shelf and returned to cooking. I continued chatting aimlessly.

At age 23, no man had ever made a pass at me. Now one felt my ass and I felt beautiful. He was handsome, elegant and probably always treated women like divine creatures. I was the only female there and appreciated his gesture as an individual compliment. For as long as the memory lasts, I can see myself as beautiful, because he did.

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.

Transformation

I know what it’s like to feel absolutely ugly. Through middle school and much of high school I was skinny, flat-chested, pimply, brace-faced and donned a bad perm. The popular clan of boys in school would make the sound “flt” when they passed me in the halls, calling attention to and making fun of my flat chest for anyone nearby to hear. At parties, when all the teens would gather round and play spin the bottle, boys would quit the game when the bottle pointed to me, just in time to avoid a kiss. I had tons of friends, but was considered the witty one, fun to be around, and never had a date. It was lonely and humiliating.

I know what it’s like to feel absolutely beautiful. By college, I developed, was envied by my peers as “thin” rather than ridiculed as “skinny”, and could date pretty much any guy I wanted. I was suddenly pursued by my university’s top athletes, most popular frat boys, and most handsome leaders—basically the same types who would never have looked my way in high school. The differences in social treatment from all sorts of people, be they men, women, teachers, strangers or friends, that I’ve experienced based solely upon my appearance are limitless. I continue to note them (and admittedly take advantage of them) today. I forgive my early tormentors and those who, perhaps unconsciously, offered me second-class treatment in my ugly years. But I’ll never forget how different life is when you’re considered unattractive by our culture’s standards.

The Power of You

My own twisted perception of self started at an early age, which I now believe may have been due in part to an occurrence of incestual abuse as a small child. This experience, coupled with cruel, relentless remarks about my chest (or lack thereof) beginning as early elementary school and continuing through my later teenage years led me to slowly ingrain the notion that my body was somehow abnormal. My body was not something beautiful but something ugly. I began drinking and smoking my freshman year of high school, destroying my body as it was still growing. Along with the usual teenage angst came a deeper sense of depression and feelings of isolation that continue to this day, although to a much lesser degree.

I became involved in destructive, emotionally abusive relationships that I lacked the confidence to break away from. While in college I developed an eating disorder that I am still struggling with three years after graduation. Laxatives and diet pills along with cycles of restrictive eating and binging became a way to compensate for my feelings of inadequacy. I mistakenly thought that if I stayed thin, I would feel more attractive. Instead, the result of diuretic abuse culminated in panic attacks, angry outbursts, and extreme gastrointestinal problems. At my lowest point I didn't leave my house for several weeks and couldn't hold a job for several months.

Recently, I was hospitalized for a week in a psychiatric ward. Through this experience I feel blessed to have met some wonderful people, and through cognitive and alternative therapies I am receiving the help and strength that I need. Additionally, I have begun to incorporate an element of spirituality into my life that has left me feeling more at peace than I have ever been. I am just beginning to feel a reconnection to a part of myself that was lost among feelings of hurt, confusion, insecurity, guilt, anger and self-loathing. It can be a difficult journey, which is why each of us must believe in our ability to heal, and take comfort in knowing that we are all unique and special people who are worthy of loving ourselves everyday. Be proud of who you are - true beauty reaches far beyond aesthetics.

My Father's Words

I was a teenager at the time, so were my older sisters, and the youngest was in elementary school. I remember it was a Saturday afternoon. My two older sisters were sitting at one end of the dining room table and my dad was at the other end. The dining room table was often used forthings other than eating; reading a book, or doing a puzzle, so it was quite common for people to sit there. I was standing near the table,just sort of hanging around. My dad was in a somber mood, maybe due to a fight he had with my mom, I'm not really certain what caused his mood.A conversation started up, and someone mentioned my youngest sister, whowas not present at the time. My dad responded with, "At least I got one pretty daughter." It was clear his reference was to the youngest, absent daughter, and not the three in his presence. I looked at my twoolder sisters, who said nothing and looked back to what they were doing,and I immediately responded with a sarcastic "Oh, that's real nice." He didn't take back his comment or soften it in any way. I was really struck by this statement. Up until that time, I thought my looks were"okay." This new revelation was like a punch to the stomach. Things were bad enough, being a teenager and all, but now I had to face the fact that I was not pretty. My dad said so. For years, I have carried this thought. Whenever things went wrong, I chalked it up to the fact that I was not pretty. Often as the loser in love and other games, I comforted myself with the fact that I wasn't pretty anyway, so what did I expect the outcome to be. Still, in my darkest moments, I hear my dad say that I am not pretty.

A few years ago, I was with my younger sister and my dad. He noticed a magazine with a beautiful blonde model on the cover. He said to me,"Hey, she looks just like you."I am not blonde like the model, and didn't really see any similarity in our features. I wondered why he was comparing me to someone who didn't look like me at all, maybe he remembered his previous statement, but Ididn't really think so, that was over 20 years ago. I smiled at him,but this latest statement, this comment on my "beauty" didn't penetrate the truth I had built for myself over the years with the help of my dad; that I was not and would never be pretty.

Deciding to be Pretty

When I was a teenager, all of the signals I got were about how your beauty is your body. I thought I was fat and ugly. I wasn’t. That view of myself came from a variety of sources. There was high school drill team teacher, who would not let me dance with the team until I lost 20pounds. I find that outrageous when I think about it now. I weighed 115pounds, at 5’ 1” in high school. I was a perfectly healthy and attractive weight, yet here was this woman of authority telling me Iwas fat. It was also the Farah Fawcett years. “Pretty” equaled lots of hair and teeth, but not a lot of curves. That made it hard on a curvy, ethnic girl living in a Texas suburb. I often wished that it was 1956, when short waists and hips were in fashion. When girls wore those wideskirts to make their bottoms look BIGGER. I mean, really! Marilyn Monroe would not have made the “Charlie’s Angels” casting finals. The media in general had been showing off skinny as beauty for the previous decade. The waif look was far, far beyond my capabilities. The popular‘70s style peasant dress, so well paraded around by tall, thin models in magazines and by my Texas-bred peers, made me, in my short form, look like an actual peasant. Most of the in-style fashions were all wrong on my body. I could never, ever find a pair of pants that fit my hips as well as my waist. I would always buy for the hips and have to take in the waist. The boys in my school were an issue. Most of the people around me were very blond, very tall, and somewhat narrow – it was, after all, Farah’s homeland. (As I watch my daughter reaching the pre-teen years, I thankGod for Jennifer Lopez.). Trying so hard to fit in, yet develop yourown personality is hard on everybody. I never had a boyfriend in my high school. Hell, I never even had a date. I thought that it was my looks and that I was fat. It could have been that all those boys weresimply used to their mothers, aunts, cousins being tall, blond, and small chested. And after all, boys watch TV, too. They see the images and they also change their attitude about beauty. Or it could have just as easily been because I was very outspoken, yet had no self-confidence– or to put it bluntly: obnoxious. I thought that no boys were into me. It turns out that there were at least a couple of guys who had crushes on me, but never came forward. I got this information from my mother’s friends - only years later. Not that I would have known what to do with that information at the time. My mother did not help either, since she had her own body-image issues. She was, indeed, overweight. She always said she was on diet, but never lost weight. She did not exercise, she had a back problem, and she warned me of how I would get fat. She taught me how hard it was to stay pretty. The only people who told me I was pretty to my face were friends of my mother’s, who actually thought I was exotic. Of course, I didn’t believe them The red herring in all of this was when we would visit the northeast,where my family was from. The boys would fall all over me! It may have been that obnoxiousness is attractive to men in the tri-state area. Maybe I was more relaxed on family vacation. Or, then again, maybe it was that I was pretty and acceptable to the ethnic male population.There are more girls with hips in New Jersey. Those Greek and Italian and Hispanic beauties helped. But my brain was already washed. I did not believe.All through college and my early twenties, I hated my body. Although boys and men started to ask me out, I always found something wrong withthem before they found out that I was fat and ugly. I struggled with depression and turned to food, fulfilling my mother’s prophecy and becoming overweight. Somewhere during my struggle, I had a revelation. Through therapy, and creative output, and talking to friends, I made adecision to think of my body as a part of my health instead of part ofmy beauty. Suddenly, the pounds dropped off. I never dieted. I stoppedeating processed foods. Anything with high fructose corn syrup orunpronounceable chemical ingredients was out – but not for vanity, forhealth. Now, when I look at the photos from high school, I realize that,physically, I was absolutely beautiful. My problem was all about myattitude toward myself. In the 30 years since my first training bra, I finally came to understand that beauty is not really too much aboutyour physical features, providing that you are relatively well washed,don’t smell, and have at least your front teeth. It’s more about howyou feel. Being healthy, feeling happy, doing fulfilling work makes youbeautiful. Now HOW to feel good is a whole other issue. I still havebouts of ugliness if I’m overwhelmed, feeling down, or just plain sick.Happiness takes place deep inside, nowhere near the skin and it’sdifferent for each of us. My beauty is not my body. My beauty is my smile. My beauty is the sparkle in my eyes. My beauty is my interest in others. My beauty is my children and my work in the world. If you really feel like flipping your hair and smiling, you are automatically pretty. The media and it’s surrounding industry is coming around, albeit very slowly. It still may not be the fashion magazine’s view, but it works for me.

Self Esteem

I think you get your first impression of yourself from your parents. Myparents did thier best, but they didn't instill any self-esteem in me.They never said, "You can do anything" or "You have a special gift".Instead I was led to believe I was just ordinary. My grades wereordinary, I wasn't pushed to get better grades or told that I could. Mygrades were accepted as they were which led me to believe that I wasordinary. Nothing special. I married young, dropped out of school. I was a nobody. My mind said tojust settle and be happy with what I got. Be glad for the attributes Idid have, don't look for more because there was none and why did Ideserve any more anyway? It took me a very long time to gather courage and find my way. Gainingself-esteem by my accomplishments at a snails pace. Nonetheless, it wasprogress. I found myself realizing that it was okay that I hadweakenesses, everyone does. My strength was in knowing I did, and tocompensate for it. Just because I wasn't a mathematical genius didn'tmean I was worthless. Each time I tried something new and succeeded atit put another brick of self-esteem where one was missing. There werefailures. But those secured the knowledge that I'd have to try harder,it didn't mean I couldn't accomplish the task. Having two daughters of my own, I wanted them to grow up believing inthemselves. I didn't want them to learn the hard way as I did, takingyears to get there. From an early age I told them how special they were.How they could do anything they set thier mind to. Not to listen tonay-sayers. My oldest is in college now, having graduated high schoolvaledictorian. She has the world by the tail. She believes in herself.It's all I could ask for.

I've discovered the best kind of loss

I have found a new way to lose weight. It is called gastroenteritis. Simply bring this little virus home (it will love your children, too!) and you too can lose eight pounds in a week. And make it stay off, too!This happened to me a few weeks ago, and I can't say I'm displeased. Sure, it was a bitch that Friday night when I was alternately sitting on the toilet or hugging it. Wasn't all that great the following week, either, when all I could manage was a bite of toast or a little bit of broth. But look out, baby! You should have seen me when I stepped on the scale and saw I was three pounds lighter than on my wedding day!Hey, no pain, no gain -- or, no loss, in my instance.Now I don't know about you, but weight has always been something of a sore spot for me. I suspect it has something to do with Carolyn and Patty and Jane and the rest of the bratty girls at St. Joe's Elementary School, some of whom were none too thin themselves but couldn't resist picking on the chubby girl. Well, memories linger. Even though my weight has been normal since I turned 14 and moved away from those creeps, in the back of my head I can still hear the taunts every time I get a little water weight.And the voices were getting uglier, too, since a couple of years ago when I started carrying around a few extra pounds that I just couldn't seem to get rid of.Why does our cortex do this to us? I know there is scientific evidence about it, how the most emotional and traumatic events are the ones we remember best. Heck, do you have any memories of hanging up your coat at school? You did it, what, a hundred thousand times, but chances are you don't remember it unless it was the time Tommy Johnson pulled your bra strap from behind, or Carolyn or Patty or Jane whispered that your coat was ugly.And I don't know about you, but the negative memories outnumber the positive ones by a count of about five to one. Maybe I just had a traumatic childhood, but there is evidence that this is true, at least among the young (http://www.apa.org/releases/aging_memory.html).Unfortunately, the "why" of it doesn't help us figure out what to do about it. How to forget about Carolyn and Tommy or how badly it hurt when someone called you "Chubs." This is the real work, and I've found that for me, the results are uneven so far. I may not care what Carolyn thinks about my coats, and I laugh about the bra strap now. But I still hear the voices when my stomach flabs out.I don't really have anything profound to suggest. Perhaps the mere understanding that for all our work, it is awfully hard to put away the past. It's not a sweater or a high school yearbook, something to be given to charity or stored in the garage. Luckily, we do learn to reconcile and sometimes we mature enough to not really care anymore. I guess that's the best we can hope for.Or a little gastroenteritis. As I've just discovered, sometimes it's easier just to lose the extra pounds. If only the positive events made for more vivid memories!

Growing Up

I remember understanding insecurity about my body from the ripe old age of 8. Looking down at my thighs as they spread across the seats in class and obsessively comparing myself to the thinner girls surrounding me. I always wanted to change and had conditioned my head from then on that I would someday be the image of perfection I had always dreamt of. My conquest began in 6th grade, taking karate classes to begin shedding the pounds. My self-esteem soared as my peers noticed my cuter figure showing through. This pursuit continued into high school. After switching schools, my desires of perfectionism, a determination of mine to mask all of my weaknesses and insecurities, spiraled out of control parlaying me into the deep abyss of my eating disorder. I became an addicted to my new religion of weight control…my only control. Naively, I was always the one controlled, but never was able to admit it. An innate people pleaser and do-gooder, all that I ever did was to seek validation from others, the type I wouldn’t allow myself to have. I have always chosen identities I thought I was and pursuits I believed were valiant and projects that would qualify me as a worthwhile human being. Bouts of anorexia and bulimia nervosa, followed by morphed eating habits and rigid exercise habits followed. All the while, these practices and rituals were due to my incessant insecurities, insurmountable standards I’d set for myself, fears of failure and self hate for those times I couldn’t perform. Inside, never adequate and up to par with what my peers were doing. Everything I tried including sports, activities, projects, volunteering, though most I have enjoyed, have partially been to seek acceptance, and be a part of something valuable. This fact is verified by my consistency to second-guess my decisions. Rebelling and running, I have never been satisfied with ay endeavor and quit before I start because of fear of failure, mixed with the need for more. At 23, I am coming to realize that I have hated and beaten my own body and mind, because I never believed I was good enough, smart enough, and brave enough. At this age, I have come to understand that I have a lot of growing up to do still, but that I am good enough, smart enough and it is not too late to turn my thinking onto a healthier path. It will take time it is a rebirth. While I will not win the Nobel Prize or go to Harvard anytime soon, its ok, I have my whole life to enjoy, heal and decide what’s really right for me.

Incessant Insecurities

I remember understanding insecurity about my body from the ripe old age of 8. Looking down at my thighs as they spread across the seats in class and obsessively comparing myself to the thinner girls surrounding me. I always wanted to change and had conditioned my head from then on that I would someday be the image of perfection I had always dreamt of. My conquest began in 6th grade, taking karate classes to begin shedding the pounds. My self-esteem soared as my peers noticed my cuter figure showing through. This pursuit continued into high school. After switching schools, my desires of perfectionism, a determination of mine to mask all of my weaknesses and insecurities, spiraled out of control parlaying me into the deep abyss of my eating disorder. I became an addicted to my new religion of weight control…my only control. Naively, I was always the one controlled, but never was able to admit it. An innate people pleaser and do-gooder, all that I ever did was to seek validation from others, the type I wouldn’t allow myself to have. I have always chosen identities I thought I was and pursuits I believed were valiant and projects that would qualify me as a worthwhile human being. Bouts of anorexia and bulimia nervosa, followed by morphed eating habits and rigid exercise habits followed. All the while, these practices and rituals were due to my incessant insecurities, insurmountable standards I’d set for myself, fears of failure and self hate for those times I couldn’t perform. Inside, never adequate and up to par with what my peers were doing. Everything I tried including sports, activities, projects, volunteering, though most I have enjoyed, have partially been to seek acceptance, and be a part of something valuable. This fact is verified by my consistency to second-guess my decisions. Rebelling and running, I have never been satisfied with ay endeavor and quit before I start because of fear of failure, mixed with the need for more. At 23, I am coming to realize that I have hated and beaten my own body and mind, because I never believed I was good enough, smart enough, and brave enough. At this age, I have come to understand that I have a lot of growing up to do still, but that I am good enough, smart enough and it is not too late to turn my thinking onto a healthier path. It will take time it is a rebirth. While I will not win the Nobel Prize or go to Harvard anytime soon, its ok, I have my whole life to enjoy, heal and decide what’s really right for me.

Am I Still Pretty?

I turned fifty years old last year. But as I sit on the cusp of 51, I realize how important looking and feeling pretty is. Let me go backward in time here- When I was in my forties, I considered myself not too bad looking for my age, though I had to have a couple of back teeth removed it wasn't noticeable. Any laugh lines or crows feet on my face were easily fixed by a heavier application of makeup. Just wasn't a big deal. I had a great figure for a woman my age. Even my three daughters were envious. I was happily married and nowhere near a mid life crisis. When I was in my thirties, I always looked a little younger than my same age friends and relatives. I could wear tight jeans and T shirts and not look ridiculous. I was at the decade where I had to color the roots of my hair occasionally but back then it was more fun than necessary. I wasn't classically pretty. I had a crooked nose and my mouth wasn't wide and full. I was average looking maybe. I never considered myself ugly though back then. I still got a fair share of whistles from guys and it never ceased to thrill me. In my twenties, I was probably at my peak like so many other women. I went braless or wore haltertops that accentuated by breasts. I wore hiphugger jeans and high heel sandals everywhere. I barely wore makeup-just mascara. I sauntered when I walked and held my head high. My hair was long and shiny like in an advertisement. I flirted and smiled at men. I never thought about the affect my looks could have on anyone. I just looked in the mirror, made sure no leftover teenage zits were visible. I wasn't vain but I did care. More than one person back then said I reminded them of Mary Tyler Moore-smile and all. I considered this a compliment.Theres no point in even mentioning the teenage years. I was still physically evolving and morphing into the woman I would later look like. Actually my looks in those years were not my biggest problem. There were other issues more important than that.As I said at the beginning of this, I am just about to turn 51. Now I obsess about my looks. I look in the mirror constantly like a teenager constantly touching up this and fixing that or erasing all my makeup and starting over. I realize now what a high premium is paid to beauty. I see photos of myself and flinch. I can't believe I actually look my age. And I absolutely Hate it. I realize now that so much of my self esteem was tied up with my looks all these years. I'm out of work right now and have been on two interviews. I am positive I didn't get one of the jobs I applied for because I wasn't a young and Pretty woman. Somewhere along the line I got older which is fine but the attractiveness sputtered out probably when I was in my forties and I didn't notice. I know I don't turn heads anymore. That is probably the most shallow thing to notice but I dare any woman not to give a damn.There are days when I say to myself to just skip the makeup-its not needed now. The looks I had when I was younger aren't relevant anymore. Why try to fight it? I find myself wondering, when did I stop being pretty? Why do I care still? But if a total stranger told me I was pretty, it would give a lift that would last a week.

Hungry

I stopped looking into the mirror when I was fourteen. That was the year I had to dress and undress in front of beautiful high school seniors. Their bodies were perfectly toned from years of volleyball, basketball and track. And there I was, the freshman, the late bloomer with globs of baby fat on my thighs, stomach and ass. Being the only freshman playing varsity volleyball wasn't good enough. I had to look like them, so I looked like I belonged. A few missed meals and some extra workouts gave me the sleek look of an athlete, but I knew I could do better. I could be thinner - thinner than all of them. So I missed a few more meals, and I picked up a few more workouts. I became so beautiful that the other girls couldn't bear to look at me anymore without giving me strange looks.I don't remember collapsing the night we played Greenhill Prep. One minute I was glancing over at our team captain (and my hero) Nikki, thinking that if I could just set the ball to her, she could spike it for the win. Now she's standing over me, screaming for a doctor. I want to tell her that I'm sorry that I missed the set because she's a senior and this is going to be her last game, but the floor is spinning and I have to close my eyes. When I open them again, my mother is standing over me. I see my reflection for the first time in months, reflecting in my mother's eyeglasses, and I get dizzy and nauseous all over again. "Mama," I manage to ask while she slips her hand underneath the back of my head. "Am I too skinny?" I see that she's struggling to say the right thing, but she's has no idea what to tell me, so she leans over and kisses my forehead and tells me that I'm her pretty girl, that I don't to lose another pound. And that's good, because I'm hungry.

The Ugly Beauty

My eyes sparkle, bright, electric blue. My hair naturally shimmers deep, golden auburn with lemony, sunshine highlights. My figure is small-- thin arms, contoured abdominals, and muscular, athletic legs. My hands are pretty-- delicate, tapered fingers, decorated with rings of silver, turquoise, and sapphire blue. My skin is soft and fresh, young and supple, exuding light, fruity smells mixed with vanilla. But everything about me is imperfect. Everything you see is ugly, vile, and gross.

I tighten my jaw as I fumble with change at the coffee shop, screaming at the cashier with my mind, “Don’t look at me!” When the attractive man at the bar looks my way, I brush my hair out of my eyes, but let it fall back quickly as I pray, “Please don’t see how ugly I am!”My hairdresser says I’m stunning like my mother. My father’s friends ask, “How is a beauty queen like you still single?” My aunts say how jealous they are of my figure, my eyes, my face. Lies. I can still feel the red, raw mountain ranges of acne that covered my face when I was between twelve and seventeen. I can still hear the boy at the bus stop shouting after me, “Hey four eyes!” and “See you tomorrow, pizza face!” The invisible tears that I never let stream down my face when no one asked me to slow dance still burn with shame. I’m ugly. I’ll always be ugly.

Sheared Beauty

I was once a beautiful blonde. That was before cancer left me bald and with no hair. The cancer aged me like the chemo treatments that sheared years off my life and self image. Now I realize how much of my life was predicated upon beauty; how men and women perceived my body and it's importance. I have lost the facade of beauty and I'm left me with my self-esteem in shambles like some ancient decayed civilization.

Every Girl Needs a Black Dress

One defining moment of my hatred of my body happened when I was eighteen. I won a scholarship to be used toward my college fund. For someone that never tried out for awards nor entered contests, it was a big deal to win. Of course, there was a catch- I had to give a public speech. For once though, I wasn't paralyzed with fear. I felt good about winning. My mother was excited, she finally had a chance to play dress-up with me. We searched for days, and settled on a modest black dress. As she liked to say, "Everyone girl needs a black dress to hang in the closet". I felt normal, and it felt nice. I was all ready for the ceremony when my father stopped by to say hello and wish me luck. He wanted to know what else I had to wear, and my heart sank. Throughout my life, he had taken it on as a personal crusade to convince me to lose weight, as if I liked being overweight and would remain so unless he berated me about every cookie and chip he saw me eat. As I rummaged through my closet for something more appropriate, I could hear my parents arguing through the door. He yelled at my mother and told her, in no uncertain terms, that I could not wear a dress, that it looked awful and would embarass him and me, and why couldn't she have been sensible and found me a pants suit. I wore the dress, finding nothing else even remotely fancy to replace it. My confidence was shattered and it was a miserable day for me. To this day, I have never worn a dress. And yet, the black dress (now much too big and ten years later) still hangs in the back of my closet because, as everyone knows, every girl needs a black dress.

Unworthy

Growing up I never felt beautiful. I was awkward really, long legs, short torso, wild hair that went every which way and a massive over bite. Middle school was a hard time, I was teased constantly by my peers about my appearance, and, to add insult to injury, I was a late bloomer and by age 13 still lacked any curves whatsoever. I would go home and cry often, usually on Friday nights when my friends were hanging out with their boy crushes at the movies. I really wanted boys to like me, but they never did. Perhaps themost painful experience was having the boy I really liked not only insult me in public but then ask out a friend of mine in front of my face. When it was time for me go to high school my family moved to the other sideof town and around that same point I naturally came into my own. I got my braces off, learned how to brush my hair and began to fill out. No one had been to middle school with me to remember the horrible taunts I had endured, so by the time age 16 rolled around I was in the full swing of dating. Although I had "blossomed" and was receiving the attention of men at this point, for some reason I still felt ugly; to be quite honest, I'm 21 now andI still feel ugly. I can't explain why, but no matter how much attention I get or how many compliments I receive I still feel like that awkward girl. I always want to be a little thinner, or a little trendier, or as pretty as somebody else. It's like I can't accept myself for who I am and always feel unworthy of the men I am with. This has caused me to be treated poorly and to give myself away to easily. I need men to want to sleep with me to feel validated as an attractive women, I know this is wrong, but I can't stop. I have hurt a lot of people being like this but most of all I've hurt myself. I realize the problem and am currently taking steps to fix it, it's just hard, I'm afraid that I will never see myself as beautiful without the reinforcement of others.

The Truth of My LIfe

The truth is that I feel like Shit is written on my forehead. There is not a day that goes by where I don't feel ugly and dirty and like I am the bad one. I have always been the bad one. I don't know why, but everything I did was wrong. I was always told I was too dramatic as a kid or that I talked to much or that I asked too many questions in class. The foods I liked were wrong. The TV shows I liked were wrong. Everything was wrong and I was bad. I always heard everyone talk about how pretty the other girls were, but no one said it about me. I was just nothing and I still am.I was sexually abused when I was young. The first time I was around 3 or 4, then I had a step-dad that started in the 4th grade. I went on a cruise and got in a fight with my husband. We had problems, but I loved him. I went to hang out with my brother in the bar. I was anorexic and I was desperate for someone to love me. I drank a few beers and the next day my husband found me with some guy. I have no memory of anything; i just had a really bad headache and I hadn't checked on my son. I don't do that. I don't know what happened, but I was bad and I have been considered some horrible person for that too. I want to know how many times one person can be sexually abused by different people. I think people see me as nothing from the start and they know that I am the one too hurt. For all the people that come across this and think I am uneducated about this, I am not. I know what re-victimization is, but it just feels like people know I am shit. Like I am such shit you should try and fuck me, because I am nothing.I do not feel lovable. I do not feel pretty. I feel ugly and bad. I think bad epitomizes who I am. Something must be wrong with me because everyone, and I mean everyone, has something negative to say. I have never been good. I was a bother as a child or in the way or wrong. I was adopted and I know my mom wanted me, but there was so much going on and somehow I got pegged as bad. I would say more, but I don't want to s ay anything that could ever hurt her. My birth mother was 13, but I never knew it-until I was a mother. I grew up thinking I was unwanted by some lady that didn't think I was good enough. That hurt a lot. What hurt the most was the step-dad. He really tormented me. He thought it was funny to hold me under the water in the pool. I loved the pool, but I always listened for the splash because it meeant he was coming. I always tried to stay near the edge of the pool so I could try to get out, but it never worked. HE just came and held me under. I don't know why, but I was always so scared of his wrath. He thought it was funny to hold me down too and I couldn't stand it. I just don't know what I did to make him target me, but it was all the time. He always showed me his penis, which I hated. HE always did things to hurt me, like shoving me in the pool or hitting me for no reason. I Would just walk by and well eventually I just didn't walk by him anymore.Why? WHY? What was wrong with me? I shaved for the first time for my 4th grade Christmas show-i have black hair. When I came out with my mom and was so proud I saw the look and I knew it was bad. It was then that he started coming in my room at night. It was then that I knew he would kill my mother if I ever said anything. He did a good job of keeping us seperated. I really don't know how I made it through school the next day and everyday. I was miserable. I was young when I considered killing him. I thought about how i could just go in and plunge a knife into his heart. His side of the bed was by the door and I could do it, but I knew my mom would be sad without him so I didn't. I endured his hell and was forever changed. She ended up divorcing him soon after, but I would only become more shit.The state found out what he had done and I guess they went to the school I attended, a private Christian school in Sarasota, fl. I was suddenly labeled the bad person, the girl no one should play with and my best friend's parents actually pulled her out of school to get her away from me. Stacey was her name. I found out later she had lied about things I had done, I am not sure what all she said, but I can tell you that she always had a filthy mouth. I remember when we were in the 5th grade she laid on the bed and said "I want to fuck so bad" over and over. I know she thought she was cool for saying it, but I just looked at her and thought she was stupid. I knew she didn't know what she was talking about. Either way I was the one, again, that was bad. I didn't even do anything, but I was labeled. I left the school soon after because I couldn't stand to be somewhere where everyone thought I was shit. I remember a teacher, and I guess the school, deciding I needed a talk about not starting sex too soon or not acting sexual or something. I didn't act sexual at all. I had a couple of boyfriends that I may have kissed, but that was all. I was a whore for that though. I was a whore for being molested. I should have never told anyone. I know my own mother still doesn't believe it. You know me, the piece of shit that would lie about something I knew nothing about? No one talked about this stuff in the early 80's. I was a kid and no one discussed it, but I liied about it...cuz I am the piece of shit dramatic one.I met my husband in the 8th grade. He was a life saver, however we had our problems back then and in the beginning of our marriage. He had problems and I had problems and some of the things he said to me in anger eat at me daily. Deep down I know he loves me, but the "I hate you"s and "I want to get out of here" and the one time "You are nothing" still sits deep in my heart. My parents constantly said "he doesn't love you, he never wanted to marry you". I just felt unwanted, not good enough, and bad. I was a mother at 18 and I was overweight after the birth and an embarrassment so I quickly become anorexic. I tried to please, but it didn't work. I was still an embarrassment.I worked out 3-4 hours a day. I starved myself and took laxatives. I took pills from GNC that made my heart race. They have since yanked those pills off the shelves, but they did make me thin and they did actually destroy my health and my future health. I lost a lot of weight and no one seemed to notice. I am 5'4" and got down to a size 12 in girls clothing. No one said anything. I saw tracy gold on Oprah and she said that it hurt her ribs to lay down. Well that became my goal and I rarely even drank water, because I thought I it would make my stomach pooch out. I drank laxative teas and only ate half a cup of rice a day. I was really small. I was insulted by women and hated and that only made it worse. I remember my son's preschool teacher made fun of me in front of all the kids and the parents at a party. I had just had a miscarriage, which took off more weight, and she gave my son a cookie and said "you want to give this to your mommy, oh wait I forgot your mommy doesn't eat cookies. All the parents just looked at me. She also told everyone I got pregnant by a really old guy and was still sleeping with him. That wasn't true, but she hated me. Was it because I was thin or because I am shit? Who knows?My husband actually said something that made me think I needed to change. Plus I loved my son so much and I didn't want to leave him alone. It has been 8 years of trying to recover and I never feel good. I am always tired and run down. I destroyed my body. The anorexia was a way to avoid all the pain. It took up so much of my time I could avoid the thoughts that haunted me. The thoughts have evolved into hypervigilence. I am terrified of men. I don't want people to touch me and I cringe when men do. I don't like men approaching me and I don't like to be out in the dark. I feel like it is only a matter of time until some man comes to hurt me again. My mind wouldn't make it through another sexual assault. It has taken all that it can and it is close to breaking. I feel fear a lot. I feel terror when I hear noises at night and a home invasion is my worst nightmare.The thoughts are always there, but at times they are pushed back. I know I am a bad person. I am a person that is not acceptable to my family or people i meet on the street. They just look at me and hate me. I don't even have to say anything. I even had one guy walk up to me at Walgreens and say "boy you are an ugly one aren't you". It just solidified that shit that I feel like I am. I had a close friend named Jen. Everytime I went to her house her dad would say "hi ugly". I just don't know what I did wrong and why I am so ugly.my son is now 14. He is beautiful and a good boy and I have worked hard everyday to make him feel loved. I never wanted him to wonder why he wasn't loved. He is a teenager and you know how teenagers are. His actions often hurt. I wonder if he knows how much.I live for my kids and my husband. I do not feel acceptable to anyone. I feel like I should just put my head down. I got my B.A. and my Masters and you would think it would boost your self-esteem. It doesn't. I am smart, real smart, but no one ever bother to get to know me. And I don't try anymore. Every friend I have ever had has ended up hurting me badly. I just stay away I don't try to be close to anyone anymore . I have noticed in the past two years that I have become numb. I don't want to feel anything; I don't want to be hurt. I don't want to care because people will just decide I am nothing again and leave. My husband has stayed for 18 years. He is here, but his words from long ago are still in my heart. I try to let them go, but they eat at my soul. I am just tired. I must live on for my children and I guess for the insults that just keep coming. My husband loves me, but I do not know why or for how long. I am sure he will eventually leave. I think I am an embarrassment to him too. His family has hated me from day one and they still do. I have to go to family gatherings and be the balck sheep. I just don't even try anymore. I am sick of the lies told and the dirty looks. I am just tired of the cruelty.How does one become lovable? How does one become beautiful or special or cherished? I have always wanted to be these things and somehow I am not considered any of these. Life is beautiful, I know this. Children are beautiful, but the other stuff is just overshadowing everything. I want to be something and I want to be special. I guess some people just don't get that label. I am just some one to assult, to insult, or to make fun of. I am shit, I am nothing and that is my truth, the truth of me and my life. Maybe it will get better some day, but I feel my label has already been decided and I must live with it.

Women’s day?

Conveniently today’s Women’s international day, and apparently men think this day was made for them to spoil their female company without taking in consideration what they have done the rest of the year (without counting birthdays and anniversaries).

Two months ago I received an email from an internet-friend, he was asking me to go out for the 1st time in 2 months and I thought: “Finally!” because we chatted and even talked on the phone everyday but never has seen each other personally (we had seen pictures). He picked me up in my job place and when I saw him I found him so much more attractive than the pictures I had seen, that was good and I was hoping he thought the same about me even though I had some extra weight and he seemed really athletic. He asked really nicely where I would like to go for dinner, so I mentioned this pizza place and, according to my perception, we had a really nice conversation (as the ones we had had on the phone) and the food and environment was really good, but suddenly he said he was feeling sick, so we left the place and he took me home, we said goodbye just as friends (no kisses) and I was really honest when I said I had a nice time and that I wished he’d get well soon so we can see each other again. He just smiled and said: “I had a good time too”. Since then I never heard from him again.

Now I have lost some weight and last week I went to the beach and posted some new pictures in myspace.com and today I received a comment from him saying: “Hey beautiful, how have you been? You really look good in those new pictures.. I was wondering if we can go out tonight to celebrate your day... Let me know”

What makes him think today he has a free ticket to go out with me?

Gaining

During middle school, I was taunted by some boys who called me a 'pirates dream' and a 'carpenters dream'. I initially had no idea what it all meant but was told by another boy that it was because I was so thin, flat chested; similar to a sunken chest or flat as a board. I became so self conscious of my body and avoided boys whenever possible. While other girls were always complaining about not being able to lose weight, I would struggle to gain. They all looked so healthy and vibrant, always had boyfriends and the social life I wanted. Even through high school and college, when ever I might receive a compliment on my appearance I would sabotage it by tearing myself down and pointing out my 'faults'. I still have great difficulty wearing a swimsuit and am unable to do so in public.

Surfer

When I was 15 years old I wanted to learn how to surf. My first time in the water I felt frustrated, humiliated, and unsure. The men did not appreciate my addition to the line-up. There were two types of men in the water that day: those who wanted to know if I was naked under my wetsuit and those who told me to go surf somewhere else. To avoid the men, I began surfing at a small cove in front of my house. The waves barely broke there, I was surrounded by rocks and seaweed, and it was incredibly lonely. I felt like I was ostracized from the sport just because I was a girl. Those first years of learning how to surf still haunt me to this day. I am immediately intimidated when I paddle out to the line-up with a group of men. I feel that I am not good enough to take off on the same wave as them and I always back off and let them have the wave. I still prefer surfing at the lesser spots so that I can be by myself. I still find myself downplaying my surfing ability by telling people that I am not that good. In all other aspects of my life I feel sure of myself and my abilities but the second I am in the water I feel less than the other surfers. An outsider looking in to the inner circle that I can never seem to be a part of.

Mirror Image

When you hear something repeatedly on a daily basis--whether it is that you are beautiful, smart, ugly, fat, or anything else, the mirror begins to reflect the thoughts that were placed in one's head. My mirror has always been a magic mirror--mirror mirror on the wall, reflect to me what is said by all...

Broken

Weight was something I never had to worry aboutlosing; instead, I had to worry about gaining. Ever since I was little, I knew I had an overactive metabolism, causing me to not fully develop as all girls should at the age of sixteen. Boys would hardly notice the funny, nice girl with no breasts and hips, a non-existent body they could hardly grasp. In fact, a boy who I had a crush on told me he would never date me, fearing I would break. He had no idea that I had already been broken - inside. Yet while I struggled to gain, many others I knew struggled to lose - some dangerously destroying themselves in the process. It's the images we see flashed before us daily on magazine covers and billboards, all displaying what others believe to be the ideal image. In our culture,we get caught into celebrating the outside instead of rejoicing the inside. Rather than appearance, the focus should be turned inward toward a woman's inner strength and beauty, the large, radiant voice that is dying each day to speak and let the world know that she has arrived.

Pain

My mother told me she could not stand to look at me because I was the product of a rape. How can I see any beauty in myself when in my mothers eyes I am only seen as disgusting. How can I think I am beautiful when my looks remind others of so much pain?

Damaged Goods

A few years ago, I was put on medication that caused me to gain a lot of weight. I felt like a freak, like an unattractive woman. I hated my body. I considered myself "damaged goods" in terms of dating, and ended up dating someone who treated me poorly, who made me very unhappy. I thought I was lucky that someone was at least interested in me. That relationship came to a painful ending, and I was heart-broken. Since then, I have come to realize that there are people who find my new body shape and size to be sexy, good people who know how to treat me with respect and admiration. If I had had healthy self-esteem to start, I would not have tied my sense of self with my weight gain; I never would have taken such a negative view of myself; and I would never have gotten involved with the guy who ended up being so bad for me. Sad, isn't it?

My Step Father

When I was thirteen I fell madly in love for the first time...with my step father. After I gave all that I was to him, including my innocence, he left me in a bitter world to suffer with a harsh reality. He went to prison for what society called child molestation. In my tiny mind I thought it was my first love affair. He told me I was the most beautiful woman in the world. I believed him. Years later, I find out he fell for me because it was his only way to be with my mother again, they divorced a year before the "affair." He saw my mother in me, and tried to live the life he lead with my mother, through a thirteen year old child. Now every morning, I try so hard not to look in a mirror, afraid to see a booze battered, drug induced forty year old woman that is my mother. I am twenty and married now, but not once has anyone ever made me feel beautiful, I won't let them.

Don't come in

Sometimes I worry that I'm 24 years old and I've never dated anyone. When I was younger, I was a little overweight. I have memeories of not wanting to dance at school dances for fear that the boys would feel my fleshiness. I remember crying in store dressing rooms, and self-consciously hiding under layers of clothing on hot summer afternoons. Socially, I had plenty of friends but usually had my guard up so that no one would know how sensitive I really was. Since then I've lost 60 pounds. I lood great. I'm a 5'9 135 pound athletic blonde. I probably receive more positive attention from men than many others. Still, I'm 24 years old and I've never dated anyone. Physically, the hefty part of my life is years behind me, but it's a part of me nonetheless. It caused me to develope tough skin. I guess I just have problems really letting anyone in.

inadequancy

From puberty-on, having small breasts was a mark of inadequacy. Everyone reminded me of it. From my already "well-developed" best friends and the boys who ogled them, to every silicone-injected pop star I idolized on MTV. I was sure mine would grow eventually, but they never did. And so I was relegated as the tag along with my girlfriends, always ending up sitting somewhere next to the "reject" boy who, for whatever reason, didn't make the cut either. Not even the reject boys were interested in me, always sighing about the "luck" of their friends. I knew it was because of my breasts. I was sure that if I had large, supple appendages, I would be seen as interesting enough; worthy enough; beautiful enough to be treated like a real woman.

Why?

As a photographer, I have had the opportunity to photograph some very beautiful women over the years. They have been a diverse group. Blondes, brunettes, and redheads. They have been in their teens, twenties, and thirties, sometimes older, and look younger. But what nearly every one has had in common, is that they don't consider themselves beautiful. Whether because of perceived physical imperfections, or because of deep seated scars from childhood or teenage years, or some combination of the two, the issue of low self image in women is impossible to ignore.

This blog has been created as a way for women to share their feelings about themselves, and to see how other women see themselves.

To submit a story, send it to stories@thebeautifulproject.org. I will try to post one story each day, as long as time permits.

Please feel free to comment on any or all of the stories. This is meant to be an exchange of thoughts and feelings, and all are welcome to share.

Thanks for supporting this project.