Good Enough (Older)

I like getting older. I like that I am finally unlearning the toxic teachings of society and childhood. I like that I am finally beginning to like myself, as I am. I like that I am beginning to care less about the approval of random people. I like that I am becoming truly more self-sufficient, rather than pretending that I was while still desperately seeking the approval of others.

Toxic teachings. Society teaches that it’s okay to have masculine interests, as a female, as long as you’re still feminine in the ways that make you attractive to men. My stepmother taught me that it’s not okay to have masculine interests at all. For too long I’ve tied the approval of others to being overtly feminine, and felt distress at the lack of it in me. However would anyone like me? As my stepmother said to my face,”You will never have a husband or boyfriend.”

She tried so hard to transfer her insecurities to me and to some degree, succeeded. The agony of the last 18 years since puberty is proof of that. She saw that I wasn’t being harmed by advertising and my peers at a pace she approved of, and made sure to inject that internalized venom into me. So that I could be broken in the way she was broken. But some part of me has always resisted. The part of me that my stepmother hated. The part of me that understood her disgusting message and refused to submit.

Maybe I would have fewer issues with playing feminine if I fully internalized that message: You’re not good enough.

I ask these questions, assuming a female audience. How closely do you align to the ideal woman? Are you “woman” enough? Do you practice “hygiene” by buying and applying expensive cosmetics? Doubting your value even through powder and cream armor? How long would the beauty industry last if we were all happy with ourselves? What kind of world would it be if women could achieve the status of “real woman” without having to buy a product?

Tying the identity of “woman” to pricey clothes and beauty products is an insidiously evil thing.

Society and advertising will never stop with that message. It’s too profitable. I will encounter people every day that will be put off by me, unable to gauge my adherence to norms at a single glance. It really is their problem, not mine.

I find my feeting more and more each day as I reject the path laid before me. My time and money are my own, and I won’t give it to artificial insecurities any longer.

Getting older, to me, means getting better. Knowing, rather than trying to believe, that I *am* good enough.

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A Believing Heart is Your Magic

Day 5 of Wellbutrin. I’ve become an extroverted magical Japanese girl.

Sorry. I’ve just been watching too much Little Witch Academia.

The appointment last week went very well. The nurse practitioner suggested WB without my even having to ask.

So I’ve been taking it for five days. The NP said it would take up to 4-6 weeks to really hit a stride. I’m noticing a difference already. Before I started taking it, I feel like I gave preferential treatment to my depressive thoughts. On WB, I feel like I am standing at a distance to both my depressive thoughts (overeat, smoke, ignore Husband) and my functional thoughts (brush teeth, shower, clean, draw, write). Each group of thoughts has equal weight now, and if I turn towards the depressive thoughts it’s out of habit. Maybe as time goes by, I can train myself to turn more and more towards the functional thoughts. Break the habit.

One other thing I’ve noticed is that my constant irritation at being interrupted is nearly gone. When I came home on Friday, I was bombarded with the needs of others the second I stepped in the door. But the irritation wasn’t there. And it wasn’t there over the weekend too. I still overate and self-isolate, but that feels more like a choice than before. The desire to destroy the cuticles of my nails and leave them bloodied hasn’t gone, and in fact they are in an extremely poor state right now. But as the meds build up in my system, maybe I won’t give in to that compulsion as easily.

The punches are becoming easier to take. Just now, I went outside to have a smoke. Almost immediately, my smoker “buddies” gave each other looks, stubbed out their smokes and just went inside. At first I was like.. Well. What did I say? What did I do? Maybe they saw the state of my fingers. Maybe they just didn’t want to deal with my weird ass at that time. But it wasn’t a big deal. It didn’t send me spiraling into a self-loathing malaise like it might have. I just let it go.

I am waiting on a referral for therapy. I still need it. I find myself dealing with these realizations that sit heavy inside me, that ring true. I need help dealing with the physical and emotional neglect and abuse I suffered throughout childhood. I need help with the overwhelming need for approval that resulted from it. I need help working through the bitterness and unhealthy self-loathing that results from knowing I will never gain that approval. That being who I am, as a person, means the likelihood of approval is slim to none. I need help to stop perceiving other people as the enemy. To stop pushing others away when I think I won’t meet their expectations or if I perceive I’ve facked up socially.

I’ve been coming closer to a state of peace, over the last few months, but I have a ways to go still, and that will be hopefully sped up by a good therapist.

One day, maybe I’ll be someone who is naturally cheerful and lighthearted despite their shortcomings. That’s what I want to believe.

Capillus Brevus es Libertas

So in love with my shorn head right now.

I really do feel liberated. When I cut away my hair I cut away my anxiety over how my hair looks. Can’t worry about having bouncy perfect thick hair if you don’t have much at all. I dealt the death stroke to my insecurity and fear over it.

I’m trying to restrict my feelings of “I can do anything” right now because I worry I might be a bit manic. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was bipolar, I do have mood swings. But for right now, everything feels right with the world. And that is a rare feeling for me to have.

Just.. knowing that I don’t have to poorly pretend I am a feminine female to others and that I can do what I want now, free of fear of judgement.. It’s amazing. Because judgement will happen no matter what I do, no matter how I look. It’s about judgement not even entering my mind. Not even a concern. Giving no facks.

I wear my hairpiece when I leave the house. But I honestly think I could get to a place where I could just out myself as having short hair. I’d like to drop some weight first, with my large build I could easily be mistaken as male. Surprisingly, I don’t really want to look butch, in fact in the last two days I’ve worn more makeup than I have in months. Which is fine. My hair was really the worst thing on my head. And now it’s gone. ::wiggles::

Capillus brevus es libertas. I decide what being a woman means, for me. No one else does. Not magazines, not commercials, not ads, not glamorous women in TV and movies, not the cruelty of other people, not my stepmother, not anyone.

I decide.

Blunt and Honest (Sassy Soulful Inner Southern Mama)

I don’t enjoy social subtlety with people that I am close to. I prefer open and blunt communication. The reason being, every time you leave your front door, to your coworkers, acquaintances, strangers on the street: it’s not real communication. It’s all a game. Small talk and the social contract.

What I like about the internet is that the standard flip flops. There is no pressure to be “nice.” People say exactly what they want, online, under the cover of anonymity. Which is why, on certain matters, I respect online strangers’ opinion more than that of people I know personally.

I don’t want to hide anything from people that are close to me. I want to have complete trust and openness that I can have no where else. But I can’t have it, unfortunately. My closest friends are not the same as me. The game of social niceties is still played. I can never be sure if they’re actually being truthful, or just “nice.”

This all comes back to the “You’re Beautiful” conversation, that I wish had never occurred. My husband and my “close” friend (not really that close or have much in common, I am coming to realize) both telling me, over and over, that I am pretty and I am not large-framed. Absolutely humiliating.

I don’t trust their words. Because my husband is my husband, he will always say I’m beautiful even if I had the plague. To his credit.

I especially don’t trust the close friend’s word. She is a body acceptance/SJW type who would also say I was beautiful even if I had the plague. “Every body is a good body.” Yes, all bodies are “good.” They are warm, and breathing, and each one has a destiny all of its own. Everyone deserves to live and be happy.

However, how much you can achieve happiness by is, unfortunately, is either aided or hindered by your physical appearance. If you don’t notice it happening, then you are probably attractive or just socially unobservant. It is a sad fact. It is reality. It is what my friend with her rose-tinted glasses can’t see, or at least can’t admit to herself. I acknowledge reality. I have never and will never turn away from the awful things of the world. Too many people do that as it is.

Maybe it has meant abandoning self-preservation, ruining the buffer and comfort of ideas such as what my friend subscribes to. But the clarity I feel is more valuable to me. Of course, that clarity sometimes doesn’t extend to myself. I don’t know if I can trust the way I interpret the mirror. Or, if I can trust people who only want to be nice, not honest.

So, for a straight opinion, I turned to the strangers on the internet. Yep. I know. How can that be a better solution? How? But it was, sadly. They have no obligation to be kind. Of course, they can also be cruel, but I can deal with that. It’s just the way the internet is.

After interacting with anonymous strangers that I provided with my picture, I’ve come to the conclusion that my face is not ugly. My jaw is not masculine. I’m just plain. And that’s okay, better than ugly.

I’m less okay with learning that no matter how much weight I lose, because of my wide hips, shoulders, and thick bull neck, I will always look overweight.
Part of me wants to throw a tantrum, screaming,”It’s not fair.”
I want to scream and cry that I was not born a “normal” woman, with narrow shoulders, small wrists and ankles, a slender neck, etcetera. I will always be a joke to others, the “fat” chick even if I have less than 20% body fat. And since I’m at 23% body fat, which is low-normal, it’s just awesome. So awesome.

Oh, no. It’s starting. Sassy Soulful Inner Southern Mama, activate.

Hey. You. Quit ruminating on it. It’s going to be alright. Fack everyone else, you are a survivor. You have already ensured your survival. You will never have to rely on your looks or femininity to make it. You don’t have to live the same sad life as your mother or your stepmother. It’s okay your body deviates from the norm, because your mind will take you further than your body ever will. It’s going to be fine, little girl.