When I remember being 15, one particular image leaps immediately to mind. Me standing in front of my bathroom mirror, with my hair loose and wavy around my shoulders, thinking, for perhaps the first time, that I was pretty. I looked at my reflection (I can see it still) and wanted that girl in the mirror to tell me why I wasn’t good enough.
Girls have been teased. Middle school is awful for everyone. But I still blame it for some of my lingering issues. That’s not to say that I haven’t gotten over the taunting and the bad treatment (though it’s hard for me to accept that the boy who caused me so much pain has grown into a mature, intelligent young man…somehow I wanted him to stay awful so that I could continue to despise him), but the shadow effects remain.
In some ways, I believe that I didn’t fully develop my ability to be in a healthy relationship, because I just kept waiting for a boy to validate my passing fancy that I wasn’t quite as bad looking as my peers had led me to believe. Living with constant name calling for over a year certainly led me to believe, in some corner of my heart, that I must actually be a “dog.”
I’m not saying I was the most beautiful girl in 8th grade, far from it. In fact, my hair could have stood a brushing. My clothes could have fit better. I needed glasses that didn’t take up half my face. I could have taken pride in my appearance. But two dueling forces kept me from taking such an action. First, I never wanted him to think that I was changing as a result of his stinging words. Second, I didn’t believe it would make any difference. Oh, and alright, there was a third reason: I thought that when I got to high school, I would magically be beautiful. I didn’t realize that for humans, turning from the ugly duckling into the swan takes work.
I can’t just blame that boy. I have to also acknowledge that my grandmother’s constant berating of my mother for her (non-existent) weight problem led me to place an inordinate amount of value on appearance. Of course, I knew that beauty didn’t really matter in the long run, but it sure as heck made things a lot easier for a lot of people.
So, during the week, I had that boy telling me I was a dog and my mother trying to stop it when she could (she was the teacher, after all). And on weekends, I had my grandmother telling my mother about the fat content of each and every dish on the table and asking my mother what size she was wearing these days, and I tried to stop it when I could (I am my mother’s defender, after all). Neither situation was exactly healthy.
So, when another he, a better he, a boyfriend he who didn’t know me then, asks me why I get nervous, why I didn’t have a long term relationship before him, I don’t quite know what to say.
All I can see is the girl in the mirror, looking back at me as I ask why I’m not good enough.
Posted in love, memories