I chose ‘The Skeleton in my Closet ‘ as the throwback essay last week for a reason – I have a few things I would like to say about self esteem and that particular story gives me courage. It’s interesting – an essay that took so much courage to write now gives the same back to me. Full circle? Maybe. But probably not.
I have issues with confidence and self esteem. I’m sixty-four years old and I still look into the mirror through squinted eyes, hoping to see something different than my reality reflected back at me. Genetics handed me a swack of stuff that I’ve never been happy with, things that I would never have chosen had there been a choice.
I’m tall, for a woman of my generation. I have large feet (naturally – because the tall woman would have blown over if she’d been blessed with dainty feet). I have freakishly long legs, a thick middle and a flat, uneven chest. I’m a conformation calamity. I would never have chosen any of these things. If genes could have been purchased at a super store – I would have pushed my shopping cart right to the aisles of five foot seven, size six dresses, size seven shoes and solid B cups. I would have built a woman who was the image of every popular girl in high school.
It took me a long time to overlook my genetics, to stop taking responsibility for, or being embarrassed about, the things I didn’t choose. But it didn’t take me long to grab hold of things I could control. My weight has been an issue for me as far back as I can remember. It still is.
My actual battle of the bulge is not the crux of this essay – the compulsion to wage the war is. I have an unhealthy body image. It’s a personal thing, a private problem that I have tried, unsuccessfully, to keep under control for most of my life.
It wasn’t a problem that affected anyone else – or so I thought. My self loathing was done in the bathroom where I changed my clothes. Even when I wasn’t focused on loosing weight or exercising the loathing stalked me. I cursed every bite of food I enjoyed, I berated myself for every workout I didn’t do. There was never a time I felt good about myself. Even when I decided to do something positive about my image, I pulled the loathing with me. It appeared at the gym. It showed up on my plate. I beat myself up everywhere, every day. No one was the wiser, right? Wrong.
My children were watching – all three of them, all the time. I was setting an example. I had hoped to teach them how to be confident, how to like themselves — it turns out it’s difficult to teach a lesson you haven’t learned yourself. You can’t give away confidence and self esteem if you don’t have any in stock. All of my kids are self conscious about something – where I see perfection, they see flaws. I take responsibility for their insecurities. Perhaps this is normal, maybe everyone struggles. Maybe I have just added another thing to the list of things I beat myself up about. Maybe I didn’t scar the kids. Maybe…. maybe I’m normal (almost). Does everyone struggle?
Here in the third week of a new year feels like the perfect time to think about, talk about and blog about, this problem. It’s perfect because this is the week my resolutions often take a hit. I would like to set a different example this year – I would like to take a softer approach to my personal assault as my resolutions begin to waver. I would like to show myself that I can be kind, even to myself. I would like to initiate peace talks with my loathing. I would like to make changes in a positive fashion, with an eye on what is good and not what is flawed.
I would like 2018 to be the year I set a better example, the year I summon the confidence to tell my truth.