to women with thoughts in their heads

what follows takes a little braveness on my part, perhaps more than i've had on this blog to this point. so stop reading or be kind (but never, ever coddling.)

i have a lot on my mind in a heart sort of way. by which i mean i really care about the things on my mind so my distraction is compounded. the whole me is out for lunch. pondering. pondering. feeling. pondering. note: i will never apologize for feeling. i will also never apologize for expecting other people to feel too, even if they are men. (in case this sounds very stereotypical, this is a reaction to several recent conversations and, actually, a whole heap of foundational experiences.) the notion that feelings are the province of women--i refuse.

with my girlfriends, or perhaps inspired by my girlfriends, i have been asking, why is it so hard to love ourselves?

i see myself in the mirror; i see my face critiquing my face, my shape, my size, and the spirit beneath it all, and i know i am participating in a ritual. i am not alone, fighting against the darkening sky of social pressure and medical manipulation, redefining beauty as how i look instead of how others look, how i treat my body instead of how much i weigh, how i feel about myself instead of how others feel about me.

i love this woman. for her, about her, i feel deeply.

i cannot separate my identity from her, nor do i want to. she is strong. gracious. intelligent. committed. beautiful in my eyes. she loved her body till the end; loves it still, i imagine, from a distance. and yet, i learned the ritual from her, inherited a simultaneous gratitude and disgust. i saw her dissatisfaction in retail fitting rooms and the safety of her bedroom. looking at photographs. i remember sitting with her on the couch, flipping through newly developed pictures of a trip to the desert and hearing her bemoan the size of her stomach. she didn't know then, wouldn't know for months, that it was the cancer creeping into her space, taking territory by sleuth. so maybe this one time, she was right to cast a disapproving eye. i don't know. i know that i feel very sad when i think of her seeing her body as though she had let herself down, done something wrong, failed in some way, when in reality, it was never her fault.

unlike most rituals, this one in front of the mirror is isolating. we only see the faults in ourselves. my mom thought imperfection was her curse, not mine too. i was perfect in her eyes; my body was perfect. i felt the same way about her. i feel the same way about my friends. i appreciate the diversity around me. i do not appreciate the diversity of me. i cannot hear a response to my appearance without cringing, whether it is a compliment or a critique. this is the place i have come to. i do not want to hear that i am beautiful because i don't trust the words and i don't trust the people saying them.

maybe men feel this way too. maybe a lot of women don't feel this way. i don't know. while i don't think this is specifically a gender issue, i care about being a woman and i speak as a woman. i believe i have an important voice that should not be silenced, even by my own fears, especially by others' fears. my beauty is my power, my voice, the thoughts in my head, and my feelings. i read a blog yesterday about a girl with an eating disorder. as i read, i thought This is the power of blogs. this is what they are for, voices reaching other voices, individuals sending up whispers that find their way into shouts of collective humanity. the stories that aren't told are forgotten. the stories that aren't told are forgotten.

sometimes people ask questions, the answers to which mean life or death, faith or flounder. (church, in its perfect state (for me), would be full of people asking these questions.) this is my question. why is it so hard to love ourselves?