No More Hiding: Letting Go At Last

Prayer is an intricate part of my healing journey. One of the many things I've prayed for is the ability to see myself through my own eyes...not the eyes of my parents.

It took some time before I realized that I did not know myself or see myself as ought to. I only saw what my parents taught me to see. I saw a life not worth living beyond the service I provided. I put all others before myself, fulfilling their needs...my sole priority. I saw ability that would never be recognized and a thirst that would never be quenched. Deprivation was my reward and pain my only inheritance.

It's also very difficult to see yourself when you are not allowed to make even the most simple decisions for yourself. Hair was one of those things that seemed to be more of an issue than need be.

I used to sit in front of my mirror every evening and cry. My hair was always the same. Two or three ponytails with huge ribbons or bows that matched my outfit. This is how I looked everyday. I hated it and I hated my mother for making me look like this.

When I closed my eyes I could see myself with very long hair, but the hair looked strange to me. It looked like braids but it wasn't braided. I didn't know what locks were and had no idea that was the hairstyle I envisioned. I would also see myself with huge hair, wild and curly...unruly. I loved seeing myself like that. Then I'd open my eyes again to see what was still my reality and I retreated further into myself.

One day, I asked my mom if I could wear my hair braided. Absolutely not, she said. I asked, why? Mom turned to me as if to give a life lesson. She said, wearing your hair natural will only make you look ignorant. You must straighten your hair so people will think of you as intelligent. My heart sank and so did my head as I slowly walked back to my room to sit in front of my mirror and cry. I've never forgotten her words. 

It would not be until I was in my mid 30s that I would be able to stand up to my mother and tell her how I wanted to wear my hair. I guess you may be wondering why it took so long for me to do this. All I can say is if you have to ask then you don't know what it is to have controlling parents. You can't begin to fathom what it is to be under such tight control and scrutiny. Every independent decision outside of what my parents wanted was made with great trembling and sacrifice. My parents did not take disobedience kindly and any act of disobedience was met with intense cruelty and degradation...no matter my age.

Finally, I broke free from one of the chains that bound me. I cut off all the permed hair and I wore my hair braided for a few years. A week before my 40th birthday I felt a strong urge to begin twisting my hair. I always knew I was going to lock my hair one day, but wasn't sure when. The day had come and I gave into the call. I wore my hair locked for 9 years. I loved my hair. The first time I looked in the mirror and saw my locks in their full light I knew I had finally seen the vision of myself that I saw so many years ago. For once, I stood in front of my mirror and smiled.

During the ninth year of my locks a terrible thing happened. My eczema took a turn for the worse spreading over most of my body including my scalp. Having no insurance at the time, I fought with all I had to remedy my skin, paying cash for doctor appointments to get prescriptions for topical ointments. I also used tea tree oil and soap (natural anti-fungal), a probiotic and diphenhydramine to help with itching. There was little I could do to and save my hair. My skin is much better, but my hair was lost. Locks fell daily, one sometimes two at a time. There was nothing I could do to save them. Each fallen lock was mourned and put away.

It's been about a year since loosing the first lock. I stood in front of my mirror looking at  the few remaining locks and thought to myself...why are you hiding? I've spent the last year trying to hold on to something that cannot stay. All I could see was massive loss. My identity...my beauty...my independence...my strength and everything else my locks represented was gone. I've been stripped. There's no where else to hide.

About a month ago I cut off my remaining locks and placed them in a bag where all fallen locks are kept. I stood there squeezing the bag close to my chest, making peace with my decision. It is time for me to face myself. This time in my most natural state. My prayers were being answered, though I had not realized it yet.

I Am As I Am

One more look in the mirror.
There I stand.
Hair shorter than ever.

I began to cry,
Only this time it wasn't tears of sadness,
But tears of joy and relief.

I am free, I said.
No more hiding.
I no longer need my locks to be my identity.

Nor do I need my locks to be,
My strength, my beauty,
Or proclamation of indoctrination of my mind and spirit.

I am just as I am,
And ought to be.
For the first time I see me.

I am budding and soon will be in full bloom.
My inner light fills the room.
I lean forward taking a closer look.

I am just as I am,
As I ought to be.
And I'm loving everything I see.

For the first time,
With my own eyes,
I can see me.
 

Pretty Ugly

What is that thing about us that makes us judge ourselves so harshly?

Is there always the pervasive link to abuse or could it be something more costly?

Could it be an internalized need to compare one to another?

After all, we look through countless pages of magazines,

Idolizing airbrushed beauties as we dream...

Lusting for perfection.

Unobtainable beauty, 

Life's worldly possession.

In essence we ARE already that beauty,

 We so desperately long to be.

As seen through the eyes of a stranger

A gentler, kinder, prettier persona of me.

Happy Friday Everyone!

I've just come across a very interesting video that I want to share with you. It's short and sweet. Please take a moment to watch the video and share any thoughts you may have about it. Thank you.


Please click the link below:


What do you think of your own beauty?

I Get So Frustrated!!!!!

Writing about myself is one of the hardest things I've ever tried to do. Yet I can't stop trying. I need to get my words out, if for no one other than myself. I get so frustrated when reading others blogs. I love to read them and enjoy the content of their posts, but I find myself getting lost in envy over their fluidity of total expression. I wonder, do they struggle like I do? Do they sit at a little wooden desk and fret for countless days, months and hours...agonizing over every word, writing and re-writing...walking away and returning? Whenever I'm not in front of my computer I feel like I am about to burst at the seems. There is so much that wants to come out. Why is it so hard?!

Just when I think that I've figured it all out and am ready to open up the flood gates I go dry again. Where is inspiration? Isn't it enough to live the story that I want to tell? My words feel emotionless and sterile. Yes, that would best describe it. Perhaps I'm trying to hard. Perhaps it just me and my disconnection to life. My mind won't allow me to feel the fullness of my emotions. I guess it would be too much. Maybe I should just close my eyes and breathe... All I can see are words floating around in space...taunting me...haunting me. Memories flash before my eyes, yet I still feel nothing. I think I want to cry and scream, but I can't. There's nothing there...

I looked into the mirror once and saw a women mentally bludgeoned. I've been violated in every possible way. My spirit battered, broken and left for dead. My girth increasing and decreasing...increasing and decreasing...increasing and decreasing... I am OBESE!! I am UGLY!! I am UNWANTED!! I am UNLOVABLE!! There's no escape. I'm going crazy, I need to release. Please God help me!!!!

I can walk through a house of mirrors and never see my own reflection. Conditioned to ignore the obvious. I live an illusion. I always have. Where there should have been love...there was none. Where there should have been protection...there was none. Where there should have been comfort...there was none. Where there should have been laughter, joy, fun, adventure...there was none. I have been imprisoned by life, my parents, my conditions and even my own mind... Flawed from head to toe...inside and out. I am queen of the misfits...discarded like a broke Christmas ornament. I want to see beauty, but I can't. I know beauty lives inside. I want to be beautiful on the outside. I can't see myself because I don't want to. I don't want to face the ugly truth. My friends, they tell me I'm beautiful, but they are just being kind.

I crawl out of my hole and begin to pick up the pieces. I try to make sense of what's left of my life. I put on the face of strength for my child. I don't want him to see me broken even though he already knows that I am. You see, he knows first hand the pain that is mine. When he was a toddler we used to visit my parents on the weekends. It would take most of the day for me to manage the thought... Hours of crying and vomiting and then slowing getting ready to face the beast. My dad, never satisfied, would always criticize me. One day it had gotten so bad that my precious little one ran over to me, jumped onto my lap and wrapped his arms around my neck...screaming and crying. He turned to look at my dad as if to say...leave my mommy alone. I hugged and kissed him and told him it was okay. We went home. There were many occasions like this, but I dare not miss a weekend. My parents insisted that we break bread together every Saturday. My mother still presenting the face of perfection. Still perpetuating the lie. Will it ever stop?

My parents are gone now. Would it be wrong for me to say that I am grateful? Should I feel guilty for feeling this way? My son can since that I am still haunted by my past. It is on those days that he hugs me and rubs my face to ensure me that it's okay. I look at him in think how precious he is. He is perfect. He will never know the beatings, ridicule, disconnection, blame and hate that I endured. If only I too had been so precious to my parents.

I relish the joy and peace that we have in our home. My son will never have to question if he is loved. He will never feel the pain I felt. I thank God for that. I thank God that he made me strong enough to break the curse. I thank God for the blessing of my son and the gift of motherhood. Thank you God for showing me what parenting should be... How love should feel... What peace is...

It is because of my love for my son and my quest for healing that I take this journey. I want my son to have the absolute best of me. I want to be free. Not stuffing my pain, but releasing and letting it go...completely. That is my goal. And I will achieve this even if it takes me one letter at a time...