The Beauty and Brains Are Nothing Without the Body

I'm having so many feelings lately. Mainly ones that knock me to my knees. There's a little part of me that thinks I'm the most amazing woman in the world, but the loud, overbearing bitch that tells me I'm not enough won't shut her her friggin' mouth.

And you know what? That voice isn't me. It's every other person in the world. It's mankind. Since birth, I have been told to be quiet. Be polite. Be accommodating. Be friendly. Be pretty. Be thin. Be smart, but not too smart. 

And most importantly, the beauty and the brains mean nothing without the body. 

The stretch marks on my hips negate the smile on my lips.
All the good, all those wins mean nothing if I'm not thin.

I can't even express to you how much I hate my body. How much I fight it, how much bitterness it causes me. I lather it will creams and tanner. I work it to exhaustion at the gym. I suffocate it in a vice of a corset, all trying to change the thing God gifted me. This thing that houses my soul, that grew two beautiful boys, that carries a brilliant brain. From the moment we arrive on this earth, girls are told what to do, how to act, what to not say. We don't stand a chance. This is why we starve ourselves, why we try to cut the fat from our skin, why we stay with abusive men.

This isn't a plea for compliments. I don't want to hear, but you're so athletic and toned! Your boobs are to die for! This isn't the body that I want, and that isn't why I wrote this. I want to you know that you're not the only one who struggles, who feels bad about yourself and then eats entire sleeve of Oreos.  And then hates yourself more. 

And I'm tired. I'm just so tired of never being enough. I'm tired of struggling. All that I want is an acknowledgment, a helping hand, a hot young, boyfriend.

A touch.

I'm going to die alone, with my apartment smelling like cat piss and birthday cake. I wrote a poem about it, but I stuck it in another post because it didn't really go here. http://laurenmarchand.blogspot.com/2016/03/a-touch.html

A Touch

A Touch

My hands were balled into fists,
Afraid to touch anything, scared of a kiss,
Of fingertips across my spine.
The world was colorless. Nothing was mine.

Then he uncurled my fingers, held on tight,
Touched me in the darkness. Awoke the light.
My hands were for more than just dishes and chores.
They loved, held his heart, his core.

But life pulled him from my grasp.
Winter retuned. The emptiness will not pass.
My fingers turned inward, resting against my palm.
Touching no one, nothing, still now, lost in the calm.

And again these hands are empty, longing for a caress.
But they are busy now, sifting and sorting through the mess.

A Mermaid in the Desert

You stranded me in the desert, a girl with a mermaid heart.

You promised me a life, but you tore mine apart.

You chained me to a boulder, buried me in the sand.

You cut off my siren song, and stranded me on land.

 

I settled into the rubble, pretended chaos was normalcy.

I smiled and nodded like a good girl, as you seeped the water from me.

I was on the brink of disappearing, submitting to nothingness.

But through the desolation, I heard the sea's call. I felt her kiss.

 

I dug deep into the earth, through the fire and brimstone,

Right through the center of hell, but it got me home.

I made it to the ocean, stood ankle deep in the waves.

With the cool sea mist wetting my skin, I knew that I was saved.

 

I dove into the abyss, so deep I got the bends.

I surfaced, choking and shaking, but healing at the mends.

The strength of the water can't be held in your hand,

But it can move mountains. It can destroy men.  

 

 

****

I went to the beach last Friday and it got me thinking about how I ended up in the desert. After living with a monster for over a decade, even after leaving him, he remains that monster in my head, robbing me of truth and hope and trust. I might be living by the beach, but a part of me will always be in that desert, praying for rain during a famine.

I can't totally blame him. He might have been a crazy person from the beginning, but I was the one who couldn't see it. I'm the one who stayed after I did. It took years for me to regain the strength I once had. It's still a work in progress, but drop by drop, the well within me deepens, the sea ebbs, the storm rise.

That's the thing about water. It can be gone for years, but eventually the skies open up. It bathes the earth. It replenishes. Water can seem weak, always forming to the world around it or slipping through your fingers, but water is strong. It can renew life as well as end it. It can erode and reshape stone.



 

 

Runway Bride: Cancelled Wedding Anniversaries and Listening to Your Gut

Does your gut ever speak to you? Do you listen?

It's August 23rd, a day that would be my thirteenth wedding anniversary. I remember how beautiful the temple was, how white and pure and peaceful. The flowers were purple and pink, the morning sun bright orange and beautiful. How could anything bad take place here?

I was early for my wedding, and he was late. There was a ten minute window where I thought that he changed his mind. And I wasn't sad. I was relieved. Something inside me said, Run! I chalked it up to nerves, cold feet, or fear of change. But it was my gut speaking to me. My gut never lies, and whenever I ignore it, it's to my own devastation.

So I spent nearly a decade, slowing killing the girl I was, pushing her out of my heart, trying to be the girl he wanted. I could never be enough, and I couldn't be me. I was quiet and lost and turned inside out. But I found my voice, I found my way home, and I turned right side out again. And it all hurt like hell. I am stronger in the places that were broken. My heart is lined with steel and there is a fire in my belly. I laugh until I cry now. My smile reaches my eyes. My boys get to see me. The messy, honest, funny, and kind woman I always was. They will learn from me to be brave, to keep going when it hurts, to work hard, and to never give up because they are worth it. I am worth it.

Call it your Spirit, God, or your gut, but listen to that little voice inside. The voice is watching out for you. It wants to spare you grief. My gut almost got me out of an abusive marriage, but it got me my boys. I would marry three more sociopaths. I would live in a poisonous snake den. I would give up birthday cake for the rest of my life if it meant I got to have Seth and Ben. But then again, my gut helped me find a way out. It told me to run, and this time I listened.

Sometimes I do get sad, but not because I mourn the marriage. I mourn the fact that I have never been loved the way I deserve. But I won't worry about that for now. Instead, I will rejoice in my singlehood. I will not shave my legs, leave the dishes in the sink, and watch every teen drama that the CW produces. I will do all of this without scorn or ridicule. I will be unapologetically me.

Today my gut is telling me that my life is just beginning. I have a wonderful career, a happy home for my children, a determination to get everything I want, and a heart lined with steel and a bellyful of fire. My literal gut may be covered in stretch marks, but I won't hold that against it. I will listen to it.

 

Why Size Matters

If I could cut my heart and soul from this skin,
I would bleed out in the pursuit of perfection.
And I have tried.
The red, dried blood cakes beneath my nails,
After hours spent, standing naked in front of the mirror,
Berating and cursing the imperfection of my stomach,
Loathing every stretchmark and scar. Raking my fingers
Over the flesh I hate.

This is the body of a woman.

But this body tells a history of loss, love, and life,
A story of two boys who changed everything.
Dimpled thighs with no gap in between them,
A gift from my mother, a legacy of strength and steadiness.
The fullness of my hips tells of cupcakes,
Shared among friends, of laughter and happiness.
The breasts that sway too much
Have fed babies and made grown men weep.

This is a body of a woman.

It is mine, the mortal flesh the Lord granted me,
The one thing I can't take with me when I leave.
It can be ugly and breathtaking, young and old,
Desirable and womanly, but never enough for him.
Not enough for me. But it is mine.
Every inch speaks of tears and tenacity, of peace and pain,
Curves of womanhood that deserve worship.
Love. Lust. Acceptance.
It houses my heart and soul. All that matters.

This is a body of a woman.

 

I'm a size ten. When I get the flu or in the very early hours of the morning, before I've have anything to eat, sometimes I'm an eight. The average woman in America is a size twelve, so I'm smaller than average, but I'm really not. Everywhere I look, the TV, the magazines, the gym, the club, the freaking library--skinny bitches. (If you're skinny, I'm sorry to be cruel. It must be so hard on you, to be so thin and desired by the world.)

I remember the first time I thought I was fat. I was six years old, and probably weighed forty-five pounds. I was at my friend's house. She had a pool and we wanted to go swimming, but I didn't have my bathing suit. I suggested that I could borrow one of hers, but she said I couldn't because I would stretch it out. I was in the first grade and I realized that my thighs rubbed together.

They still do today.

I am not thin. I never will be, and this haunts me. No seriously. I know I'm funny and sarcastic about almost everything in my life, but the fact that I'm not skinny is something I'm obsessed with. OBSSESSED. I can't get over it. A few weeks ago, I was talking to a friend about my personal trainer, and I was telling her all the parts of my body that I wanted to work on: my arms, my legs, my back, my stomach, my butt, my hips, my inner thighs. I told her that the only part of my body that I like is my elbows, and she looked at me, her pretty blue eyes wide with disbelief, and asked me if I had a body dimorphic disorder. Whenever I see a picture of myself, all I can see is my wide hips, my giant, sausage arms, and thick, thunder thighs. In this world, it's not your goodness or you kindness that attracts people. It's your tight ass and skinny arms.

People think I'm crazy when I bring up my insecurities. They try to be kind and tell me, "But you're so strong. You have muscles. And yours boobs." This is the opposite of what I want to hear. Putting on a swimsuit is a freaking nightmare. I love the beach and the water so much, but I sit on my towel, afraid that if I move, my legs will jiggle. Because I am not thin, I feel like a less of a person. Like I don't matter or I'm not a romantic option to men because I'm not a size zero. Mara keeps telling me that there are men out there who will go crazy for my body. It has to be a lumberjack, hiding out there in the deep woods of Florida, because I can't find him.

 

You accept the love you think you deserve and that is why I ended up with my asshole ex-husband. No one had ever loved me before, and I thought it was my only shot. This body is the reason I can not have the man I want. (You all know it's a blond lumberjack or Zac Efron). To those men, I am a friend. Maybe if I lost ten pounds it would be different. Believe me, I'm trying. But I also love dessert, so I'm not sure it's worth it.

 

Loving myself has always been a struggle, but I'm trying. I could find in the breakdown, so there must be some on the upswing. I am not this body, but it is me, and I'm trying to be kind to it. 

 

Cinderella is a Liar!

I saw Cinderella this weekend, and I have some problems with it. While it was beautiful and magical, I couldn't get into it, even though Gus-Gus was fat and adorable and that Goose was hilarious. I wanted to pull the fire alarm and stop the movie. I wanted the warn all those little girls dressed in pretty blue taffeta dresses that life isn't a fairy tale. Your waist will never be as small as Cinderella's. You will never have a Fairy Godmother. Your prince will not come. There is no ball. If you meet a mysterious stranger in the forest, he's going to kill you.

Most importantly, there is no happily ever after.

Just after.

Cinderella did get a few things right. You will most likely have to slave away, your only reward the blackening ash from the dying embers of a fire. You will lose your favorite shoes.

I know I'm bitter, but I deserve to be that way. I have worked and worked and worked, but never get the thing I want. Even if you keep on believing, the dream that you wish won't come true. No one is coming along to recuse you, honey. The only person you can count on is yourself.

Have courage and be kind. Well, I've had courage and I've been kind, and nothing has come of it.  I'm sorry, but Cinderella is a liar, and she's not the kind of heroine the world needs. This is why I have never been a fan of the Disney Princess (except for Mulan and a few other modern day princesses). They wait in towers, daydreaming of a prince instead of training themselves to fight. They fling themselves down and cry instead of taking action. They marry the first idiot who comes along and shows some interest. (Oh, wait, that's what I did.) They take abuse. They turn the other cheek. And maybe this is WWJD, but sometimes kindness is the wrong answer. I always ask myself. WWBuffyDo.

Buffy wouldn't take the abuse. Buffy would fight against it until you get free. Kindness is all well and good, and there isn't enough of it in this world, but kindness doesn't get you what you want. Kindness gives you false hope. Kindness breaks your heart.

I wish I could be Cinderella and find magic in the cinders of the fireplace. Magic and Miracles take time, and I have put in my time. I will continue to be kind because kindness is my weakness. I don't understand meanness. It's not in my heart. Maybe that's the point. To continue to be kind even when kindness doesn't come to you.

I Will be Your Father Figure

I worry about my boys growing up without a father. It seems like every serial killer or deviant had an absent father. They were never taught to be good men, so they turn out bad. I don't want my good boys to go bad. I want them to be real men. I want them to work hard, camp, and fix cars. I want them to be educated, physically strong, and also kind. I want them to respect and value women. I want them to be able to throw a spiral and gut a fish. I do what I can. I take them to sport's practices, I do homework with them, and I let them see just how tough a woman can be. I do what I can, but it'll never be enough. I am for gender equality--I can do anything a man can do--but I can never be a man.

Their own father, who can't even bother to call them more than once a month, surely has no time to teach them how to be a man. He's too busy racking up debt on a credit card in my name. He's too busy trying to win back his most recent ex-wife (his former mistress who he married), still trying to convince me that his absence is my fault. Apparently I need to pay for his trips to see his children. You know, because my income is enough to take care of myself, two growing boys, and a worthless ex who doesn't even have a job. This is the bullshit I deal, a barrage of insanity from him. It's the same shit my boys have to deal with. I have become an expert at ignoring and forgiving idiocy, but I swear he gets worse and worse. He's the engineer of the crazy train.

Is this all we get, this half-man, who doesn't understand responsibilities, or consequences, or even karma? Are there any lumberjacks out there? I think that is why I desire a woodsman so much. I want a man to smell like earth and work. I want a man among men, someone who can teach my boys what it is to struggle and come out triumphant.

I am not sure this man exists, at least for me. Hell, I don't know if I ever want to get re-married or even seriously date again. It's all a big disappointment when the world is filled with little boys instead of men. I have been so burned by it all. I rushed into marriage, (I admit that was MY mistake.) not really knowing who I was marrying. I wanted to believe he would get better, mature, and become the man he claimed to be. I thought I could love him into it. But love can't force someone to change. I have learned that people are who they are. They rarely change. They only reveal who they were the whole time. And would I want someone who changed for me? No. I wouldn't want to be the reason someone bent and contorted themselves into something they are not.

So how can I make sure that my boys have a man in their lives when I don't want to remarry? What I wouldn't give for a good ole guy friend. Someone for me to hang out with and someone for the boys to be manly with. I wholeheartedly believe that men and women can be friends, but I have found it impossible to find a guy who agrees. If I talk to a guy, they seem to think that I'm not just being friendly, but I actually want their man parts in my lady parts. I want nothing to do with your man parts, just your friendship.

The boys are lucky. They have my nephew Cameron. This boy is a boy scout, an honor roll student, and an A+ babysitter. He plays football with them, tells them all about politics, and teaches them how to start a fire. I am also grateful for my friend's husbands, who worry about them and takes them on manly outings. It's sad, but also wonderful, that my friends' husbands worry more about my children than their own father.

But will it be enough? Will they be okay without a father? I think they will be, but I still worry so much. I just want them to be whole people, who are good, law-abiding, working citizens. Is one parent enough to do this? No, but I have a village helping me out.