silly & usually tired. @wildlifewearingclothes - Tumblr Blog

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I’m leaving for a trip in a week. I’m sitting on the couch, watching my cat. I’m imagining her here, alone, wondering where I am. Crying out in a futile attempt to find me. I’m thinking about everything that could (or maybe couldn't) go wrong. A candle spontaneously combusting. Her turning the stovetop on with an accidental push of her paw and the heat of it burning her or somehow starting a fire. I’m thinking about how scared she'd be, alone, in the corner, retreated from the flames wondering why I left her, why I did this to her, searching frantically for me.

Suddenly I’m sweating, and I can feel my heart in the base of my throat. Reality snaps back as my cat, the same cat I’m worriedly obsessing over, nuzzles her face against my leg and flops onto her side, entirely unbothered. I take deep breaths in, hold them, and let them out through my mouth.

I’m just about in a meditative state when I remember what started this flood of concern - I was leaving for a few hours today to get my hair cut. I give my cat an "I’m sorry for thinking about your death" kiss, and go to the fridge. I sift through a bag of apples, picking one up, and inspecting it carefully. I notice a small cut on the skin. I tell myself something's wrong. If I eat this apple, I'll get sick or die. I feel frustrated with myself for allowing that thought. I want to will myself to eat it anyways but the thought makes me feel panicky again. I put the apple down and pick up another one that I can't find anything wrong with. I walk out the door. I lock it, testing the handle twice before continuing down the hallway, trying desperately to think of anything else so that I don't go back and check it again.

I arrive at the hair salon and sit awkwardly in the swivel chair. I say an excited "Hello!" and she responds "Hey," in a quiet voice. I feel embarrassed for feeling happy when she isn't. I adjust my demeanor to mirror hers. I explain what I want and sit back, turning over our initial interaction in my mind. Is she not happy to see me? Am I client she dreads? Should I get something more drastic done so that she can have more fun with it? When I left my tip for her nestled in the tiny envelopes at the front desk last time, did it get lost? Did it never make its way to her? Does she hate me now?

While I ruminate on this, I hardly notice that she's cutting, and cutting... and cutting. Far shorter than I thought I indicated. I wonder if I didn't say well enough what I meant. She seems excited now, exclaiming, "it looks so good!" so I smile wide, desperate to keep her feeling good, and say, "I love it!" I tip her double and weave my way back through the salon after paying up front to give it to her directly. She looks at me confused and I say another excited "thank you so much!" and disappear out the front door.

I’m in my childhood bedroom. The walls are still yellow and it's bright in here even though it's raining outside. I hear the loud rumbling of an engine making its way down the driveway. I stop what I’m doing and listen closely. Listening for the way the door is opened, then closed, for the tone in which a "Hey Val," comes out. I sense calmness, perhaps even happiness, and I feel the tension in my shoulders relax. I desperately want to run down the stairs and tell my dad all about the trip my school is taking and how badly I want to go but I've been cautioned against it. Encouraged instead to find the right time, the right mood, so as not to upset him or at least be successfully prepared when he is upset. I decide today isn't the right day and quiet my excitement. I take my report card down instead, nonchalantly telling him that it came in today. He studies it, smiles, tells me good job and congratulations. I allow myself to bask in the attention and pride I feel.

It's nighttime, and I’m back in my bed. My now short hair is falling out of the bun I put it in to sleep. My eyes are heavy and I feel myself welcoming sleep. I see my cat sitting on the window sill, head ducked to see through the small opening of screen rather than the glass. I consider whether or not her little body, her tiny, collapsible collarbones, will be able to fit through that opening, pop the screen open, and inevitably fall the three stories to the concrete below. I startle awake, heart racing, and jump out of bed to close it.

Ever since I was little, I've never felt quite right in my own skin. At least, I never felt quite right when I compared myself to those around me. If I were purely existing in my own bubble, it would never occur to me to think that anything was wrong. My heart beat, my body moved, my eyes were clear, my lungs filled and released the air as they were supposed to.

Yet, at the age of thirteen, there I was, in my tiny yellow bedroom, the door shut firmly, staring at myself in the thick-framed mirror hung on my wall. My face barely made it into frame. In my right hand was a roll of Scotch tape, and dispersed around me on the floor were folded up pieces of that tape, folded in half but with oily residue that prevented them from sticking together. I was attempting to wax the dark, soft baby hairs that had begun growing from my upper lip. With Scotch tape.

With the help of some much needed guidance from the women in my life, it was explained to me that Scotch tape isn't an ideal method of waxing, and I was brought to my first wax appointment at the salon. It all seemed quite strange to me, but the relief I felt at seeing my shaped eyebrows and hairless upper lip indicated to me that it was something I should feel happy about.

A few short years later I was placed on birth control for one of the many valid or not reasons all young girls are, and most of my insecurities fell into the background. The hair growth slowed, my skin cleared up. I was finally free... to focus on new and different insecurities. Like my nose.

Your nose isn't something you think about much. You hardly ever see it, often only in a mirror or a photo, and you rarely see your side profile, either. And yet, every photo that would catch me looking to the side, my heart would stop. My eyes would well up with tears. There it was: my nose. Large, prominent, with a bump a quarter of the way down, for good measure. Taking up what felt like my entire face. I felt ugly, but most of all I felt ashamed.

I'd like to say these worries and insecurities subsided as I grew older, but we all know they didn't. Coming off of birth control after ten years left my hair brittle and falling out, intensified my acne, and resurged the unwanted hair growth. Now, I had it all to worry about.

I shaved my legs and underarms, as most girls do. I plucked my eyebrows, waxed my upper lip and neck. Dermaplaned my face. Bleached my arm hair so it would blend in better with my skin. Refused to wear tank tops or anything that would show my always-stubbly underarms. Spent hours and hours and hundreds of dollars keeping everything maintained, and yet I still felt ashamed.

Why did I feel ashamed? That my body grew hair on my arms? That my nose was large? That my hair was dark? What, about any of these things, were cause for shame? If I was a man, would I think twice about any of it?

I ended up being diagnosed with a hormonal disorder that explained the acne, brittle hair, and overgrowth of body hair. My nose was just a lucky draw of bad genetics and apparently a lot of extra cartilage. Since this diagnosis, I've felt anything but relieved. If I even wanted to try to be close to looking "normal," I'd have to be on a medication for the rest of my life. A medication designed to treat an illness I don't have, but which has the happy side effect of slowing down my pesky androgen over-production.

I've spent hours trying to decide how I’m supposed to feel about my supposedly unlucky fate. On the one hand, I want to embrace it. Own it. Be proud of it. Stop spending hours shaving and waxing and staring in the mirror and researching the cost of laser hair removal. I want to shout from the top of a mountain, "WOMEN ARE SUPPOSED TO GROW HAIR! THERE'S NO RIGHT TYPE OF NOSE!" And yet, I still stand in the mirror, same as I did at thirteen, and I realize that if I could wish it all away, I would.

When I consider making permanent changes to my appearance, like the dreaded nose job or laser hair removal, I feel vapid and shallow. I feel weak. I feel silly. When I consider not making permanent changes to my appearance, I feel ashamed and ugly, like I want to hide. All I can do right now is love myself how I am at this very moment, and have patience and grace with myself if I do ever want to change.

I’m sitting on the beach, sunken into the sand. The waves are louder than I remember. The salt air is healing my soul the way my grandmother always used to say it would heal my cuts.

It's October and there's a chill in the air, but the weather can't seem to make up its mind. The sun is shining and beads of sweat are forming on my forehead. I’m looking out to the ocean and fighting back the impulse to jump in.

I’m thinking about the precariousness of life. The way oceans kill without thinking twice. How letting your guard down for just a minute can change everything. That there's a storm cloud following me around, tormenting me by taking the people I love.

Suddenly I’m in your living room, sitting across from you, rocking slowly in an old chair. There's a tiredness in your eyes but you've mustered up the energy to do your hair before I arrived. Each movement looks painful, but you're still smiling.

I've been here before, I've lived this moment. I thought at twenty-five I'd be less helpless, no longer immobilized by fear and naiveté. And yet, I’m still frozen, still not sure what to say or do, how to take your pain away. I wring my hands and ask about the new baby, try to take your mind off of it all. The words feel hollow leaving my lips.

And then I’m back, on the beach again, the waves rhythmically crashing against the shore. I’m bargaining with a god I don't believe in again, begging him not to take one more.

#writing