By comparison
Tuesday, September 28, 2010 at 11:22PM 
To others. To normal people. To people who have never been abused, have been raised in smiling happy families with plenty of clothes in their drawers, healthy home cooked meals served on a clean dinner table, on time. To those that had birthday parties with cakes and candles and with presents wrapped with crinkly golden paper and curled ribbons. How do I compare? Can I compare? I always compare myself to others. I look at their faces, I wonder how I stack up - what is it I am doing wrong, how can I blend in so that I look like I've been raised like them, that I have that perfect shiny presence of a flawless individual? That I had plastic surgery to my soul that fixed all the cracks and filled in all ugly holes. I turn around and look at myself in the mirror and wonder how do I cover up the deep lines the tears made in my cheeks, how do I hide the screams that tore my chest, how do I conceal the nakedness and the vulnerability of my tortured body, when no clothes can cover it up. I raise my hand and I smash the stupid mirror, I tell it to go to hell, to disappear, because I will never be perfect, I will always be scarred.
I want to slash at the scars with a knife, cut them off, be rid of them. I want my skin to be smooth - just like those other people have. Why can't mine be new again? Why can't I compare to them and look the same, feel the same, fit inside their pink bubbly world of silly problems and lighthearted jokes, pecks on cheeks instead of kisses and gentle hugs that don't mean anything? I can't - I'm dark, gloomy, contagious, weird - I'm moody, I have strange memories, I don't look perfect, I don't speak polite riddles, I cut across like I never learned in school what social rules mean. My laughter doesn't sound like Christmas bells because its rusty and smeared with blood. My body is oddly stacked from wrong size shoes to too short dresses to hair cut off against my will, clothes in skin that is orange peel, forever scrubbed away by my mother until it hurt like an aftercat scratch. How does my profile look? I can't stomach that nose - I got it from my father, that pervert. I got his forehead, his lips, his shallow chin, his skin in layers on my neck, like that of a baby elephant. I hate it all, I want to have no memories like that, I want to see me - when will that happen? The second I think I can do it, someone else walks into my life, someone clean and from a well respected family, and I start comparing myself again, over and over, inside and out. Does her smile go wider than mine? Does her hair frame her face better than mine? Does her voice sound cleaner than mine? Does her body look like that of a woman? I have no waist, and she does? I have short legs - hers are long? What else is it that I can find that is wrong with my body? I thought this battle was over. It isn't, it's still there, it was cut deep into me when for the first time I was brought to orgasm by my grandfather, when still a little girl, and I hated my body for that. I thought it was wrong, all wrong. I now I compare myself to that perfect girl and think - can she have an easy orgasm and enjoy sex? Why me, why was it me who was born into that ugliness and pain? Why does she have it so easy?
When will I stop comparing? It ruins everything. It runs my life, day in and day out. I close my eyes to not see, but then I sense it with my skin. I can feel that warmth crossing the room, and I open the eyes. There is another one, another perfect human being. Then it strikes me - I am perfect. I am perfect as I am, with all scars on display - I have nothing to hide, and I am the one hating myself, not others. I have to learn to love myself, to stroke my skin, to feel ok. All I have to do is this, and yet it's as hard as moving a mountain. I try, every day little bit by little bit. Get rid of the comparison. Love others. Love myself. Be not perfect - simply be.
Photo by Stephen Brace.
Reader Comments (2)
Your words resonate with me, I can see me in them too...but we learn. Love our scars - they tell us we survived the wounds. Love our not so pretty because that is the survivor, those thorns are what protect us when we are getting ready to bloom. Bless you for sharing, and I for one, find your beauty within and without to be both heartbreaking and wonderful.
Thank you. I feel for you, and I feel
Connected when you share your feelings and I share mine - through words.