I have been a sufferer of chronic pain, illness, shame, and maybe depression (though I hate to name it) for much of my adult life.
Here’s the kicker though: that person, described above, is unrecognizable from the young girl I once was. Ask my parents and sisters; they will tell you.
As a young girl, I was a force of energy and reckless abandon. I was a tomboy; constantly on the go, creating worlds of fun for myself. Riding my “air tire wagon” down my street, riding my beloved bike, rollerblading off of jumps I made, swimming endlessly in lakes, sledding, and being as silly and weird as I delighted in.
My sisters were my constant companions in these shenanigans.
If the sun was shining, and if the sun wasn’t shining, I was outside and moving.
Now obviously, there is so much about life that shapes each of us.
But I’ve recently become aware of a significant point in my life when I turned away from my truest self; my soul. When I traded my fun-loving, light-hearted energy in for something else.
I was in the high school locker room. I was 15 years old; a freshman.
I had just put on the required weight lifting uniform: long navy blue shorts and a grey shirt, and entered the high school weight room.
I had chosen weight lifting because I needed to fulfill my Physical Ed requirement, and I loathed organized sports, or competition of any kind.
After a short demonstration by the weight lifting coach about safety, we began learning how to do weighted squats, bench press, chest fly, lateral raise, biceps curl, triceps extension, leg curls, etc. We learned to use free weights and various weight machines.
I. LOVED. IT.
Mastering the techniques and doing the required repetitions came easily to me. I guess my lifestyle up to then really served me in this regard. I was strong, well-coordinated, and fearless.
There were two other females in my weight lifting class. The rest of the class was about 20 males.
The other girls were seniors; cheerleaders.
For the first several months in weightlifting, I was independent. I earned the respect of a few of the guys in the class, I suppose. They would do rotations with me and spot me. I could bench press and squat more weight than any girl in any other weight lifting class.
I was strong, capable, and I was enjoying these qualities in myself. They had been constant companions of mine.
After a while, I started to notice the two other girls watching me and whispering while I was in class.
I noticed a few of the guys, who enjoyed making these girls giggle. And after a while, they were joining in their across-the-room sneers and whispers and laughs as I bench pressed one day.
Was I just perceiving all of this? Maybe. I may never know.
The next morning, I changed into my uniform in the locker room, preparing for another weight class.
As I worked at my reps, I was aware of the cheerleader girls; remembering their disapproving looks from yesterday.
For perhaps the first time in my life, I consciously pondered the thought, “I am a girl; they are girls. They seem so different from me, though. We are not alike.”
I finished my reps and sat up on the bench. I was aware, suddenly, of their slender bodies. Small waists. Long, slender legs. They both had beautiful, long blonde hair. They giggled with the other boys. They sucked at lifting weights. They weren’t trying, really. They did not care about lifting weights.
But they were beautiful.
It just kept overwhelming my awareness.
I hadn’t really noticed this before. I hadn’t taken the time to notice. I was too busy doing me; being me; lifting weights and enjoying the methodical nature of working out each day.
Until I did notice.
And then, it’s like I couldn’t unsee it.
They both had long hair. One of them had curled hers so it looked really pretty. And it was pulled into a bouncy pony tail.
They both had on mascara. And….eyeshadow? (I wasn’t even certain of what it was called). And had bronzed cheekbones and pretty earrings.
They had each rolled the elastic waist of their shorts several times, making their school-issued shorts climb higher up their legs.
They had rolled and tucked their longish short sleeves up under the straps of their sports bras, showing off their slender shoulders and colorful bra straps.
And, I also noticed the “different” sort of attention they got from the boys.
After class that day, we went back to the girls’ locker room to change back into our regular clothing.
I caught my own reflection in the full length mirror of the locker room. A mirror I had never thought to stand in front of before.
I looked at me. And I consciously reflected, “I am not pretty. Like them.”
My arms were meaty and thick. My legs were thick and strong and not slender. I had pulled my socks up high towards my calves like I always had. My hair had been pulled into a quick low pony tail that showed off my big ears sticking out. My forehead looked huge. My eyes looked too small. My waist was not narrow. I looked huge and clunky and awkward.
I turned away from my reflection quickly, shame washing through me.
I wasn’t pretty.
The thought overwhelmed me.
I went straight to my room after school that day and stood in front of my bedroom mirror, in a way I never had up to that day. It was like seeing myself for the first time. I was nothing like those pretty cheerleader girls in my class.
And from that day forward, I had one goal: Be pretty.
And that thought slowly chipped away at the person I was before.
I no longer rode my bike. Instead I tried out new makeup techniques and hairstyles.
My time was spent studying pretty girls, loathing my differences, and trying to physically change myself.
The pursuit of beauty consumed my thoughts and therefore, my energy and presence.
And the saddest part: I was never pretty enough. I never looked in the mirror again approvingly. At least, not for many many many years.
It’s honestly astounding how much this one “little” experience I had in freshman weightlifting changed me.
Do I really think that this seemingly minor experience truly had the power to cause depression, chronic pain and illness for me?
Well, yes.
In part.
There are a few other aspects of my life that caused me to live in relatively permanent state of stress.
Whenever we are living out a mental story of shame or fear, we are putting our bodies into a perpetual state of stress.
The effects of this stress on our bodies has the power to cause any range of illness, mental and psychological struggle, and relational disturbances.
In what ways have you changed yourself in order to be good enough?
Is it someone else’s measuring stick you’re holding up to yourself? Or your own?
In what ways has your culture defined for you what you should look like, care about, or live like?
What happens when we look up and out too much? What happens when we are looking around us for the rules, instead of looking within?
I’ll share more of my journey through the Lie of Being Pretty, and how it shaped me, and why I had to throw it out…………next week.
