By Destiny Allison
When I was young, I imagined sitting at a desk in a small, dark room frantically typing away at my next bestseller. I would be brilliant, adored, infinitely creative and, of course, beautiful. I didn’t understand then that beauty was subjective, and that it would take a lifetime for me to realize how to love myself.
Nothing turned out the way I originally imagined. My office is light filled and tranquil. African masks grace a warm, vanilla wall. A green patina vase holds silk flowers the color of fall. I have yet to write a bestseller. While there are those who adore me and creativity still abounds, youthful beauty has faded like the photos in the hall.
I started writing at nine. At ten, my parents told me I was fat, and my world began to shift.
By twelve, I had breasts but my mother didn’t believe in bras. Running down the soccer field, they bounced and jiggled of their own free will. Boys snickered. Girls whispered. I hated the attention.
At sixteen, I was a college freshman. I didn’t belong. With braces on my teeth and a body hidden beneath flannel shirts and loose Levis, I tried to fit in. I borrowed clothes, put on excessive makeup, and went to parties with the rest of the kids.
I fell in love. I learned about sex. My boyfriend took nude pictures of me in a meadow and showed them to his friends. He made me feel beautiful, until he told me his friends thought my belly too big. Then all I felt was hurt.
At twenty, I married. At twenty-two, I had twins. The construction workers stopped whistling because I was no longer thin. Before the babies, my husband loved the way I dressed. Short dresses clung to a body that made sense. After the birth of my children, he said, “Don’t show cleavage or skin. You’re a mother now.” What he meant was dress the part or I’d send the wrong message to people who mattered to him.
I left him at twenty-eight. With three children in tow I fled back to my hometown. I wailed to my mother, “I have stretch marks and babies. Will anyone love me again?”
I’ve been fat three times. Once with each pregnancy and once after my back failed. Other than that, I’ve been slim. In my youth, I hated the body I had and couldn’t appreciate the beauty I possessed. It belonged to other people and was never good enough for them. Now, at forty seven, I’m toned and fit, but when I hit a dance floor, men still think my body belongs to them. I feel them staring and pull my husband close. “Put me in your bubble,” I say. “I’m not safe again.”
This man loves me, scars and all. He thinks I’m beautiful and tells me all the time. It’s taken more than a decade to accept the compliments he gives. I learned to do it so I wouldn’t hurt him. After awhile, I started to believe him. Now, face lined by years and skin starting to sag, my only regret is time missed loving what I have and who I am.