Still

Have you ever felt like the world is passing you by

And you sit

Still

Still

Still

And your heart, it cries

And no one hears

Because you are sitting

Still

Still

Still

And there they are swirling all around you: their mouths, their hands, their feet

And you are all alone

Because you sit

Still

Still

Still

And suddenly they leave you behind

And now your world is quiet...except your heart

Because it cries
Still
Still
Still

Pain is Beauty Part 2: Waxing and Weeping

          The first time I ever waxed my face was pure torture. I was standing in front of the mirror that covered the wall in the community bathroom of the house I lived in my junior year of college. After carefully following every direction on the box of Sally Hansen body wax, my little plastic jar of molten facial hair remover was finally the perfect temperature to spread ever so evenly over the top of my lip. I stirred the wax with the plastic spatula once more just to make sure the little blue "hot" didn't pop-up on the handle again, and I went to work covering every inch of facial hair that up until about two hours before, I had never given a second thought.

          His name was Jack. I met him through a friend; we immediately hit it off, and a few weeks later, I found myself on a treadmill in the cardio room of the student recreation hall, his face inches from mine as he barked "encouragements," and I sputtered my thoughts concerning my hatred for running. As the track of the treadmill whirred on, my brain began to muddle the other noises in the room as well, including his voice, so that I was only catching snippets of his motivational speeches that, to me, seemed far from helpful. In the middle of this muffled exchange of words (from him) and glares (from me,) my ears did register one phrase loud and clear: "I can see your mustache."

          My mustache? Excuse me? I was instantly shocked, angry, and incredibly humiliated. Here I was sweating and jiggling and giving everything I had on a treadmill to impress the guy I was into, and instead of noticing my incredible calf muscles or complimenting me on my extreme determination, I was being told I needed to wax. No, of course, he didn't say those words outright, but we all know that girls are the queens of implied meaning, so to me, it could be no clearer that he was displeased with my current appearance and would appreciate me getting rid of whatever fine hair rested above my upper lip. 

          So now, there I was, spreading goo the color and constancy of honey all across my face, peeling off/ripping out every stray little hair I could fine, hoping that fine tuning my appearance would give me the edge I needed to earn the approval of a guy who would never truly love me, and all the while, tears were streaming down my face because well, if I'm just being honest, waxing flippin' hurts. 

          But hey, pain is beauty. 

          There is no escaping that simple quip that seems to rule the lives of females from their preteen years until death. Yes, there are those few women who are fortunate enough to come to some self-awareness somewhere between the ages of 40-60 when they realize that vanity is simply that and no more, that being "kept" on the outside gives no value to the person you are on the inside. However, for most women it seems that our outer beauty becomes a prison, detaining who we truly are on the inside because the bars of youthful skin, current makeup trends, and fashionable clothing keep us locked away from the freedom of the truth about who we really are. For some, it starts with a first crush, that crucial moment of realization that because we "just" noticed him, all it would take is him "just" noticing us. For others it's the guidance of a mother who remembers awkward preteen years filled with clumsiness, embarrassment, and an innocent sense of desperation who just wants her own daughter to experience something a little less disconcerting. Some fold to peer pressure: a story in a teen magazine or "advice" from a friend who has already discovered the transformation of which a bit of mascara and lip gloss is capable. Some girls attempt to fill a gap, a place left void that should've been filled by a father, a mother, a sibling, anyone who had our best interests at heart. Others find themselves locked away by the opinions of others, by people's careless words and actions that leave us with a need to impress and a sense that we don't measure up. For me, it was the latter; it was always (and unfortunately still is) the latter.

          Like many people I know, I have always struggled with my weight, and to be honest, I think that particular phrase sugar coats my situation. To put it bluntly, I was fat. There is absolutely no denying that. Once I started school, I began to swell, and I didn't stop until the 8th grade. I remember being in 6th grade and weighing 115 pounds. I remember some years earlier my mother suggesting I have a lemon instead of the peanut butter crackers my sister was getting as an after school snack. (I knew the insinuation behind this, and the result was me running from the house, tears welling in my eyes.) There was also the comment from my aunt, her declaration that she couldn't believe my mother would have a fat kid, and of course, I never found it fair that my little sister and my cousin were allowed to sport two-piece swimsuits every summer, and I was always in a one-piece. Each of those moments ingrained in me just a bit further that idea that I didn't add up the way I was, that I didn't fit the expectations of those around me, but it wasn't until 8th grade that I associated my "lack" with beauty.

          His name was Brad, and I had a major crush on him (what I would now classify as my first real crush.) We flirted. All the time. In science class. And he let me wear his necklace. He even let me keep it over the weekend as a good luck charm for my first honor band. It was obvious I liked him, and to me, it was just as obvious that any day now, he would be passing a note to me (in science class) asking me to be his girlfriend. Then it happened, the comment that forever changed the way I looked at myself, the way I looked at life. 

          My best girl friends and I sat at one end of the lunch table, he and his friends at the other. The boys and girls always ignored each other. We were too busy talking about chocolate pudding and the 9th grade girl whose bangs stood out a foot from her forehead, and they were constantly talking about...well, honestly, I didn't have a clue, until the day I overheard this: "Megan would be hot if she would just lose some weight." Straight from the mouth of the boy whose necklace I was wearing. Straight to the heart of a little girl who five seconds before didn't realize people thought she was ugly, but now she knew. So began my imprisonment.

          My sentence consisted of the standard tear-inducing plucking of the eyebrows, the occasional jab in the eye with a mascara wand or an eyeliner pencil, the tender fingertip burns from overexposure to hair dryers, hot rollers, and straight irons, the cuts from careless strokes with soapy razors. I hated the itchiness of facial masks, the pain of a comb being pulled through tangles, and the sting of hairspray in my eyes. Once, I even left a nice scar on my leg while trying to iron my clothes. Still the punishment wasn't enough. My junior year, I battled an eating disorder, finding a way to manipulate my schedule so that no one would notice my lifestyle changes, dropping 50 pounds in two months. The trends continued into college where I picked up diet pills, tanning, and yes, waxing. Sure, all the girls I knew had the same experiences, the same pains, the same complaints. Sure, we all vented to each other about how unfair it was to have to work so hard to be beautiful and how much we didn't like being girls. Yet the conversation always found its ending in our mantra, "Pain is beauty," the answer to every complaint, the truth that governed our lives, the finality we had come to accept.

          Now, I understand a different truth. Pain is not beauty. In fact, to ring true, the phrase itself needs to be reversed: beauty is pain. 

          Don't misinterpret that phrase. Beauty is not pain because it hurts to tweeze our eyebrows or we burn our fingers on the curling iron. Beauty is pain because it is impossible to live up to the world's standards of beauty, and when we try, we put ourselves through an incredible amount of emotional torture. The world says that if the scale doesn't reveal the correct number or our clothes cannot be valued by their tags, we are worthless. The world says that if we can't walk a mile in heels, wing our eyeliner, and keep our hair glossy, we have no value. The world whispers to us, "If you would just do this one little thing, you would be beautiful." The problem is that there is always going to be one more little thing. The list of physical expectations the world gives females never ends, so no matter how much weight we lose or what shade of red our lipstick is, when we measure ourselves by the world's standards, we will always walk away feeling ugly. Yes, it hurts to rip wax strips from your body; yes, it hurts to pinch your eyelid with the lash curler, but what hurts worse is placing your value in the hands of a monster that will never know what you're worth. 





(Side Note: I am not speaking ill against the use of beauty products or against a woman's desire to look and feel her best. I myself love eye shadow, jewelry, and red lipstick. I love getting dolled-up for date night with my husband, and dresses are my favorite things to wear. Please understand though that there is a difference in wanting to look your best and giving yourself a value based on outside expectations.)

Pain Is Beauty: All Dolled Up

          I grew up in a simple home - a mom, a dad, a little sister, older siblings who lived on their own elsewhere, lots of animals, and little money. We didn't go on vacations (except to visit family,) shop at outlet malls, dine out every weekend, or catch movies together. Our most exciting nights were driving a town over to eat Chinese or Mexican, usually to celebrate a birthday or all As on report cards. I wore sweat suits to school for the majority of elementary and was always approved for free or reduced lunch. My extent of "beautiful things" were the fake jewelry and makeup sets my nanny bought me for every gift-giving occasion, and the porcelain dolls my parents got my little sister and me - one each every Christmas and birthday (and occasionally a random one here and there if there was extra money.) I adored those dolls. They looked up at me with vibrant blue eyes behind thick lashes, pouty pink little-girl lips smiling under blushed cheeks, and delicate golden curls shining in a cascade down the sides of their faces. When I looked into the flushed face of a new doll, I found myself captivated by its beauty, breathless with wonder that something so small could be so exquisite and that something so exquisite could be mine.

          It wasn't just the painted features of the porcelains that left me in awe; I often found myself fawning over their clothes. How could it be that these glass little girls looked more like royalty than the Princess Diana herself? Lace, ruffles, velvet, fur, petticoats, and golden buttons caressed these dolls in luxury I only dreamed of experiencing. My favorite was a blonde statue with pink cheeks and lips, curly hair, and blue eyes dressed in winter's finest. Her hair tumbled down from under a navy velvet hat, beret-style, trimmed in soft, white fur (faux of course.) Her dress was made of the same velvet, covering her baby doll arms to her wrists and stopping just below the frozen bend of her knees. The sleeves and hem of her dress were bordered by the fur trim, and her legs were covered in lacey-white stockings. Her shoes were simple Mary Janes fitting perfectly with her outfit but not distracting the extravagance of her dress. I was proud to own her, call her mine; I knew I would never be clothed like she was, but I was satisfied to hold her in my arms and pretend her life was mine. After all, what I lacked in monetary surplus, I most certainly accommodated for in imagination.

          Maybe it was no secret to my mother, but there was a reason that dolly with the velvet and fur was my choice playmate. Her clothes reminded me of the secret life of my mother, the life I never knew. My mom came to me from many miles away. Of course, I wasn't alive yet when she arrived in Alabama, but she came here for me and for my little sister. She came because she loved us even though she didn't know it yet. She left my two older brothers and my older sister. She left their father, their home, their life, and even though it hurt them so, she had to come, and she knew it, and I think now, so do they. My mother wasn't elite in her time in Chicago, but her life was a far cry from the dried beans, concrete house, and trailer plant income that awaited her in Alabama. She traded block parties, social events and Trans Ams for horseshoe tournaments, country boys downing moonshine, and pickup trucks that found themselves stuck in the mud much too often. She didn't have a job, my daddy didn't have any savings, and neither of them planned for a child, but I came anyway, and so did their new marriage, a disgusting old house, and an incredible wave of insecurity. After cleaning out a two-bedroom, one-bath house with concrete walls and concrete floors and an old wood cookstove for heat, my mom unpacked her things and settled into the South for good, and I was born just two months later. My mother gained me, but she lost so much else, including a place to wear her white rabbit fur coat, the coat that reminded me of my gorgeous porcelain doll. 

          Just like any other little girl, I was fascinated by my mother's things. Her closet consisted only of a shelf attached to the wall and a bar mounted to it for hanging, but my tiny curious fingers didn't know the difference as they rifled though shirts, pants, and the occasional dress. She had one dress that she brought with her from Chicago; it was chocolate brown, dotted with flowers, and the silky texture slipped though my hands when I traced the crisply pleated skirt. She wore it on special occasions along with a garnet ring (her birthstone.) I was delighted by that dress, but it could never hold my attention when I knew that in just a few hangers down, I would find the epitome of beauty to a six-year-old: my mother's fur coat. For so long, I never knew what was tucked away in that black garbage bag, but finally one afternoon in a moment of newfound bravery, my tiny fingernail just happened to make a tiny hole that I could slide my tiny fingertip into, and the moment my skin made contact with the soft fur underneath the plastic, I knew I had unearthed a treasure. 

          Even at six, I knew that treasures came with strings attached. I had heard enough stories and seen enough movies to understand that when someone stowed away a treasure, there was a purpose which never included anyone else finding it. Yet I couldn't imagine why on earth Mommy wouldn't want to share her beautiful white coat with me. Had she hoped it would just hang there on that rack in that black bag for all eternity, never raising any curiosity in me? Had she never wanted me to experience the elegant warmth of fur wrapped around my body? Was she afraid of the coat she kept hidden in that garbage bag? Was she ashamed? Was she hiding it from my family's eyes? From her own? The answer to all these questions, I later learned, was yes. She hid the coat to protect my little sister and me, to protect our father, to protect herself. Wrapped up inside that black plastic bag was more than just a lavish fur coat; that bag held my mother's past, a place that hurt her, that caused her pain. All I wanted to do was put on that coat, feel sophisticated and beautiful, like my precious little doll. All my mom wanted to do was bury the darkness of her hurt in a place where none of us could access it. 

          When I finally got the chance to slip my arms into the sleeves of rabbit fur, I expected my mother's face to glitter with delight, but all I saw in her expression was sadness. She couldn't see the glistening sheen of the snow-white fur or feel its decadently soft fibers. Instead, her senses were blinded by the memories of all she lost and all she gave up, and there I stood, standing in front of her, a little girl in an oversized fur coat, hoping that if I looked enough like my porcelain doll, the sight of me would make all her pain worth it. I didn't understand how the image of her daughter draped in such loveliness could make her anything but happy, but I had seen that glossed, far-away gaze in my mother's eyes before, and I knew it was time to wrap the rabbit back in blackness. The beauty of her fur coat was stained by the past it held in its seams, but all my little-girl heart could comprehend was that the pain in my mother's eyes meant I could never live up to the beauty of her past.  It was in this moment that I first began to realize the statement that would come to define the rest of my life: pain is beauty. At six years old, I learned that beauty was dangerous and that it caused pain because I understood clearly that I could never be beautiful enough to overcome my mother's hurt, no matter how many times I tried. 

          

          

Safe and Insecure

       Hello.

     My name is Megan.

     I don't believe we've met.

     Oh yes, you've seen me, but you've never gotten a close look. Sure, we've talked, but you don't really know what I'm thinking. Perhaps you've seen me weep, heard me laugh, but I know you don't really understand what I'm feeling. You see, I've made it my goal to keep you out. I've devoted every ounce of spare energy in my life to making you believe I am someone I'm really not. I do this because I am sure if you knew me, truly saw me, you would not like who I am and what I have to give. My name is Megan, and I am safe and insecure.

     Here is the girl you know:

Megan Forsyth Bolton

Graduated from WCHS in the top 10 of her class

Attended JSU on scholarship and graduated in 4 years with honors

Involved in many clubs, organizations, and honor societies in high school and in college

Hired right out of college for dream job and recognized as an outstanding first year teacher

Top 3 in system test scores every year (so far)

Tenured teacher who loves her job and her students

Incredibly close family 

Amazing best friends

Newlywed 

Woman in love with the Lord

Worshiper

Prayer Warrior

Here is the girl I know:

Megan Forsyth Bolton

Has battled with anxiety, depression, weight control, OCD, and trichotillomania for 12 years

Never had her hair styled by a professional

Wears a wig to cover years of damage and the fact that she still pulls her hair out

Spent every day of her freshman health class in dread of being in the same room with the upperclassman who made fun of her

Lives terrified that when people find out, they will think she is a freak

Lies about her problem to avoid judgement and ridicule

Serial Dater in college in an attempt to make herself feel attractive

Dealt with boyfriends telling her no one would ever "put up with you" like they did

Doesn't think her husband could possibly find her attractive without a wig on

Can't stand to look in the mirror 

Has a hard time believing she will ever be whole and healed

Feels like anything but beautiful

     

     I have spent half of my life hiding. I have spent half of my life believing I was crazy, ugly, and unworthy of love. I have lived in fear that every whisper is about me, every word of disapproval and discontentment is because of me. I have convinced myself that if I were to tell people the truth about me, I would no longer be welcomed, no longer be wanted. And so I begin every day by covering up the truth. I coat my face with foundation to cover every spot I've picked at, line my eyes, layer the mascara over my lashes, and dust my cheeks with blush. I brush my teeth for unhealthy lengths of time because I just can't stop until it feels "right," slide on my control-top spanks, and get dressed. I stand in front of the mirror and watch myself pull out hair after hair, disgusting myself with my inability to stop, and then, I put on my wig with its perfectly colored plastic strands and hide the last bit of the truth about me.

     When my students ask why my hair never grows, I brush them off. When adults ask me where I get my hair done, I tell them a lady in Hoover (I do get my hair from her, after all.) When people make comments about wanting to pull their hair out (which I notice happens quite a lot,) I focus on keeping my face calm and relaxed so as to not give myself away. I wring my hands; I bite my nails; I eat too much, and I cry, and then when I go to sleep, I dream of full, long hair, a scalp with no bald spots, how heavy real hair might feel and what it would be like to have someone play with it because it's been so long that I just can't remember. 

     For all these years, I've thought it's been so much easier to lock all my insecurities inside myself and present to the world a perfect version of me. What I've come to understand now is that while I may have felt safe hiding my insecurities, I have damaged myself so much more. I've taught myself to think that no one who knew the truth would love me, but I've never given anyone the chance to prove me wrong. 

     I harbor resentment toward girls who always talk about how much they hate their hair, how it never does anything, how they're having bad hair days. I've closed myself off from friendships because I let myself believe I'm unwanted in every way. I do not like to try new things because I cannot tolerate criticism; to me, that automatically means I am not good enough. I've drained my life of peace, joy, and fellowship because in my attempt to live safely, I've stopped living at all.

     I realize that in some instances, my battles may be extreme, may be something you cannot relate to, and yet I know, underneath the surface, you truly understand everything I'm saying. You may not pull your hair out or deal with emotional eating or obsessive teeth brushing, but I know you deal with something. Every human being does. We all have that one thing (or those 12 things) that mock us in the mirror or haunt our hearts throughout the day. We all think the best way to deal with those things is to hide them, keep those around us from knowing our struggles and our battles. After all, if they really knew the truth, how could they see us as anything but hideous? 

     We hide in our insecurities, thinking we are safe there, but the reality is we are not. When we hold our imperfections so close to our hearts, we allow them to feed on us, to grow in our minds, and to overshadow our entire lives in shame. We give them more power than they should ever have; we allow them to dictate every decision we make, every relationship we have, and every thought we speak over ourselves and others. This, my friends, is not safety. There is no safety in shame. There is no safety in fear.

     Today, I have done the one thing I've been afraid of the most: I have admitted to the whole wide world that there is so much of me that is ugly. Please do not be mistaken. I am not ugly because I have no hair or because my BMI is too high. The part of me that is ugly is the part that has allowed myself to believe for 12 years that I was unworthy, unwanted, and unloved because I have no hair and my BMI is too high. For 4,376 days, I have stood in front of a mirror and lied to myself, but today, I am telling the truth: I am not safe living inside my insecurities, and neither are you. 

    We need to see that it is not an issue or an imperfection that makes us unattractive; instead, it is our unwillingness to confront our problems that disgraces us. When we harbor our anxieties, we allow them to ensnare us, giving them complete and total control over our lives. When we speak out, when we admit the issues of our hearts and make a stand against the secrets and the lies we live with inside our minds, we take back control. When we realize we are not alone in our struggle, and we see that there are successful, beautiful, favored, and blessed people all around us who are also imperfect, we give ourselves power to look at that snarky, back-biting image in the mirror and tell it to shut up.

     Tomorrow morning when I look in the mirror, I will still see bald spots on my scalp and imperfections on my skin, but I will also see something else. I will see a woman who is loved by her Heavenly Father, by her husband, by her family, and by her friends. I will see a woman who is capable of many things (even ones she has not tried) and wants so desperately to explore the world around her. I will see a woman who was brave enough to tell the truth. I will see a woman who believes in Jehovah Rophe, the God Who heals and who restores. I will see a woman who has hope for the future.  I will see a woman who is beautiful in her imperfections.

Psalm 139

13 For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. 14 I praise youbecause I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. 15 My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, 16 your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. 17 How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! 18 Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand. When I awake, I am still with you.

Part 1: Beauty Is a Woman Named...

Beauty is a woman named

Renita Bolton.

     Two years ago this March, I began dating the son of one of the most beautiful women in the world; I just didn't know it at the time. Over the next several months, Renita would become to me a second mother, a dear friend, and a kindred spirit - someone I could count on to tell me the truth, share in my pain, and help me find beauty when I couldn't see any. I hope I did the same for her.

     Less than a month ago, this woman who grew so dear to my heart in such a short time left this world to sit at the feet of our Heavenly Father. As I stood in the receiving line at the funeral home beside her husband Tommy and her son Kyle who became my husband last June, I was blown away at the outpouring of love we received from those who knew Renita. With each passing handshake, hug, and kind word, it became evidently clear to me that I wasn't the only one who was dazzled by Renita's beauty. Today I want to try to put into words just what it is about this woman that captured so many. I think I can explain in two simple truths.

1. Her love for God and her faith in Him drove her life.

     I have never in all my life met a woman more optimistic than my mother-in-law. Some may point out that's not saying a whole lot for me because it seems that the females in my family (including myself) tend to be eternal pessimists, but I fully know that regardless of the scale on which I have to measure, Renita is the brightest light. The entire time I knew her, her life was what most would deem a struggle. Shortly after I met her, she was forced to quit working due to her health. This alone broke her heart, but the difficulty it brought to her home would've been enough to crush anyone's spirit. Oh yes, she had hard days. I sat across from her at the kitchen table on several occasions sharing tears over the past and sorrows about the present, but for Renita, there was always a light at the end of the tunnel. It didn't matter how long she cried, when it was over, she would set her eye on the hope of the future.

     She found this hope in one place alone: her relationship with Jesus Christ. It still amazes me the faith this woman had. She countered every harsh reality with a promise from God. To be honest, right after she passed away, I felt so angry with God because I kept calling to mind all those promises she stood on, and I just didn't feel that those promises had been fulfilled. I couldn't have been further from the truth. Regardless of what we here on Earth desired, Renita had her ultimate hope for the future fulfilled: meeting her Savior face to face. It was His life in her that made her truly beautiful. 

    2. Meeting her just once could change your life forever. 

     I've always heard those little inspirational quotes about crossing paths and being forever changed or how one person had the potential to offset another's chosen direction with simply a smile. While these words were always beautiful thoughts, I never found them to be beautiful truths until I met my mother-in-law. I promise you the woman didn't go anywhere that she didn't impact someone's life. She always wore a smile, and laughter was constantly dancing on her lips. Her words were full of encouragement and zeal, and while sometimes they carried a bite (especially to those who knew her well,) she made a point to speak truth and life.

     Renita was a nurse by trade, but her capacity to care for others went far beyond any learned bedside manner; it was truly a gift from God. When you looked into her eyes, you felt sincerity. When she hugged you, her embrace spoke of overwhelming love. She was a mother to more than just her son, a sister to more than just her brother. She was a woman who knew no stranger and who looked for the good in everything and everyone. She was capable of pulling beauty out of the ugliest situations and if truth be told, out of the ugliest people. Her whole life reflected the beauty of the world around her.

     Beauty is a woman named Renita. Yes, she had warm, honey eyes, thick hair that could hold a curl, and a smile that lit up the entire world, but these outward traits were only a fraction of her beauty. Her beauty was found in her Heavenly Father's love for her, the love that she shared with everyone she met. Her beauty was in the way she made those around her feel: special, important, victorious. Her beauty was the hope she kept hidden in her heart, the hope she fostered against all odds and poured out to those who were hurting as well. 

     It is my hope to do for others what she did for me. I want to take the love and the kindness and the truth that she gave to me, that God gave to me through her, and pour it out on others. I want to be the kind of person who is full of life and love and laughter. I want to be the kind of person who seeks out all of God's beauty in all of God's creations and opens others' eyes and hearts to all the good there is to be found. In some of my darkest moments of doubt, shame, hurt, and fear, Renita helped me find light. She taught me how to see beauty in myself that I had never noticed before. I want to be one who can do that for others. After all, what good is beauty buried beneath dirt or hidden by the dust of the past? Truly beauty is meant to be shared and enjoyed. I am eternally thankful Renita's was shared with me.