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.

The Marilyn Make-Up Part 3

       


          Marilyn Monroe - Norma Jean - a talent, a beauty, a tragedy. True to form, her soiled personal life led to an unattractive death. There are varying reports about exactly what happened to Monroe (some of them following a conspiracy - the Kennedys playing a hand in her death,) but one fact remains: an overdose ended her life. She was born into a world void of love, protection, and stability and left it just the same: alone and tormented.

         Despite how ugly her life was, when the world looks upon the face of Marilyn, the only thing reflected there is beauty. Why is it that we can disregard all the scandal and hail her, still, America's sweetheart? What is so appealing about this bottle-blonde that keeps us mesmerized fifty-one years later?

          I call it the Marilyn Make-Up, and it is as simple as this one word: TRUTH.

          Marilyn's appeal isn't that she was blonde, busty, leggy, or full-lipped. There are a multitude of women who fall into that same category. Her appeal is in the knowledge we have of her, proving to us that she was real. She was a real human being with real hurt, real emotions, and real mistakes. Behind those fluttering lashes, we see someone, a girl, to whom we can relate. We know her life was not perfect; she was not perfect, and her pain was excruciatingly true. We see Marilyn Monroe for who she was: a person, just like us, trying to find a way to cover up her scars.

The Marilyn Make-Up Part 2

          Norma Jean. Pretty. Curvier than average. Brown hair. Broken home. Nothing remarkable. She grew up in foster care, never knowing her father, while her mother roared through the 20's as a risque flapper, occasionally stopping in to see her. She lived a life of confusion, shuffling homes, those influencing her giving her conflicting ideas about morals and standards. She once attempted to live with her mother again, only to witness the woman's nervous breakdown resulting in institutionalization and Norma Jean's return to the foster system. In this second phase of foster care, Norma Jean's experience was even worse, as she was sexually abused on more than one occasion as her body propelled her into womanhood. Finally, to escape an orphanage, she married in 1942 at age 16. 

          In 1945, Norma became Marilyn. After being discovered by an army photographer, she signed with a booking agency, bleached her hair, and changed her name. Her breakthrough came in modeling, but she had her mind set on the silver screen. She worked constantly to improve her acting skills and deeply desired to be taken seriously as an actress. When working on a film, she would request take after take, not because she was a diva but because she wanted to give her audience her very best. She yearned for the people's approval. She lived to please.

          Despite her career successes, Marilyn's personal life was a running tragedy. She was married and divorced several times (different biographers report different numbers,) and she was involved in high-profile affairs, one allegedly with JFK. She and her husband Arthur Miller tried multiple time to have a child, each attempt resulting in miscarriage, and her dependency on drugs to deal with anxiety and to sleep grew greater with each passing day. To look at her, one would think she had the world: beauty, fame, riches, the love of millions. Underneath, though, the only thing visible was pain, hurt, emptiness, scandal. 

          What could possibly be so beautiful about that?

          

The Marilyn Make-Up

          There is no denying that Marilyn Monroe was beautiful. Even now, she is considered by many to be the epitome of attraction. Men and women alike clamor over her photographs, wanting her, wanting to be like her. Every year, there are new calendars published, each month bearing a picture of the blonde bombshell. Souvenirs, collectibles, cups, dolls, costumes: you name it, her face has donned it. Her look is legendary, and so is her life. Since her death in 1962, no other woman has come close to achieving the status Marilyn's name is synonymous with in our society. So what is it about Miss Monroe that has America, still, after all these years, enamored with her? Why can't we let go of Marilyn?