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.)

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 Truth About Scars

          Before my husband Kyle and I were ever engaged, he had a severe gallbladder attack and had to have the nasty little thing removed, and it was exactly that: a nasty little thing. What should have taken just a couple of hours turned into six. His family and I sat quietly in the waiting room, the silence being broken only by the ring of the telephone indicating to us the doctor had news. For the first few hours, it seemed the phone rang on the hour every hour, the speaker on the other line giving us increasingly uncomfortable updates. After several failed attempts to remove the gallbladder laparoscopicly, the doctor decided to go about it the old-fashioned way: slice open the skin and remove the organ. Of course, this meant more time in the OR, a longer recovery, and one heck of a scar. 

          I remember distinctly a moment after Kyle (finally) had the drainage tube and the staples removed. He was standing in front of a mirror with his shirt lifted up staring intently at the scar that now very noticeably covers a section of his abdomen. He turned toward me and asked in a somber tone, "Does this scar make me unattractive?" My heart sank into the pit of my stomach, uneasily settling there as I searched for words that would heal. Was that scar in its fresh, tender, reddened state something I considered ugly? Absolutely. Did it make the man I loved and wanted to share my life with unattractive? Absolutely not. 

          We all have scars. Some of us have physical marks that smudge our flesh, reminding us of searing pain, trouble, or anguish. Some of us are pocked with emotional and mental scars that limit us in our pursuit of healthy lives filled with joy. We all have moments from our past that darken the light of our futures. We have all, at some point, carried blemishes, and what is more burdensome than the weight all of our imperfections combined is the question we ask over and over: "Does this make me unlovable?" The answer is quite simply this: no.

          The truth about scars is yes, they are ugly, but we don't have to let their appearances in our lives dictate the way we look at ourselves. When we see our defects staring back at us from a mirror, we are flooded with feelings of inadequacy, doubt, and regret. It's easier to believe we are unwanted than it is to see the beauty beyond the scars. Please, though, consider this: does one torn corner of a hundred-dollar bill decrease its worth? Does one missing petal from the bud of a rose subtract from its beauty? Stop wondering if your scars make you unforgivably repulsive, and wonder instead why you are giving them so much power. Look squarely in the face at the person in the mirror and ask the only question that truly matters, "Does one ugly moment define my entire life?"

The answer is quite simply this: no.

            

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?