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(click here to read in black on white)

By: Bernadine Fox BFA

After years of my friend searching for the reason behind her ongoing lack of self-esteem, she said that it was finally there at her fingertips: the answer. However, I could see this breakthrough brought no enthusiasm or sense of relief. Instead she seemed bombarded with sensory and visual information that shrouded her with dread and grabbed at her diaphragm with such force it threatened to negate her own primal instinct to breathe.   It is her story I write here.

She said she wanted to bolt but it appeared that all she could do was hide, mostly from herself.  She said she feared the moment she allowed her brain to acknowledge this piece of knowledge, it would become permanently undeniable like a sticky truth that she would have to bury repeatedly. She described how over the decades she had camouflagied it with a new haircut, new hair colour, and with endless shades or variations of make-up. She even tried to scrape it off with plastic surgery. She had bathed and showered every day hoping the smell of it would be washed away or transformed by the delicate scent of wild freesias in her shampoo or her lavender soap. She prayed for miracles in the shape of larger breasts, smaller thighs, or a whole new body that simply would not fit into a pear-shaped box.

When all of that failed to create the requisite camouflage, she tried the right clothes, the right posture, and the right briefcase. She surmised she might be able to pass enough that some may not be able to perceive the hideous truth: she was ugly and that ugliness pervaded the entirety of her being. Her grotesqueness boiled just below the surface of her skin. It oozed out of every pore and crevice that her skin yielded. It soaked down into her muscles and permeated her bones so pervasively that there was no denying or escaping the monstrously painful reality of it all. Those who saw or knew this nauseating ugliness were unable to remain in her presence. They bolted or, at the very least, averted their eyes.

"Sticks and stones can break my bones, but names can never hurt me." A child’s voice somewhere in her head mimicked this taunt in sarcastic tones. What moron came up with that notion? "Alley-cat – spoiled brat, stay away or she’ll spat!" It was as if just yesterday she had lived through those childhood taunts.

She sat in her fifties awash with an image of herself at twelve years of age. Then, her body had not yet developed like some of the other girls. Several had already begun menstruating. Unfeministically, her body cringed at the very sound of that word: men-stru-at-ing. A vile word to describe an even more disgusting process: leaking out unnecessary, bloody, body fluids. She pictured it and compulsively shook off the accompanying sensation. As they politely called it on the prairies, she had not yet `blossomed.` Her mother had discreetly left a book on puberty in her room. It described this development as a transformation, like a butterfly, into a beautiful young woman. She was ready. She had waited and watched for it to occur every day. Her body, although tall, was stout and taking on fat in all the wrong places. Her straw-like hair had little shape. She peered over her white horn-rimmed glasses at the nondescript eyes that sat in her face. Her clothes were mostly hand-me-downs that she recut and remade on her mother’s sewing machine to fit the current style. Except for her height, she sat in junior high barely looking like she had yet crawled out of elementary school.

In high contrast, Doug was the local hunk. And although he too had just hit junior high, every girl in grade six, seven, and eight wanted his attention. He had this full head of jet-black hair that flowed flawlessly back from his baby face. His brown eyes comfortably nestled in amongst his dark eyelashes. At fifty-some, she could still recall his olive-skinned face and, yes, yes, those bedroom eyes that made her insides fall through to her knees. He knew he was hot. He knew the girls wanted to be his girl. He confidently held his head up and every once in a while he would flip it back to persuade that wondrous flock of hair away from a face that lit up when he smiled. He walked with this slight, spry pace. His cowboy boots would click along the sidewalk as he moved. He hung with all the cool people: Gary, Bob, and Ricky. These were the schoolmates she knew would never give her a second look. The only thing she really dared hope for was one kiss. In her teenage naiveté, she prayed and negotiated with the powers-that-be if she could just have one kiss from Doug she would NEVER ask for anything else EVER. Someone should have warned her about being careful for what one wishes.

This guy, who unknowingly held her young heart, sat behind her in English class. As she turned around one day to pass on the teacher’s handouts, he looked up at her. She instinctively smiled at him but, in response, a spontaneous "Ugh" exuded out of his mouth. The sound of it was so brutal that it stuck to her chest, her thighs, her cheeks, her hair, and her hands. Her denial, her hopes, her twelve-year-old desires broke into shards and fell onto the floor. Her eyes lowered to look into the depths of her own lap. As she turned around, her face burned with embarrassment and shame. The hair at the back of her neck wilted, "What was she thinking? Was he looking? Did he know she cared or that she was hurt by his comment?" Ms. Long’s voice drifted off into a Charlie Brown tutelage. The world swirled around her faster and faster. He had seen. She was ugly. He knew. Everyone knew. A storm brewed in her head, louder and louder until it broke into a torrential deluge threatening external tears. She cautiously bolted.

The door of the classroom was no match for her emotional nakedness. It broke open and then quickly followed behind her body to shut tight. She made a B-line for the girl’s washroom. The light from outside hit the glass case housing the village school’s trophies, awards, and medals. The glass bounced its reflection onto the dark linoleum that squeaked under her sneakers. The hall smelled of schoolbooks, papers, erasers, chalk, wet coats, left over fruit and sandwiches, and BrylCreem. It was devoid of anything alive, except her. And right now, she was unsure of even that. She floated in a flurry, clutching her purse slung over one shoulder. Once inside the washroom, she fell against the cool brick wall painted a dull, crummy yellow. Her world was crashing in taking little heed as it went down. She felt like a small rodent caught in a trap. She had been seen.

She approached the mirror that lined the entire wall behind the sinks. The bathroom was eerily quiet except for the drip, drip, drip of one tap and the occasional banging that reverberated from water making its way through the pipes. She was not sure if she had ever been this close to the bathroom mirror. She let her fingers trail every so softly over its glossy surface. During recess, pretty girls would be here primping. Those less endowed, like her, would quickly wash while not looking up, and, in doing so, they acknowledged their deficiency and subsequent place in this wretched social system. This time she looked up.

The mirror gave her, her answer. Looking back at her was the monstrosity that launched Doug's "Ugh!" As she scrutinized its construction and surface, she vowed to never again allow this ghastliness to be seen. Rummaging through her purse, she found her salvation: a black eye pencil. She performed her own metamorphosis by defining her amorphous eyes. There was something oddly comforting in knowing that, at least now, any adverse reactions would be to the changeable facade of her makeup and not necessarily "her."

Doug did not deserve all the credit for the state of my friend's self-esteem. She already knew who she was. If not, she might have interpreted his response differently. Even, perhaps, with some insolence. No, this knowledge was housed in every cell of her skin. There was no separation between her and this that she knew. This was not the first such response.

Over a decade before, at the time of her birth, dawn broke open the sky. The eastern heavens laden with an orange cream scared off the night. Birth is a time of great labour and even greater expectations. Boy? Girl? Healthy? For most, it is a joyous much anticipated occasion. However, as was true for her inauguration into life, it could also be a time of great disappointment. She was healthy but arrived horribly deformed. She had all ten fingers and toes, the requisite number of arms and legs, and one head without any lumps or bumps or other disfiguring marks. But, her penis, to everyone’s horror, looked just like a vagina! It was a hideous truth. Her father coldly withdrew from her distressed mother who had yet again failed to provide the requisite sex. She was now the latest indicator of her mother’s inadequacy and another screaming mouth full of needs, who represented thousands of diapers that would have to be changed, washed, dried, folded, and then changed, washed, dried, and folded again, and again, and again. And, for what? She offered no pride in her father’s eyes and no gratitude from him to her mother. With no return to be accrued, there was little value attached to this baby who was where she should not have been. She became her parent’s untouchable child.

One’s life contains experiences that have such a dramatic impression that they provide self-definition. Birth is one such moment. The sensations and feelings associated with it become the never-ending wings that assist one to fly or, conversely, the immortal slivers that tear into one’s flesh when any attempt is made to reach too far. For her, this terrifying journey ended with no joy, no hollering, no happiness, no holding, no stroking, no bonding, nor crying. There was only a simple, uncomplicated emptiness that pervaded the room. Silence, sadness, and rejection followed attaching themselves to each molecule of air until the room was saturated. She was wrong. Hollowness permeated her like a chronic disease for which there would be no cure. She was unwanted. At the moment of her birth, at the moment she turned to face Doug’s crumbled-up face, and at the moment she turned fifty-five –- this feeling prevailed. This truth remained unchanged. Somehow preordained, she feared she was doomed to repeat this moment until the time of her death.

By the age of thirteen, she began menstruating and developing breasts. At her first high school dance, her one wish came true. She wore a dress she had sown from a cream-coloured fabric and decorated with delicate wisps of flowers.  The cut showed off her slim waist. It went down to her mid-calf where it flared and created wonderful waves as she twirled around in time to the music. She had carefully styled her hair and applied her make-up. And, Doug kissed her, in the middle of a dance, right there in front of everyone. He held her close to his body and lovingly looked down at her with those beautiful brown eyes. And, she melted. This was more than she had ever dared hope. The disguise had worked. The ugliness was now unseen and, perhaps, even forgotten. Or, so she thought.

Months later, she was invited to a party at his home. A personal tour of his home ended in his bedroom. Here, with her schoolmates just one floor below, she experienced her first consensual sexual experience. Awkward and strange, it was devoid of any interaction between the two of them. No words were spoken. A few kisses, some groping, and his hands hastened to clumsily undo her pants. As a victim of sexual abuse years back, she easily fell into what she knew and made no protest as he pulled her clothing down to her knees. She lay there devoid of any anticipation or fear. She didn’t say `yes,’ but when had she ever been given the opportunity to do so? She certainly had no idea she could say `no.’ Her half-removed pants restricted her from moving her legs. The weight of his body left her unable to budge. It all didn’t seem to matter, for he managed to penetrate her and ejaculate within thirty seconds. She couldn’t recall if he had looked at her or murmured the requisite proclamations of love. It didn’t matter. She was swept away by the dramatic turn of events. Looking back, as an adult, it was obvious that her body was merely a vehicle for his excitement and a container for his cum.

A few weeks later, when he asked her out, she believed victory had been granted over the dreaded deformities inflicted upon her at birth. She thought he liked her and she knew, in her thirteen-year-old way, that she was absolutely smittened with him. She was happier than she had ever been in her short life. Her optimism, however, was premature. The `dates’ that followed were all the same: he along with one, or two, or five of his buddies picked her up, provided a constant supply of booze, and eventually attempted sexual intercourse. Sometimes it was just Doug, but then (sometimes) it was all of them. The problem was that after three beers, she was never quite sure what had happened with whom.

She sorta had memories or parts of memories that emerged out of an alcohol-induced haze: various stages of undress, boys gathered around, leering, touching, and penises everywhere. Words came at her through the darkness and the slur of another time: "Did you get anywhere?" "Wanna try?" and "Hey, are you done yet?" And images: doors opening and closing; the red glow of cigarettes twinkling in the dark; the smell of beer saturating the air; and flesh, faces, hands, and cum, cum, cum. Unable to change the course of events, she did what she had done when molested as a child: she ignored what was becoming too painfully obvious and she pretended it simply was not happening. Up to that point, sexual predators were of another generation, not hers - not her peers. These boys she saw everyday in school. She passed them in the halls. She stood in the smoking pits with them. They sat in classes with her. As a teenager, they were her reflection: the very people she would use to form her sense of self and self-worth.

For her, denial became a life-affirming act compared to recognizing her disguise had not masked her homeliness and that that very homeliness was what socially sanctioned the sexual exploitation of her body by her peers. It began as an accident of occurrence. It became a series of gang rapes by boys who had been taught it was socially acceptable to get the girl `who would’ intoxicated and have some fun. This was not considered `rape` by the standards of Nowhere Junior High. No, it was her fault they stuffed her vagina full of their body fluids. It was her fault her rotting insides oozed out onto the floor and left a path, like a slug, as it made its way to the sewer drain. With it went her wishes, dreams, and desires. She built walls, incorporated internal rules and protocols and never again would she approach a relationship or being in love with the same type of enthusiasm, wonder, or trust as she did with, Doug, her first.

Life went on. School went on. In her denial, she didn’t understand Doug’s sudden withdraw from her. She berated herself for thinking that someone like him could love someone like her. Fierce denial allowed her to distance from the truth to the extent that she was confused as to why popular boys like Rick and Bob were suddenly asking her out and then expecting sex. Trapped and bewildered, she held her head up, pushed back any unwanted knowledge, forgot the rest, and simply did not know that which she needed not to know. On a day-to-day basis, her survival in that small school and in that village depended on her ability to perform these feats of denial. And she did survive: past that village; the next city; and the next city. She was still surviving well on into her fifties. Despite being able to talk of the sexual abuse she endured as a small child, it took her a further decade to finally admit to herself what had occurred on Doug’s ‘dates.` It took many more years to say it out loud.

Unfortunately, any pattern left unprocessed or unresolved ingrains a rut through one’s life. My friend found herself repeating the same scenario over and over. Those she became intimate with eventually reinforced the reality of her monstrosity. And I watched as each of her partners and several of her friends participated with her life-script right on cue as if she had sent them personalized scenes complete with lines.

Nevin, the alcoholic, claimed undying devotion as his hands wrapped around her throat in a ‘loving’ embrace that often left her unconscious. His disease convinced him to `give’ her to a couple of thugs in exchange for a $1.60 bottle of Branvin wine. When she managed to escape this arranged `rape’ he beat her for not paying his debt.

Dick’s impotence was cured after he bashed her around several times. She had tried desperately hard to make the relationship work. She even married the bastard and bore him a child. In retrospect, she questioned how much he could have reciprocated the effort considering that what he had not disclosed was that he was raping their child.

Woodrow: Ah! pseudo-aristocratic Woodrow. She was twenty-five years his junior. He could never shake the conviction that he was somehow responsible for molding her into an acceptable human being. Nor could he understand how this presumption reinforced her self-perception of not being worthy or good enough.

Then, there was Sue. By this time, she believed that the personal growth she had accomplished in therapy had altered her childhood-induced destiny and allowed her to finally `blossom.’ However, Sue was an alcoholic and the inevitable end occurred when she drunkenly slept with one of her closest friends.

Nydia came along much later, initially as a close friend and eventually as a lover. Shortly thereafter, the familiarity they shared transmogrified into their corresponding lifescripts: Nydia’s included being incapable of emotional intimacy in a primary relationship. Their loving turned into hurtful, angry comments meant to push her away. The ending was as predictable as any ocean tide. She left: first physically and, then, emotionally.

At fifty-five, she was old enough to know better and certainly, one would think, old enough to have figured out how to change these life-scripts. She had matured into an independent woman. Strong and able to deal with life on her own terms. Her children had long grown up. She lived alone grateful for the fact that the only mess she ever had to clean up was hers. She cooked when she wanted, slept when she wanted, and stayed up when she wanted. She socialized when she wanted entertaining friends at home, going to art galleries, literary readings, lectures, drinking coffee on the boardwalk, or simply strolling along the edge of the beaches at sunset. She led a full and interesting life.

She had spent years in intensive therapy finding and accepting her emotional self, her intellectual self, her physical self, her business self, her creative self, her sexual self, her assertive self, and her spiritual self. She practiced the art of affirmations, meditation, positive thinking, and loving herself and her body. She kept herself rooted in the present making conscious life-affirming choices and learned to protect herself and stand up for her rights. She had found her voice. I heard it: it was a strong voice. She knew how to listen, be sympathetic and empathetic. She was there for her family and her friends. When she realized that each of her relationships had revolved around sex (the possibility of having; having; or not having it), she either extricated herself or changed them. She had learned how to love and behave in caring ways towards others. And yet, true intimacy eluded her. She still did not know how to accept love or be loved. In fact, the idea was so foreign to her the thought of it evoked a cold fear. In the dusk of her life, those defining moments born out of patriarchy remained intolerably unchallenged despite all her efforts.

It had been forever since she thought of changing this life with the inclusion of another. She admitted that she didn’t even fantasize or long for a special someone. She had accepted her solitary life and found comfort in the lack of struggle it provided. Sexually, she was quite satisfied to pleasure herself.  It made sex good and uncomplicated. Until Toni showed up and shook it to its core, this life was hers. 

Toni’s hair was thick and, once upon a time you could tell it had been practically blue-black. It settled down at her shoulders in a flock of gentle curls. Every once in a while she would shake her head back to push the hair off her face. She had this strutting kind of gentle pace to her walk as her heels clicked along the hardwood floors. She always moved with utter determination and confidence. Predictably, there would be a smile on her face. At times, despite her greying hair, her step included a small bounce like a smittened 15-year-old kid. In fact, Toni reminded my friend of her childhood "love:" Doug.  Then all that that meant to her came rushing forward.

While in her presence, Toni was an attentive woman who awoke long forgotten feelings in her. She described their kiss as extraordinary. The touch of Toni’s fingers on her skin sent reverberations down into the core of her being. Despite menopause, thoughts of Toni made her vagina lubricate until her panties were soaked. When their eyes met it was as if there was no one but them – and the world was just fine. She knew this feeling: she was falling in love. But all was not great and wonderful. Toni's life was hectic and stressful. She had difficulty simply returning calls: sometimes for several days, even a week, at a time. Waiting brought on anxiety that took my friend right back to being thirteen.

Conscious of this, she struggled to protect this relationship from her past. She resisted pushing Toni away as was her pattern, clung onto herself so as to not cling to Toni, lectured herself on the dangers of wanting, and censured her dreams. She did her utmost to understand and internally resolve the issues quickly. But Toni’s intense seductions and then lack of contact left her in scary places. She feared Toni had seen her monstrosity? Did she know? Had she mistook Toni’s intentions or feelings? Had she misread the signals? All of it was overwhelmingly frightening for her and there was little one could do to convince her otherwise - try as her friends, like myself, might.

There are some things healing cannot change. My friend was quite certain that one had to possess beauty to feel it. And, she was certain beauty (inside or out) had little to do with her. She was also quite certain one had to be loved to feel loved. There was no question that the only way to resolve this would be to trust someone with whom you have fallen in love. She thought of Toni and the intensity of it all for her. The risk of doing so and failing felt too high and too costly.

For the first time, she had also witnessed her own method of schooling others on what was and was not acceptable behaviour. She was surprised to find it was embedded into the very fibre of every word out of her mouth and every action she initiated. When attracted to someone who seemed to be pulling away or disinterested she perceived it as a challenge and advanced. When they gave mixed messages, she chose to hear the one message that fit her desire. When they didn’t follow through on agreements, she gave them the benefit of the doubt. When they did something insulting, she smiled and pretended it was OK (perhaps they didn’t mean it; perhaps she was overreacting). These actions and reactions became the litmus test both ways. She responded with conformity and tacit approval to behaviour she would otherwise find infuriating and unacceptable. Her compliance was fuelled by fear that her deformity and unsightliness would be recognized, the fear of never being loved or, conversely, of being loved, and the terror that moving forward could end with one more reinforcement of those old truths.

She often chided herself out loud with me:  What was she thinking? People like Toni don’t fall in love with people like her. Most might assume that this idea would hurt, but you could see she found it oddly comforting to remember who she was.  Things fell into place for her. She knew what to do in those places.

She sunk into her overstuffed couch and flipped on a movie. Tears welled up from her toes to fill her entire body. Pain threatened to consume her as she clutched the pillow in front of her chest. Age did not matter. Lack of nurturing or compassion damages some so bad that there are components within a life that are not available to those `untouchable’ as children. Life experience and healing did not appear to alter the wounds. A father's rejection or the thoughtless actions of pubescent boys getting their rocks off at the expense of one who was ugly and, therefore, `unimportant’ left indelible scars.

Here at the age of fifty-five, she reminded herself that some truths found within those defining moments of one’s life, are immutable. She was convinced that she was homely outside and hideous inside. Underneath her disguises, she knew who she was. She believed her job was to apply those masks to avoid the ughy responses and then maintain an appropriate emotional distance. This was not about protecting people like Toni. No, she knew full well this was about protecting herself from her own failure to change her life.

She would live alone (quite comfortably) and forget (once more) who she was under her well-constructed masquerade. She wiggled into the embrace of her couch, snuggled up close to her pillow, and asked that we focus on the beginning monologue of the movie she had chosen. She inhaled a long, soothing breath. As she exhaled, it was as if she allowed that which she understood to float away to wherever painful notions go. Whatever didn’t drift away, she buried. Any left over (now useless) feelings of love were placed in metaphoric containers with gold locks on them. She assured herself (and me) that she was not really alone. She said there were many untouchable children, chained by their defining moments, who in adulthood learn to find solace and comfort by being loners.

The answering machine clicked on and we listened as Toni said, "Hey, babe, it’s me. I haven’t talked to you in forever. Are you there? I’ve missed you. (pause) Hello? (pause) Hey, well call me when you get in. OK?"

Frozen, only my friend's eyes made any movement towards the telephone. Her body looked as if it was struck by those immortal slivers of hope and desire that had torn at her heart. She let them slip through and pass on into the night. Eventually, Toni’s voice drifted into the past and the machine clicked off. Neither of us spoke.  The movie began and I knew that she would not return the call.  

Yes, my friend was ultimately alone. It was clear that this state provided her a simple comfort that she was unable to afford to lose.  It was just as clear to me that  I had no right to question her actions.  It was not my life nor my pain.  Grateful that it was not mine to bear, I let it go as MGM's lion roared onto the screen and I too wriggled down into the fabric of my chair waiting to be entertained by the illusion of Hollywood.

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@ 2010 bernadinefox.ca

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