Sunshine On My Shoulders

When I was younger I would ask my Grandmother to keep her old magazines… Ebony and Essence and the occasional Jet. I would flip through the pages scouring glossy and matte in search of Beauty.

I found her.

Clipped out what I thought was the most beautiful parts of the most beautiful women. I wanted to be like them–Ebony, Essence… I thought they had black Beauty.

That was the aspiration. Colored contacts, slim waist, flawless skin, perfectly aligned teeth, looser curl pattern, and men on their hips… All of the things I didn’t have. I would put together a collage and make the perfect woman.

Once I was satisfied, I’d get down on my knees, and in tears, beg God would make me like her. That he would transform me into this woman.

And I Believed He would.

Morning would come and I would take my time looking in the mirror and I would be heart broken by what I saw.

Me.

This would continue, night after night and eventually my Grandmother got me a subscription to these magazines since I had such a fascination for them. She had no idea that she was giving me more fuel for this self hating fire.

A years subscription, a year’s worth of collages, battered magazines, flipped through, torn out and misshapen. Darkened knees and more acne. I never knew WHAT to do with my hair and then it started breaking off. Crying in the mirror when I realized I had no good side. Slouching in classroom chairs when I found out boys don’t like tall and awkward girls. Blushing when the sixth graders made fun of my gums and called me a monkey, or a horse, or “gummy bears”… They were all equally offensive and painful. The feeling of not belonging when Ms. Jackie, the bus driver, asked me to sit up front with her because I was being bullied so badly. Lying about my life to make my life sound much more interesting than it actually was, because I hated my life. Having my boyfriend yell up the halls that he didn’t like me anymore and having the entire class look at me in pity and humor. Having the same boyfriend call me later that day to apologize and to tell me that he was just lying to get people off of his back, but that he really did like me. That was the first time I accepted being someone’s secret. The first time someone taught me that I was something to be ashamed of. The lonely lunches with my notebook and my writing. My imaginary friends. The invite to the birthday party at Jeepers that no one planned on attending because it didn’t exist and I was to be made fun of. That time my crush toyed with my emotions, then told me to get away from him. When all the kids in the neighborhood played football together and I was last picked because they were prettier than me. And how when I finally hit puberty the guy I liked lingered far too long when he tackled me and I no longer felt safe. When mom thought I was too emotional. When my dad told me that he’d kill me…

… These were all confirmation of my need to change who I was.

And as an adult now, I still find myself being taunted by those same demons.

They may look different (a cheating boyfriend, abusive love interests, fairweather friends, emotionally confusing exes, gossiping and judgemental family members, people who break your heart but don’t want you to share your pain–your truth because it makes them uncomfortable, lying enemies), but they all communicate the same things: I Am Not Loved. I Am Not Enough. I Am Disposable. I Am Forgettable. I Have No Worth. I Am Not.

I still find myself on the floor begging God to change me, but now it’s too renew my mind, to save me from depression, to show me how to love myself and accept myself for who I am when no one else does. To see the beauty in feeling. To heal me. I no longer wish to want to be anyone else but me, I just want to do more than just survive.

I want to live, honestly and healthy.