The Beauty of the Break
I did not intend for this blog to be a personal journal, but I find myself “back in the saddle again” so to speak working the process of recovery. I thought that it might be interesting to write about the process since so many people are processing their recovering as well. In the beginning, I was hoping to write with a different voice. I wanted to speak about experiences as if I were flying above them, gazing down with a bird’s eye view enjoying the distance. It seems this is not the case any longer. I am in the thick of these experiences once again because certain memories are fresh and vibrant. For better or worse, I will not be soaring above the black-and-white terrain of distant and forgotten events. I will be trudging through the bloody muck and mire, but I do not mind the messiness this time around. I think it might be interesting to document the journey and perhaps create a roadmap.
I discussed the idea of brokenness in my last post, and, what do you know, I have read something about brokenness almost everyday since I wrote it. I have also had some rather long discussions with a dear friend about brokenness, but that isn’t the word that was used. The more common expressions used might be “messed up”, “screwed up”, or “fucked up”. It all means the same thing. Broken. Circumstances have arisen that have amplified feelings of brokenness in her life. This happens to all of us; regardless of our histories, we experience a betrayal, and we wonder if it’s our fault. We wonder if in some manner, we are just flawed, unlovable, or worthless.
Let me relate a story. Seven years ago I was flying high. I was attending a fantastic megachurch led by an internationally known and very dynamic pastor. I had a brand new baby. I ended my relationship with my abusive father. I was mentoring a young woman that I liked and admired. I was volunteering at a rehabilitation center that treated men for alcohol and substance abuse, and I was in a small group with about ten other people who all attended the same megachurch and volunteered at the same rehab facility. We met every Sunday afternoon. We sang meaningful songs together. We read meaningful books together. We prayed together, and we prayed for each other. We went out for ice cream together. My children loved every person in that small group as did I. It almost seemed magical to me. I felt accepted and cared for. I felt liked. I felt like I was part of something meaningful for the first time in my life. I was almost happy, but I still struggled. I have always struggled.
One April night, a spring thunderstorm rolled through our town, and a lightning bolt struck the roof of the house directly next to ours. It was about 3:30 AM. The loud crack and flash of light awakened everyone in the house, and I recall sitting up in bed waiting for the subsequent crash of a falling tree. I only heard silence so I relaxed and drifted back to sleep. Moments later, I heard banging on our front door, and I suddenly felt fear. Who on earth could be banging on our front door in the middle of the night, and why? As my husband got up to answer the door we both saw an orange glow shining through the accordion blinds at the end of the hallway. Fire. The neighbor’s roof was ablaze, and we were being evacuated.
The post-war homes in our neighborhood are very close together. The houses are so close, in fact, that it’s possible to pass a cup of sugar from house to house if both people lean out simultaneously. So imagine our horror as we stood on our front lawn while a northerly wind blew the blaze devouring our only recently deceased neighbor’s roof directly onto our own. In the end, it was a three-alarm fire, and it took over four hours to put out. Our neighbor’s house was razed, and it took over four months to repair the damage done to our home. The sudden midnight evacuation and the experience of witnessing the fire caused PTSD in my children, and it triggered a massive PTSD response in me as I already suffered from it. My mental state quickly degraded, and my ability to compartmentalize decreased. I lost my ability to cope.
I came to my small group, my faith community, a “broken” person. I was honest with them about my need for prayer and support. I told them that I was sinking. I told them that memories of past sexual abuse had come forward. I was vulnerable. I was naked before them. I wasn’t in a state to be anything else. They were horrified. I will never forget the expressions on their faces. They weren’t horrified by my experiences or my suffering. They were horrified by me. It was after that particular meeting that they began to shun me. The woman that I mentored was the daughter of my small group leader. She stopped returning my phone calls. She has, in fact, never spoken to me since that meeting. The leader of my small group changed our meeting venue after that meeting. He indicated that our children could no longer attend the meetings which meant that we could no longer attend. Many people in our small group also volunteered where I volunteered, and there was some very bad behavior displayed by some of these people. I walked away from the facility, the men, and the opportunity to teach there because of this behavior. All of these people attended my church. They shunned me there, too. Why? Stasi Eldredge puts it this way in her book Captivating: “You are too much, but you are not enough.” It is one of the deepest fears of every woman. I believe that another one of our deepest fears is that our truest identity will be discovered, and once known we will be rejected or hated. That is what happened to me in my small group. I came forward with the truth of my experience. I wept openly in front of people whom I trusted. Our group was called a “covenant group”. We had made promises to walk with each other through life’s best and worst experiences. We each told one another that we were trustworthy. I bought it. I believed it. I held them to their word. I showed them my deepest pain, and I was rejected and thrown out. My group leader actually closed the door in my face while I was crying. It was on his doorstep that I realized what was happening. I had shown them myself, my true self, and I was being rejected for it. In retrospect, I don’t know if one could call my emotional response a “nervous breakdown”, but the months that followed this experience were the darkest days of my life. I lost everything. My friends, my faith community, my sense of belonging and safety, and even my sense of identity. It was as if every cruel word ever spoken over my life had come to fruition in that experience. This is when I started the real work with a therapist. The long journey home as it were.
Why do I share this story? I share it because I have learned something about healing in the context of community. Healing cannot be done without it. It is impossible for us to work the process of recovery alone. It simply can’t be done. My “small group” story illustrates the power of community. If there was such power to harm in that community, how much power was there to heal?
A friend of mine has been told that she has to work her process alone. I assert that she does not. I assert that none of us has to go it alone. In John 11, John tells us that Jesus has three beloved friends–Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. Jesus is out and about with his disciples, and word is sent to him that Lazarus has died. Jesus’ intention at this moment is to return to Bethany and resurrect Lazarus. Jesus knew that Lazarus would die of his illness, but He also knew that God would empower Him to heal his body and spirit so that he would live again. When Jesus returned to Bethany, he found Martha there grieving and weeping. Mary remained in her house. Keep in mind, Mary knew that Jesus was there. She did not come out to meet Jesus. The first thing that Martha says to Jesus is, “My brother would not have died if you would have been here.” Such honesty. Such grief. Such disappointment. They believed that He was the Messiah. They sent word to Him that he was sick, and He chose to stay away. Martha and Mary were in such pain, and they were both so confused. I imagine Mary sitting in her house with other Jews who were trying to comfort her. What is going through her mind? “Jesus is out there now. Why didn’t He come four days ago when my brother was ill?” Jesus asks for Mary, and she does come to Jesus quickly. Do you know what she says? She says the same thing that her sister says–”My brother would have lived had you been here.” As Mary sinks to her feet weeping, John writes that Jesus becomes very troubled and weeps. Why do you think that Jesus weeps? He is going to resurrect Lazarus. He knows how this entire situation is going to end. Why would he cry? He is weeping because of the suffering of Mary, Martha, and the other Jews. In those moments, it doesn’t matter that Lazarus is about to live again because the grief and sadness, the torment and destruction that death brings is overwhelming. It should never be. He mourns and cries because they mourn and cry. This is one aspect of community. When you mourn and cry, another ought to mourn with you. There is comfort in being understood.
Jesus does find the tomb, and he asks Martha to remove the rock. This is the Middle East. A corpse has been in a sealed cave for four days. Naturally, Martha’s response is fitting–My Lord, there will be a smell. Jesus does not care. The rock is rolled out of the way, and Jesus shouts, “Lazarus, come out!” I think that Jesus is angry here. He is not angry at the people. I think he’s angry at the suffering, the anguish, the grief, and the mourning brought by the death of Lazarus. Lazarus does come out. John does not say exactly how Lazarus comes out, but he did not walk out because he was wrapped in burial clothes, and his face would have been covered. Did he army crawl? Did he hop? Was it a little of both? When he does emerge from the cave, Jesus instructs everyone around to remove the grave clothes. Lazarus’ body is healed from all decomposition. The man is alive and well.
I want to point out three things:
- God breathes life into us. He resurrects us. There is a divine aspect to the healing process.
- Death in all its forms–sexual violence, trauma, abuse, financial ruin, crumbling relationships, loss, mental illness, physical illness, suffering of all kinds, and pain of all kinds–stinks. It binds us much like grave clothes, and it smells bad. Other people are often offended by the “smell” of death on us. What these people don’t realize is that they stink, too.
- Jesus asked Martha, Mary, and the other witnesses to unbind Lazarus because he could not unbind himself. Jesus asks the same thing of us. This is why community is so vital to the healing process. I cannot remove my own bindings and neither can you. I need you, and you need me.
My community is much smaller seven years later, and I am much more cautious today. I am, however, an even stronger believer in the power of the shared journey. I cannot make your choices for you, but I can hold your hand, wrap my arm around you, weep with you, laugh with you, even carry you a little bit of the way when you can’t walk anymore. This is the power of the healing community. This is what Jesus asked us to do for each other, and He knew that we would all carry offensive odors. He didn’t care.
If we are truly broken people, shattered by life experiences whatever they might be, then I believe that we are still beautiful people. If a dead, decomposing corpse can be resurrected and healed, then we can be restored, reintegrated, and reanimated.
I was on the North Shore of Lake Superior a few weeks ago. It is one of my favorite places. I like to look for lake glass, but on this visit I found something more extraordinary. I found the pieces of a geode smashed and broken by the pounding waves of the behemoth lake. They were scattered up and down the shore. I felt it was a small victory to find one crystal, but when I found a second, then a third, I felt exhilarated. It was my husband who found the largest piece, and he felt the proudest. He claimed that there had to be more when I found the first piece; he loves being right. This particular geode was amethyst quartz, and the pieces are truly beautiful.
Amethyst Quartz from Lake Superior
As I held these pieces in my hand and gazed out upon Lake Superior, I felt like I was holding pieces of myself. My flashbacks had just begun two days before I left on this day trip. I had been shaky and nervous all day. I felt uncertain, scared, and weepy. I remember looking at these pieces of amethyst and thinking of my life. I felt shattered and beaten, too. The interesting thing about a geode is that it looks like a common rock until it is beaten and broken open. It is only then that the beautiful contents are revealed. These shards of quartz might be broken pieces, but each piece is unique, interesting, and lovely. Each angle created by a break reflects light and color differently. Each piece is unlike the other, and yet each piece is valuable by itself.
I don’t like feeling broken, but it is in my brokenness that I have found community. It is in the shattering of my life that I have found intimacy with God. There is beauty here. I understand grief, suffering, and torment. I can hold my friend’s hand when she needs it. I am truly able to walk the path of suffering with another person because I have learned to suffer. I am no longer offended by the smell of other people’s death and suffering. That’s the beauty of brokenness. Once you have been shattered and been shown compassion, then you can extend compassion to others. There is nothing offensive, messed up, screwed up, or fucked up about any of this. We are unique, strong, beautiful people bearing priceless gifts. Know this.
Living in Color
It is no secret that the past few weeks have been difficult. Moving forward seems to require looking back sometimes, even going back. Unresolved memories of my abduction surfaced recently, and I have been required to revisit old places. It feels like touring an old battleground or an ancient ruin. There was blood shed to be sure, and there was ruin. There was a great fight, and something died there. Good and evil were at work, and a life was at stake. I’m not, however, visiting the site of another’s battle or ruin; I’m visiting mine. I have, therefore, felt vulnerable, shaky, and a little needy as I have set forth on the healing journey once again.
I do not like to feel vulnerable and needy. I do have some trusted allies; nonetheless, I prefer self-reliance even though that opposes my own creed and approach to community and friendship. How can I process what I am going through with a trusted friend if I lock myself in my house? So, I ventured forth in spite of my own fears, and I had two distinct experiences. My first experience thwarted me by only reaffirming my fears of vulnerability. I allowed myself to be transparent with someone and came away feeling distinctly “broken”. I cannot think of another word to describe my deep feelings of shame and regret. Nothing was said overtly, but sometimes it isn’t what is said–it is what is not said. It’s body language, a small criticism, an attitude, a look, a lack of empathy, a sigh. At the end of the day, I regretted leaving the house. I remember driving home, and I was talking to myself as I made my way home. Actually, I was talking to God. I said, “You know, I’m sick of feeling this way. Broken. Damaged. I’m so tired of being “that woman”. That woman with the problem.” It isn’t often that God talks back to me. Oh, I’m a big believer in God speaking to us through nature, other people, even bumper stickers, but when you hear that still, small voice so distinctly answer back in your mind (and you know undoubtedly that it’s not you answering back), it is very important to stop talking and listen. This is what I heard–”You are not broken. You are awesomely and wonderfully made. I made you. How could you break?”
Let me back up here for a moment. I took a hiatus from the American church experience about five years ago for myriad reasons. I left the church for a time, but I did not leave my faith behind. At the time of my exit, the use of the word “broken” was very popular among Christian Evangelicals. To speak Christianese fluently, one had to use “broken” often. It might look something like this: “Oh God, we want to be broken before you.” or “We bring our brokenness to you as an offering.” or “We are broken and weary people.” You get the idea. At times it seemed that the more “broken” a person felt, the holier and more sanctified he was. What does it mean to be “broken”? Google.com has searched many online dictionaries for me, and this is a list of definitions for the adjective “broken”:
- physically and forcibly separated into pieces or cracked or split
- subdued or brought low in condition or status
- (especially of promises or contracts) having been violated or disregarded
- Sundered by divorce, separation, or desertion of a parent or parents
- Intermittently stopping and starting; discontinuous
- Incomplete
- Weakened and infirm
- Crushed by grief
- Financially ruined; bankrupt
- Not functioning; out of order
Obviously, there are a few definitions that apply to the spiritual life of a human being. The church at large does not necessarily have it wrong. We certainly want to bring crushing grief, financial ruin, spiritual lowliness, infirmities,broken promises, and physical brokenness to God. We do not, however, want to wallow or label ourselves or others as “broken”. When I said I felt “broken”, however, I meant the last definition on the list. After all my life experiences, sometimes I just feel like I don’t work anymore. Like I’m kaput. What’s more, sometimes I have a feeling that other people think the same thing. I feel this way when well-meaning people say things like, “How can you have been through so much and still be so normal?” To me, they are really saying, “You must be really screwed-up underneath your veneer of normalcy.” Should I just have ‘Out of Order” tattooed on my forehead and call it a day? Can a person just go through too much? So, when I heard that still, small voice tell me that I am awesomely and wonderfully made, I was forced to reconsider my own opinions.
Psalm 139:14 tells us that we are awesomely and wonderfully made. I did not just fabricate that. As I meditated on this new idea that I was not a broken person, but I was, on the contrary, a whole and working person, I began to wonder what that might mean. This is what I’ve come up with, and I’m going to use images to explain it.
Black and White Study
Look at the image above. You can probably discern the subject. Can you find the two bees? Can you see the complexity of patterns? Can you discern color? I have filtered this image, removed color, altered exposure, saturation, temperature, and contrast. I have faded the image on the edges. This image is a metaphor for how we view ourselves. Our life experiences act as filters for how we view ourselves. What might a stinging remark from your mother before prom night alter in your self-image? What about an absent father? What about a rape or an incestuous relationship? Think about my abduction experience? Think about any kind of sexual violence or trauma? Could they remove all color from your self-image leaving you with only a black and white picture of yourself? It’s very possible. If we have been exposed to terrible events or events that left us feeling out of control and terrible about ourselves, then how might we “look” to ourselves? Overexposed, colorless, shadowed, and faded? It explains why I feel broken sometimes. Even being in a fallen world has activated our filters. We are surrounded by all forms of death, destruction, poverty, illness, and suffering. If we are able to live in the world without deactivating our empathy, then we will no doubt have learned to view the world through filters. We must if we are to survive. It is often too painful otherwise.
Blue and Green Study
This is the same image filtered differently. I’ve filtered out the color red. This image looks very different from the other. The bees stand out, but the petals do not. The complexity of the seeds have become more visible, and the play of the shadows is more interesting. Your life with more color, more pattern, less filtering. Some trauma has been resolved. Forgiveness has been at work here. Forward progress. There is more balance between light and dark. Less extremes. More vulnerability means more safety. Better boundaries and more peace.
Full Color Study
This is the image in full color with very little filtering. I took this photograph yesterday evening in my backyard. This is the flower of the Russian Mammoth Sunflower. Look at the complexity of the seeds in the fruiting body and their colors. Do you see all the details and the shadows in the petals? Do you see how the light reflects off the bees’ wings? These details were impossible to see in the other images due to the effects of the filters. It does not mean that these details were not there. The nature of the flower existed. The bees were doing their work. They existed. This flower is standing majestically at about 12 feet in my backyard at this very moment tracking the sun as it moves across the sky, but you could not know this because of how I filtered the two previous images. You knew that you were looking at a flower. You did not know the color. You may not have known the genus or species. You noted the bees, but you could not notice their gossamer wings or their black and yellow thoraces. You only knew what was allowed to pass through the filters.
In the unseen or invisible world, the eternal world which will never pass away but surrounds us yet, in God’s heart and mind, we are much like this sunflower. We exist in full color in rich complexity. Remember–Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it. (Psalm 139:14) We are not broken, out of order, lowly, violated, emotionally bankrupt, incomplete, separated, or crushed. Because of the work of Jesus on our behalf, we have been made complete and whole (2 Corinthians 5:18). Our journey in the physical or visible world is to learn to bring forth, if you will, bit by bit the invisible reality of who we really are into the visible. Essentially, step by step, we learn to see ourselves in full color and complexity rather than black and white, overexposed, and shadowy because that is who we really are regardless of what has happened to us or how we feel about ourselves. This process takes time, the help from very trustworthy allies, and an unwavering belief that you are so much more that what you currently see. You are strong, beautiful, powerful, gifted, majestic, capable, talented, complex, and so valuable.
At the end of the famous 1 Corinthians 13 there is this verse:
For now we are looking in a mirror that gives only a dim (blurred) reflection [of reality as in a riddle or enigma], but then [when perfection comes] we shall see in reality and face to face! Now I know in part (imperfectly), but then I shall know and understand fully and clearly, even in the same manner as I have been fully and clearly known and understood [by God].
This verse comes at the end of a chapter entirely devoted to the nature of God’s love. That is the perspective you must take when you read 1 Corinthians 13. This chapter is often read at weddings because we want to be able to love each other with the love that is described in this beloved chapter of the New Testament. What is profound is that God Himself loves us like this. This chapter could end in any number of ways, but it comes to a close with the announcement that what we see is only a blurry and dim reflection, a cracked and tarnished image, of what exists in the perfect reality. What’s more, as we are today, sometimes lost in the haze of an imperfect self-image often rooted in deep psychic pain, we are “fully and clearly known and understood by God”. This statement was made after an entire chapter devoted to the nature of God’s ability to love us. Human beings are never asked to do something which God Himself does not. This chapter is all about the nature of God’s love towards us. So, you see, we may not see ourselves clearly, but God does, and He loves us completely, entirely, thoroughly regardless of everything. Regardless. And, He understands you. You, my friend, are understood. That means that you are not alone.
That is what I learned last week. When I feel the temptation to feel “broken” or ashamed, I tell myself “I am awesomely made. I am not broken”. This is not an easy mantra, but the question comes down to ‘who am I going to believe?’ Am I going to believe my father, my mother, my perpetrator, or even my wounded self? Well, I’m not going to believe my father, my mother, or my perpetrator. Hell no. And, my wounded self is…well, wounded.
Deep breath…”I am awesomely made.”
Deep breath…”You are awesomely made. You are not broken.”
An Anthem
Hiking these switchbacks is tough, and I need a soundtrack to keep me going. There are times for holding hands around a campfire and singing “Amazing Grace”; it’s healing, quieting, and inspirational. There are times, however, when you need a kick-ass song–a battle cry. Muse has provided just the song required for hiking a grueling switchback mountain trail (or fighting life’s big battles). If you read my previous post, you know that I’m speaking metaphorically, but it really doesn’t matter. Once you’ve reached the summit of your personal Everest, you’ll be standing in the company of giants. Put on your most comfortable boots, grab a jacket (or a sword), and join the uprising. Enough is enough, isn’t it? The time has come for some joy, some peace, some happiness, some justice, and some beauty, and we deserve that. It doesn’t just come to us, but if we put one foot in front of the other, then I know we won’t stagnate in our painful circumstances. We will get closer to the top…one step at at time. Click the link to hear the song.
Uprising
Paranoia is in bloom,
The PR transmissions will resume
They’ll try to, push drugs that keep us all dumbed down
And hope that, we will never see the truth around
(so come on)
Another promise, another seed
Another, packaged lie to keep us trapped in greed
And all the, Green belts wrapped around our minds
And endless, red tape to keep the truth confined
(so come on)
They will not force us
They will stop degrading us
They will not control us
We will be victorious
so come on
Interchanging mind control
Come let the, revolution takes its toll
If you could, flick the switch and open your third eye
You’d see that
We should never be afraid to die
(so come on)
Rise up and take the power back
It’s time the fat cats had a heart attack
They know that their time’s coming to an end
We have to unify and watch our flag ascend
They will not force us
They will stop degrading us
They will not enslave us
We will be victorious
They will not force us
They will stop degrading us
They can not control us
We will be victorious
Breaking Up the Switchbacks
Healing is a process. How many times have you or I heard that statement? Frankly, I don’t think I have ever understood what that process really means. It all seemed very romantic in a way. I remember watching the film “Prince of Tides”. Tom Wingo is sitting in Dr. Lowenstein’s office on behalf of his sister who has tried to commit suicide. She won’t talk to Dr. Lowenstein, her psychiatrist, about her pain or her reasons for her suicide attempts. Tom knows why Lila tried to kill herself. He’s been carrying the same secret inside himself since his boyhood, and Dr. Lowenstein senses something. She senses that Tom is hiding a truth, a truth that might help Lila. Eventually, Tom shares his secret with Dr. Lowenstein. He, his brother, his mother and Lila were sodomized and raped by escaped convicts on one stormy night years ago. If I remember correctly, they murdered the convicts in an act of self-defense, but they were made to keep this horrible event a secret. Lila’s mind and body were paying the price, and she could no longer function under such a heavy burden. After telling the truth, Tom fell to pieces. He wept in Dr. Lowenstein’s arms perhaps for the first time since the night he and his family endured the assault and murdered the criminals. After his catharsis, Tom seems freer. He engages in life in a new way. His countenance is changed. His posture improves. He is transformed. If only it were so easy.
The healing process is not romantic at all. It’s horribly difficult because no one comes to rescue us. We have to do the speaking. We have to do the telling. We have to do the uncovering. We have to do the remembering. We are not required to do it alone, but, ultimately, no one else can do the work for us. We have to show up, and we have to take ownership of our wounds even though we are not the ones who inflicted them. This pain, this grief, this fear, this panic, this loneliness, this alienation, this anger, and this longing for wholeness must all be owned and given a voice.
Switchbacks (http://www.meetup.com/VegasHikers/calendar/6051395/)
A friend and I were discussing the grueling process of healing. She described it as hiking switchbacks. Switchbacks are trails that snake up the side of a mountain–each trail is like an individual trail connected to the next by a hairpin turn; thus, the climb up the mountain is less steep, but it is much longer. My friend has done switchback hiking, and she described the feeling of reaching the end of a switchback trail. It’s exciting, and there is a great sense of accomplishment and fatigue at the same time. Then, you look up and realize that you only advanced a few feet towards the summit of the mountain. So much energy expended for so little progress. That’s an appropriate metaphor. What, however, are the options? Should we tackle Everest straight on? Switchback hiking seems like a smart choice if there is a mountain to be climbed. That is the way of this process.
I spent years doing very deep work with a psychotherapist. I have done good work with people trained in spiritual direction. I have done work with a life coach. All of this was very much like switchback hiking. It all represents forward progress. When I finally reached a point where I felt I couldn’t do anymore work, I rested. All of the work had to sink in. Much like deep watering plants, the nutrients must make their way into the soil, and that takes time. Today, I find myself on the mountain again, but I’m not at the bottom. I’m much closer to the summit this time around, but, either way, I still have to hike the damn trail!
It is all too tempting to grow weary of this process, but we don’t have to choose temptation. This is our process. Yes, it’s exhausting and painful, but it does belong to us. I wish that I did not have to face this enemy again, but the fact that memories of my abduction experience came forward (and refuse to leave) and require resolution is actually positive. It means that it’s time for me to hike another switchback. It means that I am closer to the summit, and isn’t that what I have been trying to reach all these years? What will it mean when I reach it? I will plant my flag of victory and look out across the landscape of my life breathing in the high altitude air of freedom knowing that I made it to the top of this mountain in spite of the best efforts of my perpetrators. That will be the sweetest revenge. We will be heroic in all of the places where we have been victimized and laid low. So, lace up your boots.
View from the top of the Chola Pass in the Everest Region (http://www.aidfornepalichildren.org.uk/mygallerypage2.html)
“For God has not given us a spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” 2 Timothy 1:7
Sucking Pacifiers
This blog is not really a personal journal although I do discuss very personal things in an effort to illustrate points and make connections. That being said, I’ve had some rough days lately, and I’m sure that they are serving a purpose although I’m not enjoying it at all.
I was abducted, held against my will, and raped for seven days almost twenty years ago. When I remember it now, the memories are misty and distant, and I am grateful for this. It hasn’t always been like this. I spent almost a decade “dealing” with this seven day event, and I wish that I could say that it was entirely behind me. Alas, it isn’t. Most of the traumatic body memories have been healed. When I discuss specific events now, I find that I can talk about them without freezing or choking. I can cry, and I don’t feel shame. For survivors of trauma and abuse, this is a mark of progress and healing. Being able to feel an authentic connection to an event, feel the pain and the grief, and cry for yourself is a necessary part of the healing process. To be frank with you, it is enormously painful, but there is no other way through the darkness. There is certainly no going around it. If there were, I would have found a way. I am very resourceful in that respect.
There are two things giving me hell currently. When I was doing the deep work with my therapist, there were specific events from my abduction experience that I would not discuss. This was not a matter of my therapist knowing about them and my refusing to talk about them. No, I kept them hidden away because I was too ashamed to discuss them. My perpetrator forced me to do certain things on threat of death while he photographed me. So, I did them. My young mind believed that what I was experiencing at that time was my fault. That is a victim’s paradigm, and the victim’s paradigm is framed by shame. Shame paralyzes, suffocates, and starves. I like to compare shame to the gelatin capsule surrounding medication or vitamins. We swallow a pill, and this pill has to make its way into the stomach where the outer gelatin shell has to be broken down in order for the contents of the pill to be utilized. When shame surrounds an event, the shame has to be dissolved much like that gelatin shell before the contents of the event can be accessed and healed. Unfortunately, at the time I was doing my work, I couldn’t bring myself to discuss that particular event. It was simply too much. More layers of shame have fallen off me, and the event has come forward, and I remember it clearly.
I asked a friend who has also experienced an unusually bad event in her life how she would handle it. She suggested compartmentalization. That is, however, what I have already been doing. It’s an effective coping strategy, but I don’t want do that anymore. So, it’s me and the memory. We go everywhere together. It has coffee with me, sleeps with me, cooks dinner with me, showers with me, reads with me. Obviously, the time has come to do some more deep work, and I don’t like it.
The second thing that has come knocking on my door yet again is the fact that my perpetrator escaped justice. I am usually at peace with this, but I am not today. I accept that he abducted me. I accept that he tried to sell me. I accept that he raped me and psychologically tortured me. But, he took photographs while doing those things, and he sent those photographs to me on my 19th birthday with a little note saying that he would always know where to find me. That is the part that I am finding hard to accept. I remember burning those photographs in a brown, metal trash can in my college dormitory. He never did find me. He disappeared, but I had nightmares for months that he did. The absolute injustice of the entire situation is taunting me, a companion to the memory that is currently following me around. I could say, “Go away. I’ve dealt with you.” That would be denial, and if you’ve read any of my posts, then you know how I feel about denial. It’s an effective coping mechanism as well, but if you are looking to live a restored life, then denial is only a rest stop.
My youngest daughter has Autism. Her 7th birthday is quickly approaching, and she has not given up her pacifier. Before you judge that, be aware that Autism has limited her abilities to cope, too, and the pacifier was the least of our worries. The time has come, however, to get rid of it. Whether she wants to admit it or not, she’s developmentally capable of going without the pacifier. It’s become a crutch for her, but I know that she is able to comfort herself in healthier ways. She is finally mature enough to make a better choice. So, last night I “disappeared” the pacifier. I told her that the time had come, and she understood. I explained all the reasons. She understood that, too, but she still needed to grieve. The mournful wailing was heartbreaking. The cry of grief is different than any other cry. She wasn’t entirely sure that she could make it through the night without her trusted comforter. You know what? She did, and the first thing she said upon awakening this morning was, “I made it through the night without my paci!!!” Her confidence in herself grew, and her trust in us grew, too, because we told her that she could do it. As it turned out, she could.
A very painful memory has come forward. The shame that once encapsulated it has dissolved, and that is miracle enough. Now, I am left to do something with it. There are keys in this memory to a deeper healing in my own life. I know it. The pacifier of compartmentalization has to go. It has served its purpose and continuing to lean on it will only harm my development at this point. I am prepared to do some crying. I already have. So, what now? My daughter had her dad and me holding her while she wailed. I held her last night until she fell asleep. I tucked her in. We were there to comfort her. I couldn’t crawl into her skin and reach her at that deep level, but I wouldn’t leave her while she wept. What about me? What about you? I need my coping strategies.
This is where my faith comes in, and I don’t mean this in a nice, flowery, inspirational way. I don’t mean this in a neo-conservative Evangelical way. I mean this in a gritty, where the rubber-hits-the-road sort of way, where if God doesn’t come through for me, then I’m lost sort of way. Much of my journey has been taken alone. There have been a scant few who have stayed with me. They have let me call them, let me roar and process and cry. Most of the time, they had no answers. What sort of answer can you give anyway? There aren’t any. So, in my darkness, I have always turned to God, and He’s always been there. I’ll admit, a lot of my interactions with God have looked more like a shouting match than pious prayer, but He’s never walked out. In some ways, I feel like I’m back in the pit again, in the mire. It isn’t nearly so deep this time though. I don’t even think I need a ladder or a rope to climb out, but I will have to exert some effort. It isn’t just a muddy puddle. So, in my pain, I will turn to the Psalter. Psalm 139:
1O LORD, you have examined my heart
and know everything about me.
2You know when I sit down or stand up.
You know my thoughts even when I’m far away.
3You see me when I travel
and when I rest at home.
You know everything I do.
4You know what I am going to say
even before I say it, LORD.
5You go before me and follow me.
You place your hand of blessing on my head.
6Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too great for me to understand!
7I can never escape from your Spirit!
I can never get away from your presence!
8If I go up to heaven, you are there;
if I go down to the grave,a you are there.
9If I ride the wings of the morning,
if I dwell by the farthest oceans,
10even there your hand will guide me,
and your strength will support me.
11I could ask the darkness to hide me
and the light around me to become night—
12but even in darkness I cannot hide from you.
To you the night shines as bright as day.
Darkness and light are the same to you…
17How precious are your thoughts about me,b O God.
They cannot be numbered!
18I can’t even count them;
they outnumber the grains of sand!
And when I wake up,
you are still with me!
As I continue on this road, I make the choice today to believe that no matter how dark it gets (and it gets pretty dark), God is with me. He might take the form of a loyal and true friend, or the encouraging smile of a stranger at the grocery store, or a bumper sticker that makes me laugh, or a perfect sunset that makes me forget myself for a few moments, or the unconditional love of a pet, or the smell of petunias that stills my mind, or the singing cardinal in summertime that gives me joy, or my husband’s humor, or my children’s antics, or the peace that comes from knowing that when He says that He will never fail or abandon me, it is true (Hebrews 13:5). I might feel forsaken and abandoned, but I will hold Him to His word. I will remind Him daily, by the minute, by the second, if I must, and I truly believe that my persistence somehow pleases God because He likes it when we believe Him.
So, just like I threw my little girl’s pacifier away, I’ve had to throw one of my own pacifiers away, too. The compartmentalization was a very good and useful pacifier for me. I have been able to do some very good work with that particular memory neatly tucked away in a corner of my brain, but the time has come for further healing and growth. That coping strategy will only hinder my forward movement now. I’m fucking scared, but I’m not going to do this work alone. If you are doing similar work or faced with something scary, take heart. You needn’t go it alone either.
A Look Behind the Curtain
We are currently discussing body image. When I first approached this topic, I wanted to try to dissect it a bit because the topic of “body image” is complex. What is “body image” exactly? It has to do with how we view ourselves to be sure, but it’s more than that. It has to do with our perception of other’s views of our bodies as well. Our body image was not formed in a vacuum. It was formed in a family and a culture with many sub-cultures. While we might consider the larger culture to be comprised of “pop culture”, the publishing industry, Hollywood, advertising, the music industry, and the like, the sub-cultures might be the regional cultures in which we grew up or now currently live. Each region of the United States has its own culture, set of traditions, ethnic groups, and tacit expectations for women and their roles in society.
I grew up in the South where the standard of beauty is very high while also very distinct. Think “big hair”. When a young woman came of age, she did not just wear mascara and lip gloss. Oh no. I woke up at 5:30 AM to wash and blow dry my hair so that I could set it in hot rollers. Then, I had to apply the mask of foundation and powder, eye shadow, eye liner, cream blush and powder blush with a bit of highlighter to the cheekbones. The eyebrows were tweezed and finished with a bit of hairspray applied with an old toothbrush. The lips were exfoliated with Vaseline on yet another old toothbrush after which lip liner and lip stick were carefully applied with a lip brush. This was all set in place with a final application of powder. This make-up had to stand up to the Texas humidity. Then, on to the hair. Hot-rolled, curled, brushed, combed, teased, and shellacked with Aqua Net. Not even a flash flood was going to take down my do. Picking out the perfect outfit to match our hair and make-up was mandatory, and all Southern females put in the time. If you wanted to measure up, you had to do it. We looked like 15 year-old geishas quickly making our way to our classrooms, eyes darting back and forth from one girl to the next, catching our own reflection in locker door mirrors, wondering “Do I look good today? Does my hair look okay?” In the South, one tacit expectation for women is to look beautiful. I would classify that as a cultural expectation.
The fact is it matters to us what the next person thinks about us. It matters what my mom thinks. It matters what my best friend thinks. It matters what my neighbor or my child’s teacher thinks. And, in my case, it might matter that I meet the expectations of my regional culture. We don’t like to admit it because we think that we should be above it–”I don’t care what she thinks about me. I don’t care that I’m not fitting in.” Right. I don’t think it’s that easy because there is a human need to belong. We not only want to belong, but I believe that we need to belong. I could make a case for this assertion giving you evidence based in anthropology, evolution and group dynamics, but, suffice it to say, when we feel that we do not belong, we feel excluded and often out of control. Loneliness ensues, and we are left trying to meet that need through different and often harmful ways; Just because an inherent need goes unmet does not mean it goes away.
I’m not breaking new ground in what I’ve just said, but I want to say it again because I believe that the media takes advantage of our inherent need to be accepted. This is one reason why Americans spent over $7 billion on beauty products alone last year. Analysts at Goldman Sachs estimate that the global beauty industry is worth over $95 billion dollars and growing (www.economist.com). And again, the images that we consume on a daily basis do not reflect reality. Women are striving to reach an ideal that is unattainable.
This leads me to my point. I want you to watch this short video. It is called “The Photoshop Effect”. The process of learning to see yourself differently is much like tearing down a wall, brick by brick. Each brick has to be taken out individually, named for what it represents, and named for the person, culture, or idea that added it to our wall. We are steeped in a culture that puts forth the idea that women can be “perfect”, and then some version of “perfection” is put before us. We are then strongly encouraged to try to reach that level of perfection by any means necessary be it through purchasing products, exercise, dieting, cosmetic and plastic surgery, or any other sort of extreme activity. This video pulls back the curtain in order to show you that life in Oz is not what it seems.
“See Yourself Differently”–Part III
Psychologies Magazine UK Edition devoted almost an entire issue in June of this year to the topic of body image. The editors entitled it “Dossier: 18-Page Special–Feel Happy with Your Body”, and they put it on the front page. They chose former English supermodel, Jodie Kidd, as their cover model. Ms. Kidd was part of the “heroin chic” trend in fashion during the 1990s which launched Kate Moss to the top of the fashion world. At 15 years old, she was 6 ft 1 in and most likely a size 0.
Jodie Kidd, 1990s
Almost twenty years later, she is between a size 12 and 14. What’s more, she is happy and healthy. In her interview with Marianne Macdonald for Psychologies Magazine, Kidd explains:
“I have a 32in waist now. I am who I am, and I don’t really care. I’m size 12 to 14, I’ve got bits hanging out here, there and everywhere, and I’m happy. I’m a country girl, and to me there’s so much more beauty in trees wildlife and travelling and history and culture…Of course, I don’t think there’s one woman who does like her body, apart from Gisele (Bundchen). And even she would probably say she didn’t like hers…My bum’s too big, hips are too big and thighs are too big. I don’t think about it…I never got a boyfriend (when she was young). But my dad is 6ft 6in and my brother is 6ft 5in, so we’re a tall family. And a confident family as well, so I didn’t go, ‘I don’t like this’. It could be quite awkward (being tall) because you don’t feel like you fit in, but I luckily had the exuberance, life and character to not really give a toss. I’m very proud of my height. I’ll wear the highest heels possible so I’m 6ft 9in.” (Psychologies 21)
Jodie Kidd, 2007
I have included Ms. Kidd and part of her interview in this post because it provides a nice introduction to the next excerpt that I will be sharing from the article “See Yourself Differently” by Isabelle Taubes for Psychologies Magazines UK Edition June 2010. If you are new to the discussion, you can read the previous article excerpts here: “See Yourself Differently”–Part I and “See Yourself Differently”–Part II.
In the first two excerpts, Taubes discusses our views of ourselves in relation to the ‘ego-ideal’. Essentially, as Taubes puts it, “We love ourselves according to how we measure up to our ideal perfection. The higher we set the bar, the greater the risk that we’ll feel we’ve let ourselves down.” What I have been attempting to point out is that we ourselves are not the only ones raising and lowering that bar. There are many influences. The first influence that I’ve discussed is the media. I’ve taken us back to the 19th. c. Paris Salon in order to explain that we can develop a more critical and discerning mind when looking at the images that are presented to us (see Variation on a Theme). Just because an image of another person’s body represents beauty, sexuality, desire, health, or perfection to someone else or even to the culture at large does not mean that it does for you. We have the right to decide what is healthy, appropriate, and attainable for us, and if we are going to thrive in this culture, we must learn to do this. We choose how high or low our “bar” is. Not Hollywood. Not the beauty industry. Not the publishing industry. Not Madison Avenue. And, certainly not People Magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful People issue.
That being said, who else influences the placement of our “bar”? Our families.
“If we had a good relationship with our family from early on, we may develop an ego-ideal so flexible and forgiving that we won’t become obsessed with what we lack. We may understand that, for example, having a big nose does not make us contemptible, or that we can be a good person without needing to be the centre of attention.
Our ego-ideal is based on our parents’ perception of us, their demands and their hopes. ‘My mother worshipped me,’ says Michael, 55. ’In her eyes I was the most beautiful boy in the world. Even if in reality I am no Greek god, I never doubted my appeal. I recently married a beautiful woman 20 years younger than me.’
‘Someone with a far from perfect physique, who felt validated during their childhood, can still feel confident in their appearance,’ says Prades. ’It’s the power of love.’ If we were surrounded by love as children, would our self-esteem be assured for life? That would be far too simple. A father, disappointed that his teenage daughter is no longer the adorable little thing she was at 10 years old, may treat her more coolly and as a result she may start to think that she’s become repulsive. A mother, dismayed at her own ageing, is full of insecurities and can be just as destructive.
‘My mother was so anxious about getting old, she couldn’t cope with my growing up,’ remembers Marie, 39. ’Whenever she gave me a compliment, she would immediately undermine it, so she would say something like, “You have nice legs, but at your age, mine were thinner”. She couldn’t help herself. Maybe that’s why I have no confidence in my own body.’
But as well as conscious emotions, such as love and hate, subconscious desires can be very powerful. ’If they were expecting a son but they had a daughter, parents will be disappointed, albeit subconsciously. Even if they give masses of love to their little girl, she won’t be able to avoid thinking that her body is inadequate,’ says psychoanalyst Françoise Dupin.” (Psychologies 106)
Suddenly, the media is feeling like a much easier topic to discuss. The media is external to our lives. I took a trip a few years ago to the Cascade Mountains. I had my cell phone, but it didn’t work. There was little point in bringing a computer. There was no television because there was no electricity where I was staying. There were no magazines anywhere. I was completely free of all media, but I wasn’t free of something else. The voices of my past. Our families are not external to our lives. They are very much an internal part. Our experiences in our families, for better or for worse, are foundational to our lives. Taubes says it: “Our ego-ideal is based on our parents’ perception of us, their demands and their hopes.” In large part, how we view ourselves, the ruler with which we measure ourselves, is given to us largely by our parents.
I introduced you to Jodie Kidd in the beginning of this article. She is an interesting figure to me because she represents a woman who made a successful transition from a very challenging adolescence as a teenage model to a woman who “grew into” herself. If you’ll notice from her interview, she describes her family as confident, and they were able to impart this confidence to her as well. So, as she witnessed her young body change from boyishly thin and lanky to voluptuous and full, she was able to transition from awkwardness to self-acceptance. She admits that she finds fault with her shape, but she also admits that she’s proud of the one physical attribute that made her feel the most awkward during her adolescence–her height. I believe that she is so proud of her height because her family is so confidently tall. Kidd’s story reinforces Taubes’ assertion that if we have a good relationship with our family from early on, we might develop a flexible and forgiving ego-ideal that will prevent us from obsessing on perceived lacks.
You may be asking, ‘What if I did not have that sort of family experience?’ If you’ve read any of my other posts, then you know I did not. My response? There is time, and we shall explore that because it needs exploration. It’s part of telling the truth (Step 1) and moving forward. How are we ever going to learn to see ourselves differently, learning to like what we see in the process, if we never realize why we don’t in the first place?
What I want to leave you with is this: In any of your familial experiences, were you left with any positive gifts relating to body image? Jodie Kidd was given confidence. I’ll share. Mind you, I had to think about this one; but if I can come up with one, then I know that you can, too.
I have great feet. I really do. My mom would always paint her toenails, and I think I picked up the habit of painting my toenails from her. My mother has never left the house without having painted toenails. I am very similar. Even without having my nails painted, however, I can say without a doubt that I have pretty feet. I like the shape of my toes. I like the size of my feet. They aren’t too big or too small. The skin on the top of my feet is very smooth, and my feet tan in the summer. I wear sandals all summer long so that I can show off my pedicured toes and suntanned feet. Even when I neglect to keep up with nail polish, I still like my feet. Even when my feet are dirty and the nails grow a little long, I still like my feet. Even if another person came along and insulted my feet, I wouldn’t care in the least because I like my feet. That was my mother’s gift to me. She cared for her feet, and she taught me to care for mine. I don’t know if she ever said that I had nice feet, but because I spent so much time looking at my feet, “doing my toenails”, and caring for my feet, I learned to like my feet and see them as pretty. Consequently, I like to look at other people’s feet. I think that feet are interesting.
Is there a part of your body that you especially like? Your hands? Your skin? Your hair? Your eyes? Ears? Lips? Nose? Bottom? Thighs? Stomach? Feet? Your height? Your posture? Your smile? Your neck? Back? Ankles? Your wrists? We spend so much time discussing what we don’t like. Spend some time thinking about what you do like in a deliberate manner. If you like your hands, then apply some lotion to your hands as an act of tenderness and appreciation. If you like your hair, then take an extra minute or two when you are washing it, feeling it, running your fingers though it. If you like your skin, spend a few minutes admiring it, feeling it, “being in it”. Whatever it is that you like about yourself, spend some time attending to yourself. We are able to look at our flaws with the focus of a laser. Turn some of that energy into positive self-attention. If this is too uncomfortable for you, then merely ask the question: “What part of me might be beautiful, interesting, or striking if I were a stranger looking at me for the first time from a distance?” Whether you know the answer or not, you are beautiful. Learning to see yourself differently is a process, and it is a worthwhile one at that.
As for me, I’m going to spend some time painting my toenails.
Keep, Recycle, or Trash?
A friend of mine recommended this blog to me: www.alreadypretty.com. I am now going to recommend it to you–this post in particular, http://www.alreadypretty.com/search/label/psychology, because it builds on what we’ve been discussing in the last few posts. I think that you will find her entire blog helpful, encouraging, useful, and edifying as you begin the process of deciding how high the standard of beauty, your own beauty, is going to be. She’s an honest writer, and she’ll make you laugh, too.
“See Yourself Differently”–Part II
"Girl at Mirror", 1954 by Norman Rockwell
As promised, we are continuing our journey into learning to like our bodies. In my earlier post, “See Yourself Differently”–Part I, I cited from an article with the same title written by Isabelle Taubes for Psychologies Magazine UK Edition. Because Psychologies Magazine does not archive their articles online, I am posting longer excerpts here for discussion purposes. If you have not been following the discussion, you can find the first part of this article at “See Yourself Differently”–Part I.
“Someone suffering from anorexia sees themself (sic) as enormous even though they are skeletal, and someone suffering from body dysmorphia is constantly discovering new monstrosities that only they can see. What is the demon that dominates the way we perceive ourselves and our relationship with our bodies? Freud called it the ‘ego-ideal’, and its role is to manage our relationship with all that we would like to be and do.
We love ourselves according to how we measure up to our ideal of perfection. The higher we set the bar, the greater the risk that we’ll feel we’ve let ourselves down. (italics added) Someone with an uncompromising ego-ideal believes that to be lovable they must look like a supermodel, so it’s inevitable that they feel unattractive as they are. Adolescents may be prone to anorexia, and their lives will be punctuated by long periods of dieting. Orbach points out that comparing our bodies to an ideal makes us more likely to fall short, and even fall ill. ‘While we demand more rigour and have high expectations of what the fit, healthy and beautiful body can deliver us, there is an increase in symptoms, from sexual dissatisfactions to eating problems and fear of ageing,‘ she says.” (Psychologies 106)
I am going to interject here. Did you notice this quote from Susie Orbach?: “While we demand more rigour and have high expectations of what the fit, healthy and beautiful body can deliver us, there is an increase in symptoms, from sexual dissatisfactions to eating problems and fear of ageing.” Firstly, I am fully supportive of a healthy body. We cannot live the lives for which we were created from a hospital bed, but what constitutes “healthy”? Susie Orbach uses the same language to discuss the body that one might use to discuss a car’s performance. She uses words like “rigour”, “demand”,”high expectations”, “beautiful”, and “deliver”. These are words that advertisers use when talking to consumers. Why not? It’s very possible that we could treat our bodies like some sort of product to be used and consumed. It must be shaped, altered, pushed, pulled, stretched, injected, lipoed, worked, punished, deprived, and changed in order to deliver us the life we want. This is the message that advertisers send us through magazine ads, television commercials, films, radio ads, music videos, ad nauseum on a daily basis. Our minds are bombarded with the message–”You are not good enough as you are, but you could be…”–whenever you are faced with any sort of media short of listening to NPR unless you feel intellectually inferior. Listen to NPR enough, however, and you might just walk away feeling a boost in your IQ. Read People Magazine or watch E! Channel long enough, and you will certainly not feel a boost in your self-esteem.
The question I’ve been asking in my last few posts is “Who is setting the bar for us?” as far as beauty goes? I’ve named the media as one culprit. There are others, and I’m going to get to those. But, let me share a story with you to illustrate this point a bit further. I have a brilliant friend. She is a writer for a major television network, and she also moonlights as a screenwriter. She has a lot of “connections” in Hollywood, and she also knows many other writers in the entertainment industry. I am secretly envious of her (well, not so secretly) because she knows Tina Fey. One cold, wintry night last year, I was fortunate enough to spend an evening with my brilliant friend, and we began discussing the issue of body image in Hollywood. She was more than willing to share her opinion, but being the discreet woman that she is, she refused to name names. She did, however, tell me tales of how these famous Hollywood actresses maintained their famous physiques–drugs, cigarettes, coffee, and alcohol. I choked on my chai. ”Surely not,” I gasped, “this isn’t the 1970s anymore!” She rolled her eyes at me, and said, “Get real,” in her characteristic deadpan tone. She went on to tell me how these television stars relied on cocaine to get them through the 20-hour work days. They rarely ate. They were typically a size 0 or 2. She said that the shows for which she writes now have “clean sets” meaning no drugs, but in the past that was not the case. The stories that these stars tell the American public through their publicists like, “I love the new Zone diet, and I have a trainer who helps me follow a good exercise routine” are often bogus. Much of it is spin.
As I sat at her kitchen table processing this information which really did not seem too far-fetched, she went on to tell me about another writer. He was a local writer who was happily married. He, too, wrote for a major network, and he was being pressured by one of the show’s producers to move to Los Angeles. He didn’t want to move to L.A. because he and his wife were happily settled here. The producer went on to ask him why he was unwilling to leave the area; the producer then asked him if it was because of his wife. The writer did say that his wife’s family was indeed near, but he himself was happy to stay. The producer then asked, “Is your wife L.A. caliber?” (This is a true story.) The producer offered to pay the writer’s wife a certain sum of money to essentially “go away”. The writer could then divorce said wife, move to L.A. in order to churn out more entertainment for the masses, and upgrade to L.A. caliber wife 2.0. Hear what I say, this producer in Hollywood is one of thousands propping up the entertainment industry in this country. That industry churns out billions of images which dictates the standard of beauty in this country. They are a huge piece of the media pie that is setting the bar for all of us. To that producer, that writer’s wife was expendable, worthless even, because she did not fit his standard of beauty! She could just be paid off and sent on her way so that his end goal could be accomplished–another episode on his hit television show.
Understand that you are not expendable. That producer and the industry that he represents do not get to set your bar for you. You do! The media does not have that privilege unless we agree. I think that is the key to learning to thrive in this culture. We must remember the Parisians in the 19th c. Paris Salon when Ingres presented them with “La Grande Odalisque” (see A Variation on a Theme). While his painting was beautiful, and it appealed to the senses just as modern-day representations of beauty do, the Parisians recognized that it was not realistic in the slightest. And, because it was not realistic, it was not obtainable or relevant; therefore, it was a sort of absurd beauty. The 21st c. media’s representation of beauty while fantastic, tempting, appealing, and provocative is also absurd; it is time that we learn to appreciate it, but reject it. Your beauty, on the other hand, while perhaps still hidden to you is very relevant, and it is time that we all come out from under the shadow of “La Grande Odalisque” and her legacy.
“Fat to Fabulous”?
Because we are discussing body image, I want to share an article I read today. 31 year-old actress, Jennifer Love Hewitt did an interview with Alexis Chiu of People Magazine recently. To provide some background information for you, some photographs appeared on the internet that were taken of Ms. Hewitt during a 2007 Hawaii vacation. She was wearing a bikini, playing in the surf, and looked to be having a lovely time. Many members of the blogosphere branded her “fat”, and the tabloid press ripped her body apart, inch by inch. Ms. Hewitt is a beautiful, voluptuous woman. There is nothing wrong with her body.
Jennifer Love Hewitt, 2007
Is this what we are going to define as “fat”? Clearly, she is not fat. She did not benefit from the flattering lighting of a studio or digital alterations like airbrushing, but she is nonetheless beautiful. Her shape is utterly feminine and “hour glass”. Are you offended by this image? If so, why? Do you think that she “ought” to look better? Do you find her to be flawed? If so, what are her flaws?
Being raked across the coals by the media solely for how she looked had a profound effect on Ms. Hewitt. She was engaged when these photos were taken and published. That engagement ended shortly thereafter. She quickly became engaged again. That relationship ended, too. Obviously, I do not know the reasons why two relationships failed, but I am fairly certain that they were not helped by her experience. In her interview with Ms. Chiu she discusses her life after these photos surfaced, and what she now has to do to “be happy” with herself. In my opinion, it is extreme. Please read this article. Think about it. Is it possible to invest so much energy in our appearance that we fail to cultivate a rich inner life? Aren’t we more than just our bodies?
http://www.people.com/people/archive/article/0,,20395306,00.html
