‘Survival of the fittest’, that is what I was always taught, but what is fit and survival of what? To be fit of mind means the survival of knowledge, and fit of body means survival of the species. Perhaps spiritual fitness or emotional. Why do life’s greatest lessons have to be so vague?
Since I was old enough to comprehend things I saw in day-to-day life, I was shown the perfect body image, the perfect intelligence level, and the perfect emotional level expected of a woman. Which generally boiled down to measurements of 36-26-36 or less, with a high school diploma, and a dream of children and a loving, supporting spouse.
Was that what I had to look forward to? Two point five kids, and a husband, while striving to stay slim and trim.
At first I paid no heed. I was too young to know or care about the ideals of society. Then came high school. Suddenly I wasn’t good enough, or at least I felt that way. My weight was too high, my grades too low, and my social life too nonexistent. I was a reject of society. Say good-bye self-esteem. Everywhere I turned I was bombarded with images of perfection that I couldn’t hold a flame to. Models of flawlessness glistening on every page of my magazines. While I stared at my reflection in disgust.
Grade ten rounded the bend, and I had overcome a few hurdles. My social life had gained a pulse and my grades were acceptably average. Yet still my self-image and confidence took a turn for the worse every time I opened a magazine. I was at a loss for what I was to do. I knew I didn’t have the self-control to diet, and I wasn’t into exercise, apart from my general activities. After dealing with the anguish of my less than perfect self, I resigned to my fate.
Graduation: social life surviving; grades average; body image, still fighting. I looked great in my dress or so I was told. I actually did feel pretty good about myself. So why was I so terrified? Maybe it was that I had finally found a niche in life I enjoyed, or perhaps just being flung out into the real world was the problem. Either way I was distraught.
Sure I had lived through the major hurdles of being a teenager. Such as the hopeless love disaster, the rejection of some frivolous crush, and the biggest hurdle of all dealing with sex and it’s repercussions. I was the first of my friends to have sex, and they were shocked. At the time I felt like an outcast, the one who had lost her precious virginity, but after a time I dealt and realized that they wouldn’t understand until it happened to them.
I always tried to fit in during high school, having grown up hearing I had to be accepted by society, it was mandatory to find out where I fit. Only problem, I didn’t, or maybe I didn’t want to. Either way, it was a struggle. Sure I tried to be cool and trendy, but it was always an act to me. I found kindred spirits, but never what I longed for, acceptance. I had a need to belong, somewhere, anywhere. Boy did I try, and boy did I fail. Bouncing from one group of friend to another and back again. Inwardly crying out for approval, but by whom?
All my life I’d been told to have direction. By graduation I was supposed to know what I wanted to do for a living, then go out and do it. Only one problem, I hadn’t a clue. I had an affinity for writing, but everyone told me it was a dead end street and to be more realistic. Perhaps an accountant, or a dental assistant, they would say, or don’t bother with a BA in Literature it won’t get you a job. So much for following my dreams I guess.
After school my social life declined quickly, I no longer had anything in common with my so-called friends, not to mention little interest in continuing my education. Mother said, “I was in a transition period,” in my life. What the hell does that mean?
My home life at this point was as dreary as my social. My parents had split during the end of my grade 12 year. I must admit no big surprise. Not to imply I wasn’t distressed, just not surprised. My mother moved out and in with her boyfriend, co-incidentally my father’s best friend, and long time family friend, (who had also recently left his wife). Needless to say my father was bitter. He loved my mother dearly and I suppose she loved him too, just not the same way anymore. I don’t know why it didn’t bother me very much, I guess as I said I’d always expected it. So my mother moved out, and a few weeks after grad I did too. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my father or that we didn’t get along, it just seemed the thing to do was live with my mother. My brothers didn’t take the separation well; the older of course found distractions, at 16 it wasn’t hard; cars, girls. The younger, who stayed with my father, took it harder. I suppose it was the effect of living with my father’s bitterness and resentment. All we could do was wait for him to come around.
Thus I became another statistic, a child of divorce.
I suppose by now my mental health was wavering. I could deal with my parents no problem. Could deal with my being socially unacceptable, even my lack of direction in life. I could not however deal with my own self-loathing. My self-esteem took a nosedive, with my self-image and confidence following suit. I felt lost in a world of self-hatred and depression. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t seem to pull myself out of the rut I had dug.
I hung out with my friends, a happy smile on my face, not that I was really happy. Though as the saying goes, ‘Always put your best foot forward’, and I did. I was fun, and humorous, and energetic, on the outside. On the inside I was scared, and angry, and lethargic. No one was the wiser. I always seemed the model of a content friend. Only when I was alone did I truly feel free to express myself. I choose to do this in the form of poetry and stories, seeing how writing was my great passion it seemed only right, I also wrote in my diary all the things I couldn’t say allowed. Things I couldn’t say aloud, that was the key, everything I felt I couldn’t put into speech. Words, yes; Voice, no. My writing was my salvation, my escape.
I lived through my writing. With every stroke of the pen, or key, I was being released of some emotion I couldn’t otherwise be relieved of. My heart lightened, my soul grew. Somewhere along the line, my self-image resurfaced from the pit of darkness it had fallen into. As did my self-esteem and confidence, I was able to hold my head up and say, ‘This is who I am, either deal with it or get lost!’.
I had figured out who I was. What I wanted and needed out of life, and most importantly how to attain these things. With my head held high I walk on this night, another soul searching the world for kindred spirits and dreams worth living.
I am who I am, why mess with perfection.