I’ve fucked up a lot in my life. I mean, who hasn’t, right? Sometimes we just know something, or someone, isn’t good for us, and we still decide to go for it, because, what’s the worst that could happen? I’ve spent the better part of my life at war with myself for the many (many, many) mistakes I’ve made, torturing myself, thinking about how I could’ve done or said something better; about how anything that didn’t work out the way I wanted was solely my fault. Because surely, I must’ve done something wrong, said the wrong thing, or simply been the wrong kind of person, right?
For years, I beat myself up over trivial things, like wearing the wrong outfit to school for my senior picture day at college, or texting that guy who I had an almost-relationship with 3 years ago (quarantine was the perfect excuse). I have spent whole days beating myself up for the mistakes of my past without realizing that I kept acting in the same pattern as always. The fuck-ups that define me have not always been mine, but I somehow still find myself going over them time and time again in my head.
Sure, texting my almost-ex for the 10th time while knowing what his answer will be (short and sweet but ultimately uninterested) and wearing those linen pants for my senior photo weren’t great choices, but they’re not that big of a deal. Out of all the fuck-ups in my life, one of the biggest ones is how long it took it to get rid of the world’s expectations of me. Once I started not giving a damn about what other people expected from me, or expected me to become, or to think, or to believe I felt happier with myself.
For so long I allowed other people to dictate what I thought of myself and my body, but oddly enough, I learned to accept myself and found my power through the validation of others… More accurately, through people finding me sexually attractive. There’s entire books and essays about how we shouldn’t depend on anyone but ourselves for validation, and sure, now I don’t depend on the external stimulus of other people’s admiration and validation of me and my body, but it’s always a nice thing to get. I guess some people would consider this a fuck-up on my part, something that goes directly against “my feminist opinions” (it doesn’t, by the way, but people love telling me what a feminist should and shouldn’t believe). My journey of self-love and self-acceptance isn't what most would consider "ideal", but who the fuck cares? It's my own and it has worked. Through different aspects of sex and coming to terms with my own sexuality I found the power and confidence that had been locked up inside me for so long.
Wanna know what’s really fucked up, though? What’s really fucked up is living through a childhood of verbal and physical abuse, where my mother would make me, an 8 year old girl, stand in front of a mirror and remind me how I was fat and unlovable. What’s really fucked up is a teenager trying to hide her healthy, fully functioning body because at size 12 she was deemed too large to be accepted by others (and sadly, herself). What’s really fucked up is having found my way into an industry that not only preys on my insecurities on weight, age, and beauty (and those of millions of women around the world), but thrives on them. What’s really fucked up is the idea that perfection exists. That someday, if we manage to be skinny, tall, tan or pretty enough we’ll just magically be happy. What is truly fucked up is the idea that we’re taught to hate and change ourselves in the pursuit of an ideal that does not exist.
So yes, I’ve fucked up a lot. There’ve been hook-ups I regret, break-ups I regret, and other thousand ups and downs that have forged my rocky and imperfect relationship with myself. My mistakes, big or small, have been mine, and for better or worse, I’m still here, still standing (if those last two words don’t make you think of the Elton John song, we can’t be friends). I am the sum of all my fuck-ups, but also, the sum of all my hits and successes.
The road to self-love goes through various stages: self-hate, a war with yourself, the abandonment of oneself, a truce, and finally slowly starting to realize the beauty in the little (big) things our bodies can do. Without the negative side of this story, there would never have been the positive. Without the dark times and the fuck-ups, I would've never become that confident woman I am now, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Xo,
C.
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