I think about skin. A lot. I worry over signs of aging; are my wrinkles getting more prominent, is that an age spot or a freckle, why is that sagging?? I spend beyond my means in order to immerse myself in magic elixirs and dragon’s blood to smear away perceived imperfections.
It’s a mystery to me why I’m so okay with destroying said skin with sharp objects.
I’ve always been told I look like my mother. It took me many years to realize she is beautiful. Growing up I never heard her say anything positive about her appearance. My interpretation? My mom is not pretty and everyone thinks I look like her therefore I am not pretty. I’ve never told my mom this. Hey, I think my self-esteem issues are rooted in your inability to see your own beauty. Thanks. Nah. I take responsibility for my tangled thoughts.
Does it matter what I look like? I’m a sign-toting feminist who rages at people for judging others on surface value. Do I have to be pretty to be kind? Do I have to have an American-approved “hot body” in order to be acknowledged?
Are these reasons why I sometimes want to carve away my skin? Do I want people to really listen to me, really get to know me, without the distraction of this façade? If I peel away the skin then people would have to judge me on what is inside – my ideas, my creative drive, and my opinions. Which are not all sunshine and bunny rabbits despite what my smile may imply.
The flip is I enjoy wearing nice clothes and fabulous high heels. “Dressing the crazy up” is what I call my ritual. Maybe if I pretend to be one of the pretty people no one will notice the lattice work of white scars. Then again, I don’t care if people do see the scars. They are as much a part of me as are my freckles.
I don’t have to make sense; I’m human. I’m okay with being a messy human.
I’ve painted the following quote on canvas which hangs in my bedroom:
“You have more to do than be weighed down by pretty or beautiful. You are a fiery heart and a wicked brain. Do not let your soul be defined by its shell.”