By any other name

I have a friend who has used electrolysis to remove all the hair on her arms and legs, receives regular Botox for her wrinkles, has eyeliner tattoos, and has undergone plastic surgery on her nose, breasts, and eyelids. Despite all these actions, she still finds herself unattractive.

I have a cousin who after decades of struggling with anorexia, committed suicide.

My friend’s choices have baffled me and I have judged her harshly for buying into the beauty myth created by patriarchy in partnership with sexism, racism, and ageism. I have even found her complicit in my cousin’s death: women who choose to alter their bodies in pursuit of the impossible ideal reinforce the notions that it is both desirable and attainable thereby amplifying the already deafening message women receive that they are not thin/tall/young/blond/white enough.

Then, this morning, sitting with the usual barrage of self-loathing that greets me upon waking, it occurred to me that I am no different really, my struggle just happens to be not with my body but with my worth as a person. The blade of my self-criticism is just as sharp as that of a plastic surgeon and no change, improvement or accomplishment is ever enough to erase the idea that there is something wrong with me and my life. I live my life in pursuit of a myth of self-worth that is based upon an impossible ideal, engaged in the constant battle of comparing which leaves me feeling not good enough.

I can see that my friend was beautiful with her smaller breasts, hairy arms, and droopy eyelids. I could see that my cousin was thin enough. Though I understood the social forces that contributed to the fact that one sees herself as ugly and the other as fat, part of me still judged them for lifetimes of both accepting their distorted self-views and making choices over and over that reinforced these lies as truth.

But I have fared no better really with seeing myself as a worthwhile person living a good life. Who am I to point fingers and cast blame? Indeed how am I contributing to the perpetuation of the myth of worth being based on what one does rather than upon who one is (with all its devastating consequences) when I question my self-worth?

This morning’s realization has left me deeply remorseful for how harshly I have judged my friend. I am also however deeply grateful for the priceless gift of seeing that the idea of needing to earn a sense of self-worth is no less a lie than needing to change one’s body in even the slightest way to be beautiful.

Afterward: I refer to this woman as being my friend when, in truth, she is, the friend of a friend. Though I have never expressed my disdain to her regarding the alterations she has made to her body, I think it is quite likely that the very fact that I held her in disdain is at least partly responsible for the fact that we have never become friends. It is my hope that in time letting go of my judgement of her will open the door for a friendship to grow between us.