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Everyone has a story to tell. Everyone has a past. Every past leaves an indelible mark on us all. Some marks are more visible; easier to see, like a tattoo on the skin. Others are not quite so apparent; those marks left within the psyche. But, just because you cannot see them with your eyes, that doesn’t mean that they aren’t there. They are not invisible; one only needs to look closer because it is there, written in the fine print.
All too often, we, all of us, wish that there was something about ourselves that wasn’t there. We wish that there was something about ourselves that we could erase or take away or change, and usually, that something has to do with our own pasts. We wish that we’d not made one mistake, which snowballed into a catastrophe as we may see it. We all wish we didn’t have that one defining element of tragedy in our lives, which led us to a dark place and forced us to make the difficult decisions in our lives, which may or may not have been fair ones to have to make. I’ve had large doses of both.
But, I can say today that, I don’t wish anything that had happened to me in my life hadn’t happened, however tragic, painful, difficult or unfair. I can’t say that I wish that they’d never happened. I also cannot say that I’m glad that they happened to me either. I don’t claim that I deserved them; much of what had happened, no one deserves. But, I can say that I am okay with the fact that they had happened.
They have certainly left their marks on me, both visible and not so visible. Much of what had happened did lead me down some very dark paths. I’ve been struggling with major depression for more than 25 years. I am now 34-years-old, so yes, I’ve been depressed most of my life. I’ve been grappling with this depression internally for roughly 4/5 of my life in some constructive and some not so constructive ways.
Being depressed has had its advantages. For instance, it has made me very creative and artistic. Because the nature of depression often keeps its sufferers so isolated and alone, we’re forced to adapt to a way of life, which is sustainable without the contact of others. As such, I’ve been forced to become my own friend, so to speak. If I was to be with myself all the time, I needed to enjoy my own company. Therefore, I’ve learned to write, to draw, to sew, to cook. I’ve learned to express myself and to communicate with myself in ways, which made sense to me.
Actually, what I’d said about “being my own friend” wasn’t exactly true. Most of the time, I cannot stand myself. There is very little about me that I enjoy. However, because of what I’d learned about myself in those dark times, I’ve managed to “create” my own friends in my writing and in my art. Most of what I write, when I’m not sharing my thoughts with you, are fictional stories. I’m a geek. The series of fictional stories I’ve been working on for the last six years now, have kept me going, even when I don’t want to. I have to keep myself alive so as to keep them alive and to see where they may lead me.
There’s not much about these stories that I want to share with you at the present time, but I will say that there are two main characters whom I’ve subconsciously infused with different halves of my personality. They both have become my alter egos as it were. I love them as though they were real people; to me, they are very much alive. It is for this reason (among many others) that I must go on.
These statements reflect the inner markings, which my past has left upon me and the motivation that those marks have given me to go on. There are some other, very visible marks on me as well. I’ll now share them with you and the motivation that they’ve given me.
It’s no secret that I am a rape survivor. I don’t hide that fact from anyone. I don’t flaunt it either, but I do share my story with others in an effort to assist others who’ve been in the same or similar situations, to help them to transcend.
More than the rapes, I was also beaten. I bear the marks of the battery on my skin; they serve as a constant reminder of all that had happened to me in my past.
There was a time, most of my life in fact, when I was so ashamed and embarrassed of my scars that I couldn’t bear to view them, to touch them or even allow them to be viewed or touched by others. The memories and the history they bear were all too painful.
Now, however, I am able to wear them with pride, for they are records of my past. They are a part of me and they have come to represent my strength, my courage, my heroism and my survival.
Not all of my markings are records of a painful, traumatic event inflicted upon me. Many of my scars represent self loathing and were a means to escape my innermost pain and torment. They’re stories, carved into my flesh of, perhaps the most tragic parts of my life, the failed attempts at ending my life.
At that time, writing my own tragic drama on my body, served to release the venomous agony I could never seem to shed. As I lay there watching as I bled the pain away, the burning passion of hate within me was replaced with the cold, sweet release that death could bring me.
I can’t say what stopped me at that moment. What thoughts went through my mind in the moments where I watched myself bleeding a puddle on the floor?
The answer, I expect, is the powerful and overriding memories of my mother, who saved my life once before when I was being assaulted. I couldn’t bring myself to completing the deed, knowing that my suffering would become her suffering; I had no right to take the life she brought into this world and worked so selflessly to protect.
These scars too were far too painful to reveal to the world. And, for years, I never revealed them to anyone.
Much has changed in recent times. I’ve grown to understand my fear and my self-loathing. I’ve come to terms with my past and I now recognize that I am transgender. Upon accepting this, I’ve come to use these marks, both within and without, as motivation to move forward and to share my story.
I used to be so ashamed of my body and my scars, but now, I’m empowered by them. True, I do not possess the body that I desire (no trans* person does), but I am not alone. There are millions of us who don’t have that, which they desire.
I see, hear and read everyday about people whose bodies are a source of much pain and sadness. I look at these people and realize just how beautiful they are, even when the world tells them that they aren’t. Even when they tell themselves that they aren’t. They are all masterpieces of human perfection. Their perfection comes from their imperfection. Their beauty, from their uniqueness.
I am learning to see myself that way as well, though, it’s exceedingly difficult. I’ve never hated a person more than I have hated myself. Needless to say, celebrating one’s enemy is extremely difficult to do. But, I am taking great steps toward doing just that.
This is why I have created a blog about body positivity. It is why I am now willing to put on display, the stories written upon my body for others to read and to appreciate like the works of art that they are. These scars, this body, these have become my motivation behind a project to create a gallery of portraits of those people who have told themselves or have been told that they are “less than,” that they are defective, that they are ugly. Those vituperative remarks are lies. I believe ugliness should not be judged by how one looks when compared to artificial ideals manufactured by people who have power, wealth and delight in the superficial. Beauty is skin-deep. Ugliness, true ugliness is within. So, I will make it my personal goal to share with the world just what true beauty and perfection are. And, that is what we all are.
