The Nightmare Before Us

At what age did glancing at the mirror become a foreboding task? Was it at 15? The year of catcalls and boys’ sexualizing glare? Perhaps I need to go further back. I guess that it started at age 11. It was the year of puberty and stretch marks. Maybe I started hating myself when I was 9, and the old men at church would stare at my legs while praying to God. Or maybe, just maybe, this all started the day that I was born. It’s the day that marks the beginning of the world objectifying me before I have the chance to speak.

I remember in elementary school when the teacher asked us to describe our perfect future. Being young and impressionable meant I only had my parents’ lives as a model. I wrote that I wanted to live in a small house with a log fire. I wanted a bunch of kids and a husband who worked every day while I stayed home. I would cook and clean and dedicate my life to theirs. At the time, I couldn’t imagine something greater. It didn’t help that everyone around me encouraged it.

As I grew older, I started to rebel. I was a teenager who loved to read, so I did my research. I examined the Christianity under which I had been raised with a close eye. I read a million articles and interviews written by women, for women. I debunked (sexist) opinions about how I shouldn’t wear tight shirts or talk too loud. I started forming thoughts for myself.

I noticed that people didn’t like that. My classmates would berate me and tell me that feminism was stupid. My parents and I watched politicians debate women’s bodies and same-sex marriage, and I spoke up and told them how that made me feel. They said that I didn’t understand.

I started to stand up for myself. When the boys in my grade said something harmful, I would retaliate. Someone once screamed at a girl who had an abortion. I told him he does not have a say in what she chooses to do with her body. He just laughed and walked away. That response seemed to happen often.

Somehow, I would always be the center of attention at family dinners. They would back me into a corner and shove sexism, racism, and homophobia down my throat. I observed how they would physically react when I spoke. They distorted their faces into a glare of absolute disgust. I always understood that look as one of disappointment.

My entire life, I was told that a woman was defined by a man. Her father, lover, and sons all made her who she was. I specifically remember what my father said to me during a car ride. He told me that women are sacred vessels of God. We shouldn’t have tattoos or swear, and we must save ourselves for our husbands. He spoke like this often. He would just keep going and never stop talking. In the same conversation, he mentioned that he would disown me if he found out I was gay. I would be nothing to him. I still haven’t come out to him, and I don’t think I ever will. Sometimes pretending keeps us safe.

Now, I have an actual plan for my life. It doesn’t revolve around my family or a man. It’s about me. I’m finally being selfish. It feels so good. I am a woman; I am perfect.

Stop teaching your daughters to belittle themselves. Stop telling women that they are weak and less. Society has built such a horrible structure for girls. I can say this because I have lived it. I am experiencing all of it each second. It’s not something that will go away overnight, but it is something that we can defeat every day. I have learned so much and am always open to learning more. I’ll live life and stare down the world as I do it; it’ll serve as a not-so-gentle reminder to everyone who sees me that a woman can, and is, living this way.