Warning: mention of eating disorders and body image
“When you turn 18, we can fly to Turkey to fix your nose.” my Mother would say whenever she saw my distorted nose. She would glide her finger from the peak of my nose and slide down, to her my nose resembled a ski slope. “Your brother's noses are beautiful; you got the short end of the stick”. From such a young age, I could never understand why she would fixate on my nose, nobody else seemed to care, but these comments gradually eroded my self-esteem. The sight of my nose would evoke an allergic reaction out of her, “Do you want to get surgery?” or “You could balance a plate on it.”. Not only did she comment on my nose, but all my features, “You're so yellow”, “I was half your size when I was your age”. Each remark planted a seed of doubt in my mind. I have a large nose, a big, fat Greek one with a significantly tall, strong bridge and a prominent bump at the top. Even from all the comments I get, I've never hated my nose, not once, nor my skin or my weight, but this made me question myself; should I not like myself?
I questioned my appearance and not only myself but others around me. I started to compare myself to others at school, picking and choosing the ripest fruits. Lexie had the best hair, silky cascading blonde hair and Emily had the best eyes, alluring, radiant green eyes set against her porcelain skin. Why can't I look like them? I became a slave to my own thoughts and as time went on my obsession mirrored back onto myself. I was at odds with myself, walking with a blood-shod self-esteem and loathing in doubt. Should I look this way too? I developed a disorder to worship those who were admired for their beauty.
Admired and beautiful.
I do not know if I can be one of them.
I began with diets, diving headfirst with counting calories and carefully choosing whatever passed my lips. Even the thought of seasonings and cooking with oil frightened me. There's too much sodium in salt, cinnamon has twenty calories in a tablespoon, and a tablespoon of olive oil is fourteen percent saturated fat. These all made me anxious and made me clutch my boiled broccoli and Diet Coke. Exercising became a daily ritual of pushing myself to the absolute limit. On the surface I told people that I wanted to get “stronger”, but in truth, I desired to be thin, fragile, scrawny. Though not skinny - I hated the word “skinny”. I despised it. I believed that people used it too loosely and it had lost its true meaning. People who were of ordinary weight used it to describe themselves. I wanted to be beyond that. My Mother never asked me to change, but I loved knowing that out of all the features that my Mother hated about me, I could fix one. Kate Moss's mantra, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”, became my guiding principle, tattooed to my brain. Looking at myself became a struggle, as each glance repulsed me and reminded me of my mother's expectations. I tried to confine this by applying makeup, straightening my hair, and changing style, but I felt like a pig putting on lipstick. There were some moments I felt that looking at myself was a greater sacrifice than going blind. However, my devotion paid off, as each time my Mother acknowledged my progression I was washed with an intense euphoria being in my Mothers limelight. She was finally recognizing my beauty, but I felt a rotten apple, a neglected core. Despite the efforts that I had poured into myself to achieve this idealist version, I grew a hole in my stomach, an endless void where my idea of perfection was a mirage. Dolly Alderton once noted, “A woman can never really be thin enough, that’s the problem. It is not seen as too high a price to pay to be hungry all the time or to restrict an entire food group”. Except I wasn’t a woman, I was a child. Far too young to even consider there might be anything wrong with my body, but it was too late. I had imprisoned myself with my own insecurities. No, my Mothers.
While surrounded by my thoughts one thing never changed, the gentlest and kindest soul, my Grandmother. With each summer I spent with her, I grew to have strong admiration for her radiating beauty. Her wrinkles, fine hair and fragile frame marked her testament of beauty, but it all ran much deeper. The kindness and patience she gave me, the wisdom of life she has taught me, and her utmost devotion to me throughout my life. I cherish those who feel contempt and gratitude in their own skin, like her - to those who have lived. To have wrinkles where the smiles have been, to have sun-speckled skin from decades spent outside. To wake up and know how sorrowful and yet beautiful life can be, to have tear-stained eyes from experiencing the depths of Hell to the gates of Heaven. It is a privilege to get old and to have your body reflect it. While this is not the standard of beauty, I will preach on every mountain top and to the corner of the earth that you have lived. The standards of beauty were created by us humans, so it is up to the eye of the beholder to determine where their values lie.
I once believed that I loved dieting and exercising, but in truth, I only loved meeting my Mother's expectations. “Love never fails” , 1 Corinthians 13:8. So if it fails, then it truly was never love. This admiration of those who have lived gave me a sense of belonging in my own skin. To age is a blessing and it is not given to all. This quiet beauty is greatly looked over by society and instead, we subject ourselves to procedures, injections and surgeries to diminish our beautiful hair, skin, lips, stomachs, thighs and entire bodies passed down from generations. In contrast, my Grandmother never adhered to conventional beauty standards but spoke her own. I had contorted myself in every way possible for my Mother, but my Grandmother was unwilling to bend. With this, I embraced my own uniqueness - my nose, my curls, my skin. I stand unapologetic embracing my identity, beauty is not static; it evolves with time and experience. Instead, I will thread the radiance of my Grandmother and honour those who came before me with ever-lasting beauty.
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