Walking through Eden

I pick at everything. Every imperfection on my skin is made worse by the constant need to pick at it. I can't stop myself from doing it. Its a remnant from when I would slice my skin to let something inside me out. I pick, pry and pull until the imperfection has become a permanent fixture to my landscape. Then I look at myself and curse at the scars.

I used to be proud of my scars, because they were me. They were a permanent reminder of where I had come from, what I had survived.

Now, I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed of my face, my skin, my body. I feel like Eve in Eden, suddenly naked and fully aware, exposed to the face of God and wondering how I ended up like this. It feels like I am doing the walk of shame to the gates of Eden, all the beautiful people pointing and laughing as I'm escorted out by the angel Michael. I look at my feet.

I've never stood as tall as I could, for fear I'd be beaten back down. I took those beatings, those scars and I made them my own. Some days, it feels like they own me.

I fall into the thinking pattern that no one could ever love me just as I am. Though I'm married and have been with the same man for five years. I fall into step with the thoughts from my childhood, the thoughts that led to making scars. The belief that who I am is nothing because I am not beautiful and I never will be.

I mourn the face in the mirror. The one that was beautiful once, when I couldn't recognize the beauty, and is now pock-marked with acne and scars.

I can find no worth within, because I'm so out of place in this "Eden." I used to refuse make-up because if someone couldn't accept me as I was they didn't deserve me with make-up. Now all I want to do is hide the scars with a pound of foundation, smooth all the ugliness from my inner turmoils.

Its different when its you. Its so easy to be a feminist, to fight against the myth of beauty, to tell someone they are beautiful. Its not easy when its you.