When I was nine years old, my body began to change. I grew breast buds. I found hair on my yoni. I started to grow taller than I had ever been. And I began to get fat. I felt like that girl from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I was scared. In the course of one school year, I doubled my height and tripled my weight. I went from one of the smallest in my class to the absolute largest. I tell you this not because I’m going to whine
endlessly about my size, but because this was the beginning of a long journey which I will be on until the day I pass into the next realm of existence.
As my mother and I watched my body transform, we started seeing a menagerie of physicians: pediatricians, endocrinologists, nutritionists, therapists…And every one of them took one look at me and decided my weight was my fault, and refused to hear us when we said that I never ate more than any other kid my age. It wasn’t until I was sixteen that anyone really listened. A nurse practitioner gave me my first well-woman check, and in her gentle voice, she explained the symptoms of Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome to me; the irregular cycles, weight gain, hormone imbalances, insulin resistance, abnormal hair growth, and infertility. And suddenly, my entire struggle had a name. I no longer felt like a mysterious, bloating freak. I had a real problem. And so I began treating it and learning about it.
For a very long time, I focused only on the most prevalent issues that face one with PCOS. I focused on my weight, and my cycle. Because I was young, I didn’t obsess over fertility. In fact, I considered my supposed infertility a blessing. I didn’t need to take birth control inside of a committed relationship, because it wasn’t like I could get pregnant. I learned a lot about trusting medical knowledge 100% when I was 19 and stared down at the positive pregnancy test in my hands. But this post isn’t about that either.
When my daughter was born, I focused again on my weight and my cycles. Those were, of course, the hallmarks of PCOS. I charted my cycles, obsessed over dietary changes, tried to find ways to treat my hormones naturally. I thought I was doing well to make small changes, and that I could find a way to beat the diagnosis…
And then one day I noticed a hair. It was a small, innocuous, sort of dirty blonde hair. I would have been proud of this hair had it been any place other than on my chin. I stared at that hair incredulously. HOW?!? WHY?!? NO!! Chin hair is for circus freaks and little old ladies. It’s not for twenty-something moms in college! I rushed to find tweezers. I pulled that hair as fast as I could, and decided to deny its existence. But we all know what happens when you pluck one hair. It’s like a hydra. Three grow back in its place.
Soon, I became a regular plucker. Even though I couldn’t stand the pain, I also couldn’t stand the sight of hair on my face. I didn’t mention the hair to anyone, not my husband or my mother…not my best friends. Who wants to admit that they feel like a circus freak? But my plight didn’t end here. Oh no. I started to notice that the hair above my lip was a darker blonde than it had ever been. And it was longer! I could feel it overhang the curve of my lip just the slightest bit. It was unnerving. I began to feel so betrayed by my body.
I’ve never felt particularly feminine, but I always felt like a woman. And now my body was trying to pull a switcheroo!
A month ago, as I cruised through my local Target, I broke down and did the one thing I hoped I would never do. I bought a little bottle of hair-remover, specifically formulated for facial hair. When I got home, I painted the stuff over my lip. The faintly perfumed chemical smell was strong, and I couldn’t look in the mirror. I felt so ashamed of myself, of my body. But I also didn’t want to be more of a freak than I already felt like as a
morbidly obese woman. When my husband questioned me about the gunk on my face, I told him the truth. He understood, but he let me know that he loved me no matter where hair was growing on my face or body. I could feel his love, and it helped me to feel less freakish.
And now, I’m looking in the mirror and noticing that the hair is growing back, darker and more noticeable than it was before. I see this as my own doing. I’ve now created a stronger version of the monster I’ve feared. And I must decide if I should force the hair back into submission. Should I expose my body to harsh chemicals just so I never have to see my face on some mean blog somewhere that exploits women with a genetic penchant for hairy bodies or hormone issues? Should I hide my true self, ashamed to show those
physical reminders that I suffer a true medical condition? Can I hold my head high and wear a mustache and chin hair like it’s not abnormal? Do I have the self-esteem to cast off the sideshow imagery and see myself as beautiful, no matter what?
Holly lives in the Emerald City with her husband, daughter, grandma, and two kitties. When she’s not in school or taking care of others, she reads and knits. She very infrequently posts at mis-adventuresindomesticity.blogspot.com, but mostly just lurks around facebook.
Holly also has entries at SOAM about herself and her grandmother.
I posted on SOAM about two months ago. A lot has changed since my last post, and when I heard SOAM had a sister website I had to post an entry! Again I’d like to thank all of the women on SOAM and TIAW, you’ve all made me realize that no one should ever be ashamed of their body. We are all women and we should all be proud whether we’re fat, skinny, insecure, tall, short, white, dark, we are ALL beautiful!
When I last posted I was still very insecure about my body. I looked at myself daily and was reminded of the fact that every other girl my age has a perfect, flawless, unstretchmarked stomach. And what I had was a saggy flabby mess. My self esteem plunged even farther when my daughter’s father broke up with me and on the SAME EXACT DAY started dating another girl. And of course she had that perfect body I wanted so desperately. I struggled and fought with depression over this for a while until I realized that this is all pointless. What does a perfect body matter in the long run? Did her perfect body create his child? No! It didn’t! Does her perfect body mean that she’s a good person on the inside? No! So why was I fretting over something so pointless? I admit, the thought of wanting a perfect body again pops up in my head occasionally. But there’s no point in it. I’ll never have that body again and all I can do is appreciate and love the body I have today. The very same body that created my perfect daughter. I love my stretch marks now. I absolutely LOVE them. And I don’t look at my c-section scar as a failure to give birth naturally like I wanted, I look at it as a badge of honor. The only thing I don’t like about my body is my wrinkly, squishy tummy, but I can live with it.
I’m 8 months postpartum now, and still have 15 of my 60 pounds to lose. I’ve been eating well, doing exercises to close my diastasis recti, and have started running every night after I put my daughter to sleep. No, I do not look the way I want to, but I FEEL great. I’ve been doing online school since my daughter was born, and I intend to finish high school so I’m not a “statistic”. No, I do not get to do all of the things I used to be able to do, but I wouldn’t change a thing. I love my daughter more than anything, and no one can say that teen mothers are too physically and emotionally unstable to give birth to and raise a child. My body gave birth to a healthy 9 lb 2 oz baby, and it’s been ME (not my parents) who has raised her. So yes there is hope out there for teen mothers who are struggling with people putting them down. Hold your heads high girls! Don’t let ANYONE underestimate you. Again, if there are any teen mothers or pregnant teens who need advice or just want to talk you can contact me at terressagallup@gmail.com.
Picture 1: Me the night before my c-section.
Picture 2: Me at 3 months postpartum.
Picture 4 & 5: Me now at 8 months postpartum.
Picture 6: My beautiful baby girl.
I created a blog months ago, with the intention of writing in letter form and beginning with a letter to myself, but I found it really hard to open up and get started, but the creation of This is a Woman and a few other things have inspired me. Here’s what I came up with.
To Lolo
I love you.
I may not always show it- in fact sometimes I’m downright horrible. I tell you how fat, out of shape, old, unorganized, tired, easily overwhelmed, stupid, boring and unmotivated you are. Yet, I beat you up for accepting those messages; if you were stronger- the better you that you should be- you would be confident and happy in the face of anything. You have this deep yearning for peace and acceptance, but an uncanny ability to isolate yourself.
I see you trying to embrace all that you believe intellectually, reading posts on Shape of a Mother and Own Your Beauty, and yet not truly letting it in. It’s as though you have these criteria you have to meet before you deserve the same respect and compassion you feel for others. When listening to the stories of other mothers, you feel like it doesn’t apply to you; you lost the weight you gained in pregnancy pretty easily, but then steadily gained it back and kept going (both times). Motherhood didn’t do this to your body- you did.
The posts on beauty and self love take your breath away, you want to share the messages with all the women in your life, but somehow you’re convinced that if only you were in better shape, or at least were making healthier choices, then you would be worthy of such praise too. The frequent references on these sites or others with similar intents to medical conditions that make women fat or that prevent them from losing weight, just reinforce your belief that this is your fault- due to your own love of junk food, emotional eating, and aversion to real exercise. You don’t have any medical condition that can explain all this wait gain- well unless you count anxiety, depression, sleep deprivation and stress. What’s that, you actually do consider those to be medical conditions that have an impact on weight and health? Yet you hold on to the stigma that it’s not real enough, or that you should be able to snap out of it- you’re aware of the steps you needs to take to look and feel better, why not take them?
That’s a whole lot of crap to pile on yourself, a whole lot of hate and a whole lot of judgment. While I participate in piling it on, I’m also here to stand up and say “hey, take it easy on yourself”. Recently the whole idea of This Is A Woman site and the Value of Each of Us post in particular has started to hit home. You’ve always known that every woman feels pretty much like you do at some point in their life, no matter what they look like, but lately you’re starting to feel that solidarity. You’re also letting yourself play with the idea of feeling good without the condition of health or size.
Sure you still hope to get into better shape, so you’re not bright red and sweaty after walking for 15 minutes, so that you can really play tag with the kids, so that you can stand up and not have to take a minute or two to stretch your back in order to stand straight. And sure you would like to look better- you’d just as soon not have to make up clever responses for when people ask me when you’re due (a whole other post, but incidentally my favourite reply is “3 years ago” but I rarely have the guts to use it).But for now I am working at being happy with you, loving you, feeling good.
Step one is the pair of skinny jeans you bought a few weeks back, I was beyond skeptical, but when you see that kind of variety in plus size clothes, you have to at least try them on out of curiosity- from the second you did them up I was in love! You barely even cared to look in the mirror, just looking down at yourself and feeling what might be the best fitting jeans you have ever owned was enough and clearly a foreign enough feeling that you’re still raving about it. Now of course it’s not really about the jeans, no matter how fabulous they are; it’s about the shift in focus. You don’t love the jeans because you think you look good to other people in them, you love them because you feel good and that’s enough. There a spring in your step as you look down at your legs and feet while walking along with your headphones blaring Amanda Palmer, The New Pornographers or the Yeah Yeah Yeahs- enjoy the weather and enjoy yourself.
Step two appears to be writing this letter you, to finally give voice to and acknowledge what I’ve been putting you through.
And step three is to say take a deep breath, give you a Happy Hug, say good night and pray, not for miraculous changes or a new outlook, but that you get a good sleep and that tomorrow some of this has stuck with you.
Someone amazing told me recently that “You are strong. You are smart. You are beautiful. You are loved.” I think maybe he is right.
Good night,
From Lolo, with love.
~Age: 31yrs
~Any special health situations: depression
