Cultural Studies and Community Service Composition Theory Journal

“What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life?

 The world would split open.” 

I am a caucasion woman in my mid twenties. I am about five foot two and I tell people I weigh 130 pounds. I have natural red hair that I get highlighted and root touch ups for at a salon. I have hazel eyes, long eyelashes and I’ve been told that I have a beautiful smile. 

These are the things people notice about me when they first meet me. Most of them are physical, in fact all of them are physical. Quickly they catch on to the fact that I’m kind, I’m bubbly which is just another word for happy and submissive.  They’d describe me as smart, and typically wholesome kinda like the girl next door. The girl that every man would be happy to bring home to their mother--yet they say it in a mocking tone. 

To these people, I am their plaything. I conform to their needs, their likes and dislikes. I seemingly have no faults. It is like I am a cute kitten that is impossible not to love. I need saving yet I also provide them with hours of unconditional love and comfort. I’m the person that you call when you need advice, I’m the person that you call when you’re drunk and need someone to come pick you up. Use me and abuse me--really I wont mind. 

That is the person that they know. 

Here is the truth. I am a caucasion woman in my mid twenties. I didn’t think that I would live to be twenty three-- the fact that I am here is a miracle. 

I am five foot two and I weigh 150 pounds due to all the different medications that I have taken over the past year which has caused me to gain about twenty pounds. I don’t feel comfortable in my body because of that. It’s not that I hate my body, it’s just that I don’t feel like me. I want to be healthy, I want to appreciate my body and that is hard to do when it isn’t where it is supposed to be. But would I speak about that--never. Why? Because then I’m that girl that obsesses about her body image, that is not confident, that needs constant reassurance, or at least that’s how they’d treat me. That’s not the case, but I would like to share with other women how it is hard to not like your body, how to not have control over your body but know that you are doing the right thing for it by being on medication that helps keep you alive. 

These are things that I never say. 

I had natural red hair for most of my life. Until, I had chemo and it changed the texture and color of my hair. Yet for some odd reason, hair is such a marker of identity for women and for years I have maintained my red hair by going to salons and having them perfect the color. I have had about every red color that you can imagine. But being the redhead is part of what makes me, me. Without it, I think that I would be less. Less what? Less special, less unique, less likable, lovable? All of the above but I know that there would be an empty spot inside me where being a redhead took up. It is like a shield against all the society surgeons trying to dicet me and remove parts of me. That one they can grab, put under a microscope and easily understand others I have to disguise and hide deep within me because they’d be horrified if they knew the truth. 

I do have hazel eyes, and long eyelashes. I bring out their color by putting sparkles on my eyelids so that they dazzle in the light and by pilling on mascara my lashes look even longer. I enjoy doing makeup. I say I do it for me. That is true. But I also do it for others. I do it for other women so that they will think I am worthy. I do it for men so that they will find me attractive amongst the masses so that they will desire me. I do it to blend in to the crowds of people. I do it so I look perfect and put together even when on the inside I am falling apart, they’ll never know they’ll be distracted by a pretty face. 

I do have a beautiful smile, but most of the time that smile is fake. I have learned ever since I was a little girl how to put on a class act smile even when I feel like throwing up: smile. When someone calls me a nerd: shrug it off with a smile. When I am horribly depressed but have to go to dinner with a friend even though I’d rather lay in bed: smile. When I casually mention that I’m having surgery to a friend and that it’s really no big deal even though I’m terrified: smile. When a boy tells me that he wants to touch me even though I’ve said I’m uncomfortable and tells me that I’ll really like it: smile. Telling my friends about the aforementioned boy and them congratulating me and asking if he was good: smile. My smile is a weapon that has taken me years to sharpen and wield. Like a ring I can easily slip it on and off and no one is smart enough to know the difference. Try cracking this facade I cry inside. It’s impossible. You can’t. I’m impenetrable. You all might try to penetrate parts of my life, my heart, even my body, but you can never penetrate my mind or my spirit. You might think that you have succeeded in your mission because you were met with a smile--but the question was that authentic or just a piece of armor reading me for war. 

I am indeed innocent. I pride myself on not being corrupted by the world. Rather, I want to fix corruption. People laugh at that innocence calling me a child. But what they don’t know is that this child has seen people dying in the hospital chair sitting right next to her. She has seen real true grief of parents losing their children before they ever learned how to ride a bicycle. She has been to the psychiatric ward where her best friend was tied down onto a bed for trying to swallow 150 tylenol pills. She saw scars all over her body for the next four years where her best friend would take anything sharp and cut her body open letting it bleed out. She watched as her parents' friends ignored their daughter saying that she didn’t have a problem. She has spent hours in hospital beds being stripped naked to be examined by strangers. She watched as her mother gave birth to her dead baby brother that she never got to know or love. She watched her mom grieve a pain so unimaginage that her little heart had a hard time processing. She was so ill at one point that she couldn’t walk, but had to lay still in a dark room by herself while everyone she knew was at school learning and playing in the sunshine. She knows what it feels like to have your throat close up on you and to not be able to breathe the fear of almost dying. The fear of not knowing what is wrong with your body. She has lost the will to live. She had utterly resigned to letting go laying on the gravel holding on to her friends loafer begging him to just let her die. She was given a box cutter and told go ahead do it and then right to the hospital we’ll go but that’s not what you really want. She had a stranger take advantage of her in her own bed and use her own religion against her to get her to say yes. So sure, perhaps she’s innocent by never having given a blow job or never having had sex and doesn’t know all the kinky temonology. But she is not innocent in the ways, horrors, pain, and unfairness or the world--in fact she is quite fluent in it. 

I am not a plaything something to be used and abused by those around me. I give and help because I care but I expect the same love and compassion to be returned. Eventually I will say, I’ve had enough. I have my own interests and my own interests. To be completely honest, I don’t care about music, I don’t like to drink, I don’t like to party. I don’t think that spending money is the only way to have fun. I don’t care that much about what others think of me, I don’t like to gossip or tear others down. I like looking out of my window in the morning and seeing the sun pour into my room, I like reading books and writing. I enjoy having intellectual conversations, that are more than what you hear about the latest Jeffre Star drama. I like talking to my cat, I like watching kids movies. I like doing crafts and looking for joy in the world. I like being there for my friends emotionally in a mature way. I like talking on the phone and not texting. I like a ‘simple’ lifestyle. I don’t like have hundreds of friends but rather having a close few. I like being in the same town I grew up in. I like being close to my family. I enjoy domestic life to a degree.  I like thinking how with my privilege and with my life I can make a lasting impact and difference on the world. 

I have faults. I’ve been tempted to cheat on a test before. I’ve been mean to people before on purpose. I am a perfectionist. I put a lot of stress on myself that is almost impossible to live up to. I have severe anxiety and depression that when I don’t keep it in check really can affect my daily life. I’ve not tried my hardest on papers before because I just didn’t care. I’ve disobeyed my mom. I lie. I’ve stolen hair ties from the store I used to work at. I don’t always live the Christian lifestyle that I am to live. I allow myself to get hurt by others. I never say no to people which often gets me into all sorts of trouble. I am nowhere near perfect. I am nowhere near the sage advice giver. I don’t have all the answers. I will fail you eventually. For after all I am a faulted human. Please, I beg of you to accept that. Let me be just as flawed as you are. 

I mind. I am. I exist. 

Many don’t get to meet the girl that hides within me. Most only get to meet the girl that I present to the world. Only those that I feel understand me or who are similar to me ever get close to seeing the true image of a woman that lies and waits for someone to discover her. She just wants a connection. She desires to be known. Yet she also knows that currently she is living in a world that would eat her and reject her if she were to step out into the sun. Like a shooting star sometimes you can catch a glimpse of her. But she knows that not everyone in her life is ready for the truth because if she told it, their worlds would split open.