Self Hatred and the Morning Person

I got up this morning at the usual time and rushed through my weekday morning routine. I’ve been doing the same thing every day for the last 3 years: shower, hair, makeup, clothes, and shoes, fly out the door just in time to make it to the office by 8. 

Getting ready in the morning has always been like a nightmare for me, ever since I was a kid. I’ve always hated my body, and squeezing into clothes makes me self conscious. Staring myself in the face without makeup makes me uncomfortable. Putting on my hand-me-down jewelry that isn’t quite fashionable embarrasses me. Leaving the house with all these insecurities makes me anxious and nervous. Maybe it’s the anticipation that makes me wake up nauseas and sore every morning, feeling like I’ve caught the flue overnight. Depression hits me the hardest in the morning.

Up until recently, if you asked me if I’m a “morning person” I would always say NO. Mornings are awful. Mornings mean facing overwhelming self-hatred. Mornings mean another long day of adversity. Waking up means the disappointment of knowing that I’m still alive. I’d rather just stay buried under the blankets where no one will know I exist.

There are a number of factors that led to my self-hatred. The Patriarchal society I grew up in demonized a woman’s body and sexuality while simultaneously glorifying the concept of the sweet, childlike virgin bride that I knew I would never emulate. I was never encouraged to express my emotions, so all my confusing feelings stayed trapped inside me. Being bisexual (and being taught that such things were abominable) also caused me to vilify a woman’s body in general. It was easier to hate it than admit to forbidden attraction. When paired with depression and lack of education, my natural bodily development became a waking nightmare. The hatred I had for myself and my body was not just a passing teenage phase; it was a devastating condition that colored my entire world in a muddy shade of black.

 For most of my life I sincerely believed that I was stupid, worthless, ugly, lazy, gluttonous, and sloppy. Self hatred is painful, debilitating, and dangerous. Lucky for me, I have people in my life who understand that. I am here today, I am healthy today, because my Hunnie, my sister, and a few close friends chose to take my struggles seriously. They insisted again and again that the opinions I had of myself were false.  They were there for me day or night to talk me though my anxiety.  It took countless long talks and years of hard work to get me to the place I am today. 

This is actually me wearing my fave brown dress pants



I don’t know exactly when it happened, but at some point this last year the heavy fog of depression, anxiety, and self hatred started to dissipate. It wasn’t until this morning that I realized how far I have come. I found myself singing in the shower at 6:00am (sorry neighbor). I winked at myself in the mirror while rubbing product into my super short hair. I put on my favorite checkered socks and walked around the house in my underwear without cringing every time I passed a mirror. And when my grey dress pants were too small to button, I switched to the bigger brown pair and it didn’t even bother me. Really.

This is ME we’re talking about here. The same girl who, at 8 years old, covered her whole body with washcloths in the bathtub because she didn’t want to have to see how “fat” she was. The same girl who refused to look in the mirror for much of her teenage life.. The same girl who stopped eating because a friend mentioned that she had a “little pooch.” And there I was this morning, smiling at my curves and meaning it. I just thought “welp, guess I’m not a size 8 after all.” Those grey pants were milestone for me.

Don’t be afraid to reach out to someone who’s hurting. You don’t have to say much. Simply tell them the truth:

You are beautiful.

                                 You are smart.

                                                           You are strong.

                                                                                         You can be anything you want to be.

And don’t stop saying it until they start to believe.

Begging for Spiritual Bread (Part 2)

As the water rushed in around my head, the anticipation was replaced by confusion. There were no God-like voices under this water, just green murk and muddled gravity. God had promised he would meet me here, so where was he? All too soon I felt my body being lifted back up. I wanted to struggle, I needed to stay here! Stop! Wait! Too soon!

And then I was standing up, breathing air again. I heard applause from the shore as I blindly followed my Father out of the water. My skirt weighed me down and my bare feet sunk deep into the mud. I looked up at the sky, as bleak as ever, and saw no rainbow, not even a ray of sunshine that I could call my own. Reality came sweeping back in. I was a fool, and I had done it wrong again. Behind me someone else was being baptized. My moment was over. Deeply ashamed, I trudged back to the van to get myself a towel. I imagined God was looking down at me, shaking his head and giving me the silent treatment. My dripping hair disguised my tears. How could I have been so wrong? Had I imagined the “leading” I felt? Had I fabricated to joy it gave me to believe? Or had I never truly believed at all?

My mother was sitting in the van nursing the baby. Dad didn’t want her doing that in public, even with a blanket. “Sorry I didn’t see it honey” she said to me. “Hurry up and change, that wet shirt is clinging to your chest” I shuffled up to the house with my towel pressed to my chest. I had never been so thoroughly ashamed.

Over time, I came to have faith in my own inadequacy. I was not good enough for God, but that was okay. He is god! Who was I to question his methods? So I continued to obey him. I shared the gospel whenever I had a chance, and prayed fervently for others, especially my married older sister. I idolized my older sister. She had done everything God’s way and he had blessed her with a Godly husband. At 19, she was newly married with a baby on the way. She was a living testament to how God blesses those who please him. I prayed every day for her and for the baby in her womb. I felt that I knew the baby already, I wondered who’s eyes she would have, and longed for the day I would meet her and hold her tiny hand. When the news came that my sister had miscarried, I took it hard. Very hard. For the first time in my life, I was openly angry with God. My sister and her husband had done EVERYTHING right. Why would He do this to them?

Why was I taught that God rewards obedience with blessing? Why do Christians use phrases like ‘the power of prayer” when prayer itself clearly does nothing but comfort the one praying? Why is blind faith so encouraged when it almost always leads to bitter disappointment and confusion? I was raised in home “full of the holy spirit:” My dad talked about his encounters with the Lord all the time. I truly believed that one day, God would leave writing on the wall for me, or send me a miracle. Stuff like that always happened to real Christians, right? For everyday of silence, my heart sank another inch. I spent the first 18 years of my life begging for spiritual bread and getting nothing but disappointment. I have stopped asking God for things. When I pray, I ask him to have patience with me, and show what he’s really like.

I am no longer angry with God. Either he is nothing like I was taught, or he doesn’t exist.