"I'm still playing with candles, blowing out wishes and blowing out dreams just sitting here trying to decipher what's written in braille on her skin." - Regina Spektor, "Braille"
This fatuous idea of perfection that I've seemed to keep failing to achieve is eating away at every part of me, picking the meat off of my bones and taking a hammer to the small shards of my soul still left intact. I set unbelievably high standards for myself, thinking that I need to be this tall, intelligent, skinny, beautiful woman who does nothing wrong. I have spent the past two days scrubbing down our entire apartment, cleaning everything and anything I could get my hands on. I want to be seen as perfect in his eyes, above all others.
I know - that is so completely horrible and shallow.
I used to be my own woman, able to think and do things all for myself. Now I live almost entirely to make him happy and make sure his needs are met, above all things. I haven't thought about what I need or what makes me happy in a few months. I used to be so independent and care-free, unconfined by the expectations of society or others. Now? I'm down 30 pounds and losing more weight every week (which leaves me at 120 pounds right now), growing my hair out and having it done, wearing make up every day, wearing clothes I never used to be comfortable in, doing things I've never felt comfortable with because I want so badly to recieve some sort of recognition for doing a good job. For someone who, for so long, worked at being their own person and fighting against society's standards I find myself slipping back into the same downward spiral I was enjoying after I stopped modeling.
This idea... It's slowly killing me.
As cathartic as crying and cleaning has been, I still find myself feeling so overly gratified at the touch of steel to my flesh. I mark the places I want to change, that I want to go away. I mark the places that, if provoked hard enough, could bleed me dry right there on the kitchen floor. Personally, I would find ending everything in the kitchen the most metaphoric of all the places in this apartment. The kitchen is where the domesticated housewife is apotheosized; it is her office, her cave, her throne room. She holds court over the stove, showering her subjects with gifts of nutrition and love. Yet, it is her husband and the King of this small yet fruitful nation (that she so lovingly cultivated) who she truly lives to serve; each child she brings in to this world, each action is all for him. So, in turn, is it not the perfect metaphor? I think so.
"Saddest of all are the women who were brought up to believe that self-sacrifice is the highest female virtue. They made the sacrifice, often willingly, and they are still waiting for the blessing." - Jeanette Winterson
Is self sacrifice not the highest of the female virtues? We are raised to set aside our own dreams, hopes, and aspirations because of some crazy idea that our sole purpose on this earth is to keep our speices going. We, the women of this earth, are supposed to stay thin, young, and beautiful. We're supposed to be intelligent, yet not overly so. We need to be quiet, patient, passionate, understanding. We have to have sex when our man wants, and be mind blowing at it. We must look the other way when we're not good enough and he finds it elsewhere. But this is all fine, because we have the right to vote and can make the same wage in the same job (as long as they are able to perform the same task in the same amazing way that the man can).
It is no wonder we, the women of this world, fall to the hands of depression and suicide at such an alarming rate.
While self-injury is far from salubrious, I leave the scars as a reminder of the trails and tribulations I have endured so far in my short time on this earth. Each one is some distance memory - a tribute to the abhorent demons that helped pushed me to this point. We are a part of this both majestic and alluring world of people who see the way things for what they truly are. We share in similar pain and torment, bearing the weight of the world on each of our fraile shoulders. Some of us are young, with the paths of the world lain out before us so clearly. How can we be so miserable and harbor such deep self-loathing? How can I be so miserable and self-loathing?
Perfection haunts me more than any nightmare I have ever endured.