You’ve just mustered up the courage to face the day makeup-free when some ignorant asshole asks, “What’s wrong with your face?”
Shame washes over you, what little confidence you had is now crushed, and your day is ruined.
Everything in you wants to fire back defensively and point out their giant nose, but you instead head back inside and burst into tears.
In less than 5 minutes, you’ve gone from feeling proud of yourself for pushing your mental limits to feeling like you’re failing at life. You curl up in a ball, fire up Netflix, and polish off a carton of Cherry Garcia.
All previously planned tasks can wait; you’re not leaving the house today, if ever. Amazon delivers everything now anyway.
“God, you’re ugly.”
His words startled me and cut me to my core. I wish I’d realized then that my angry-at-the-world classmate was just taking out his personal frustrations and projecting his own insecurities onto the nearest human, but my 6th grade, pimply-faced self didn’t have the capacity yet.
Instead, I believed him, vowing to never experience that feeling again thanks to the power of makeup. Unfortunately, my mom wasn’t on board with my plans, wanting me to hold off until I hit my teens.
It would be another 2 years before I could get my hands on foundation and concealer.
I’m hesitant to share this next part because I hate talking poorly about people, even if they’ve wronged me. I have a tendency to justify their actions until the cows come home.
But I’m done doing that. I’m choosing to share this because I know someone can find healing through the power of my story.
It was another balmy Tuesday night in East Texas, and my friend (let’s call her Vee) and I had just pulled up to the softball field, excited to watch our crushes play. I quickly checked my makeup in the mirror, ensuring everything was in its rightful place. Before I could get out of the driver’s seat, Vee mockingly uttered, “I’m Natalie, and I never leave the house without makeup.”
Her words stung, but she was right. Makeup had become my crutch. Even worse, it wasn’t even something I used to express myself, or to enhance my features. I used it to hide parts of myself.
But it was working. Boys didn’t seem to notice my acne as much, and I was happy for the first time in a long time.
But just like that, her words turned my excitement into stress, shattering my confidence and exposing the feelings I had in middle school all over again.
She mocked me out of jealousy, but all I heard was…“God, you’re ugly.”
Growing up, Vee would always make me feel terrible for having acne, being pale, etc. She even threatened to bring my grade school yearbook to my wedding, a yearbook that contained a picture where I look like death warmed over (thanks to a wonderful case of walking pneumonia). She had me convinced that even if I did manage to find my Prince Charming, she’d scare him off with that photo. It was like she had an insatiable need to put me down, and I lived in constant fear that that picture would keep anyone from ever loving me.
(I’m happy to report that I didn’t think about her threats once on my actual wedding day.)
Thankfully, we drifted apart soon after.
Side note: If you have friends like this, find new ones. Friends aren’t supposed to make you feel like shit.
“The measure of true friendship is not how you feel about them but how they make you feel about yourself.” — The Wedding Ringer
Rock Bottom
The next few years are a little hazy, but they all contained one strong constant: my terrible skin.
It affected every aspect of my life.
One memory in particular was especially painful.
I was 17 and excited to hear that two guys my age moved in a few houses down. My brothers went out to meet them first.
They returned with news that our new neighbors wanted to meet me to see if I was “hot.” Instead of saying, “No, I refuse to be judged solely on my physical appearance; screw those guys,” I got excited and wondered how attractive they were. I was feeling pretty good about myself that day and thought I would just walk around the block casually but not introduce myself.
Turns out, I wasn’t up to their standards.
I can still remember feeling like someone drove a knife through my chest. “If this is me at my best, and I’m repulsive in their eyes, how could anyone love the real me?” That day, I put up an emotional wall that would take years to tear down.
Events kept piling up and continued to confirm my beliefs I wasn’t enough:
- Well-intentioned comments from my caring mom, pinching my cheeks and telling me, “You need more blush” or “Your hair’s flat; flip your head upside down to give it more volume.”
- A loving but emotionally unavailable father who struggled to help silence my critics with words of affirmation, subconsciously dismissing anything less than perfection
- My grandmother’s honest but not-so-tactful comments about my weight and my pale/unsightly skin, saying I need to get a tan, asking if anorexia was causing my acne
- Vee’s derogatory comments
It wasn’t long before the word “monster” would come to mind anytime I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I played this mental tape on repeat.
The Therapy Session That Changed My Life
It’s no surprise that by the time I reached my mid-20s, I was in dire need of some therapy.
Full disclosure: I didn’t want to go, but my husband encouraged me, and to get him off my case, I finally gave in.
I only went a few times, though. I was in such a dark place, I couldn’t handle more than three sessions of bawling in front of my beautiful, flawless therapist. At least that’s how I viewed her. The rational me knows no one is perfect, but the emotionally-distraught me was convinced she embodied perfection. So the thought of me at my most vulnerable, mascara-stained tears cascading down my face, my makeup sliding off and revealing the real me, it was too much to endure.
I knew she was giving fantastic advice, breaking down emotional walls that had been there for years, attempting to help me break free of my emotional chains, but I couldn’t get out of my head. I was too busy worrying about her opinion of me. “She must think I’m the ugliest, most damaged, insecure patient she’s ever had.”
I couldn’t absorb what I so desperately needed to hear in order to start the healing process. I knew that if I continued coming, my husband and I might as well be burning our hard-earned money.
I thanked her for her help, said I would be back after my spring break trip, and never returned.
Thankfully, in one of those three sessions, she taught me something I will never forget: “Your feelings are real, but they’re not always factual.”
Those words started a chain of events that led me to where I am now, and for that I’m forever grateful.
Today, that’s the mental tape I play on repeat.
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