Rebecca Lane

Kerins Naumov submission for 2014.

A Letter to my Mother

Tonight, when we were talking to our long lost cousin from Florida, about my husband and my daughter, how he is so slender and how she is built just like him, all legs, and willowy, you looked at me, "You're built just like me. Sorry.”

I rebuffed by saying, that I was built to be strong.   That even at my thinnest, my sickest, I was not a waif. I was still built to be strong. You seemed amazed that I would say this. "But I've seen you both sides of the spectrum. When you were in Scotland..."  Your voice trailed off because we both knew how thin I'd gotten, how frail, and stubborn I'd become against eating, but how many people thought, perhaps you, certainly me, in my half starved brain thought that this was an improvement, that I was  an ideal size.  Finally, perfectly thin. 

"Yes, you did. But being unhealthy isn't something we should aspire to be. I may have been thin, but passing out each day from lack of food or sugars in my body are not great things. You may get cute boys that way, but they're usually they're putting ivs in your arms.  And oh how that concerned look is attractive, it's not the best foot to start a relationship on.   I am built to be strong. I always have been."

You seemed stunned. "I was never able to think of it like that you said. I never had the chance."

We parted and went our ways, and I thought about how much of my disordered view of food was learned. I went home and asked my husband if I was fat. He laughed.  "No."   Another friend said,  "No you aren't fat, you are healthy."    A boy who I had always wanted to date but never got the nerve to ask him out, said he had been scared to hug me when I was so thin, afraid I would break or shatter in his arms.

My mother, you seem to think if someone is thin, they must be happy. "Oh she lost so much weight. She must be so happy now..."   You taught me that if I wasn't stick thin, I wasn't thin enough. You told me I wasn't thin enough to wear certain types of clothing.  Stripes were evil, and black was universally slimming.  White made you look fat, “as big as a barn,” you would say.   When I had to get ready for trying on wedding dresses, I  had a moment of,  would I be thin enough to wear this dress?

Dad ate only white rice for years. Or he'd just stop eating to lose weight. You kept Slim Fast in the fridge at all times. You both have food issues, diet issues, but you don't cook anymore. We inherit our views about ourselves from our parents. I learned that if I wasn't thin I was ugly. That I would never be thin enough.   I learned from you then that you thought you were ugly, that you thought you were fat.  That you thought I was doomed to be fat and ugly.

You apologized for me looking like you. When you have eyes that sparkle. Hands that can sew, that can mend, that can heal. A soft hug, and a gentle heart.

You apologized for me ending up like you. You aren't a terrible person. You aren't ugly. Beauty isn't dependent on figure. You can be beautiful in as many different shapes there are. Beauty is loving yourself, learning to love yourself.  Something that I hope you are learning. Something that I am learning.  Or at least trying to learn.

Some things you did pass on to me. I am still terrified of photos of me. But I am learning that this is normal. So I do my best to take care of myself, the way I look, exercise, dress in things that make me feel good about myself, and smile. If someone wants a photo of me, I don't hide anymore. I smile.

Because my daughter thinks I am beautiful. She thinks I am a princess. If that jewel of a child came from me in all her beauty and fire, then I have it too. Because my niece thinks I'm perfect, that I'm beautiful.

I am not blaming you. I am excusing you. You say you learn so much from my sister and I about how to parent children. That you were taught one thing, and we were taught something else. I'm giving you that out.

Someone once said, imagine if a weeping willow tree hated itself for not being tall like a redwood, or if a redwood didn't like itself because it wasn't petite.  How ridiculous. Women are the same.  Do not apologize for me becoming like you.  Apologize to yourself for not finding and embracing your inner beauty. Excuse yourself from the self hatred, and recognize your beauty. My daughter thinks I am beautiful, thinks that I am a princess. And I am, I am learning. Yesterday she put a tiara on my head and had me wear it all day. Because I was beautiful. With or without the tiara. She holds my hands when I get my photos taken.  Something in her knows I am afraid of it, that I am trying to be brave.   I am learning. And my daughter is teaching me. Momma, you are beautiful too.  We are all beautiful.  Don't apologize for yourself. Love yourself instead.

Second letter. To my mother, and my daughter.

May you both know the beauty you have is beyond the numbers on a scale.  May you always know that you are more beautiful than any label on your clothing.  May you remember that you are the stuff of stars, whose brilliance can only be dimmed by your own ignorance.  Only your misunderstanding, your own negligence can extinguish the power of your soul.  Only by thinking you are worthless will you become so.  It is an awful trick that media, society, that almost everyone in the proverbial ‘world’ with a bullhorn, plays in order to make themselves more desirable, more powerful.  They scream this so loudly because they know they are empty, they are hollow and there is not a stick of substance in them, or their arguments.  Their ideas are so dry that they would turn burn up almost immediately, if only a spark was applied.  They are scared of the power within us.