My Greatest Insecurities are also What I Admire in you
It’s embarrassing to think of all the years of energy that has gone into this insecurity of mine. Literally just last month I bought a black-head zapper off a random Instagram ad from a totally bogus website in the UK that had all sorts of youtube videos claiming its success. I used it once and it left my skin red, bruised and far worse looking than before. But before that, this silly little product held all my hopes and dreams! Hook, line and sinker.
“I got invited to a birthday party at a nail salon, but I don’t want to go because I can’t stop biting my nails,” my niece said to me over the phone while my sister drove her to school.
My sister had enlisted my help with this dilemma because I have been battling my own nail biting habit for as long as I can remember. I’m pretty sure I swapped thumb sucking for nail biting at the age of six, and haven’t stopped since. So when my eight year old niece told me she was feeling sad about her own newly developed habit, I could soo relate. I felt sad for her, knowing the difficulty I have endured over the last thirty-five years to quell, reroute, put an end to my ever-present habit. And I never had to deal with nail salon birthday parties! I could at least fester in my nail-biting shame on my own, without all my friends getting to witness my inadequacy quite so acutely.
I did my best supportive aunt pep talk and told her that she should definitely go to the party even though she wishes her nails were longer. After my niece had gotten out of the car, I was left talking with my sister and we began further discussing the issue of nail biting. She was of the mindset that simply reminding her daughter whenever she saw her doing it would help her to stop.
My sister has never had an affinity for this unappealing habit. She’s one of the *lucky ones*, never having to fight against herself to “just stop already.” I told her I thought it was much deeper than just reminders. I bite my nails sub-consciously. I peel and perfect and pick at my nails out of stress, out of frustration, out of something I can't understand.
For so long I have wanted to stop. I have sat on my hands, I have gone to the nail salon every week, I have been through hypno-therapy, and most of all, I have berated myself for not being strong enough to stop. Though I have had periods of time when I was successful, it inevitably comes back again. I am sure there are many habit theories out there that can explain this, but for me, it’s simply something so deep in me, that even the strongest of wills cannot touch.
And if changing a habit is out of the question, then there is only one possible solution left, acceptance.
“Kel, you can remind your daughter everyday to stop biting her nails, but it’s not going to help her stop,” I told my sister that day. “For whatever reason, she can’t stop, believe me I know this to be true because I would have stopped years ago if I could have. But what you can do, is consistently remind her that her hands are beautiful and important for doing so many things in life, no matter how long or short her nails are.”
I wish someone had told me that long ago. For years I hated my hands. I would look at them, short jagged, brittle nails, with disgust. I would hide them, not want them to be seen. Not want my shameful nail-biting to be seen. I never told anyone that I hated my hands, which is probably why no one told me that my hands were beautiful. Or if they did, it wasn’t enough to overcome my incessant inner voice that believed the opposite.
I’m a hand noticer. I notice people’s hands. Name any person I know and I can bring up a vision of their hands in my mind’s eye. I’m not a fan of fake nails, but boy do I envy someone with nails that don’t break or peel easily, nails that have the proper shape to grow beyond their finger, someone who can go to the nail salon, pick any color, and walk away with a fresh mani. If you have hands, I have probably admired them.
But isn't that true about everyone? People admire that in others that which they wish they had. I can tell someone’s insecurity by what they admire in someone else. Because that’s how I am.
The same is true for me and beautiful skin. I have never understood how some people seem to have the most flawless beautiful skin without trying, while I have struggled with acne for as long as I can remember. All through my teens, college, then early twenties, mid-twenties, late twenties, late thirties, now forties. Even for my wedding day at age 29, I was wracked with anxiety leading up to it, praying my face would be clear. The rest of the world had grown out of acne like you’re supposed to, and yet my face still seemed to be afflicted week after week, year after year, permanently stuck in my teenage years.
I did have a momentary reprieve from my acne in my early thirties when I was pregnant and breast feeding. OMG- the freedom I felt during those years was incredible. I can still feel it. To go to bed without first scrubbing my face clean- blasphemy. But when my skin was clear, I didn’t feel the need to be so diligent. During those years, it didn’t make a difference what I did, what products I used, so why not be a bit of a rebel and let myself off the hook for the self-care shoulds? I stopped being so vigilant about my skin care routine and it was GLORIOUS!
But like my nail-biting, acne has returned to my life again and again, leaving me longing for that freedom again. The inner turmoil it has caused, the self-blame, feelings of intense shame, and true hatred for this seemingly stupid aspect of my body is beyond immense. The number of products, creams, facials, zit-zappers, diet changes, ‘you-name-its’ promising to do away with all my acne- OY! The money, the time, the hope. It’s embarrassing to think of all the years of energy that has gone into this insecurity of mine. Literally just last month I bought a black-head zapper off a random Instagram ad from a totally bogus website in the UK that had all sorts of youtube videos claiming its success. I used it once and it left my skin red, bruised and far worse looking than before. But before that, this silly little product held all my hopes and dreams! Hook, line and sinker.
For years, I have believed that I just haven’t found the key to unlock my dewy, fuss-free clear skin, BUT you better believe it’s out there. There is always hope that the next thing could be the magic cure-all, the thing that finally frees me of this prison- the right skin care routine or dose of hormones or diet adjustment.
This better version of me is just around the corner, with clear skin and long nails. Most importantly, the better version no longer has to worry about skin or nails, she is free of that worry, that angst, that stress, that shame. She is free to be herself completely because nothing is holding her back.
A few months ago I was baking Christmas cookies with my boys, a tradition we have all come to love. I was whisking the batter, rolling the dough, trying to immerse myself in doing all the cookie things, yet I was struggling to be present, I was only half there. Underneath my Christmas-y façade, I felt so infuriated at myself because that morning I had noticed yet another zit begin to form. My face was a revolving door for fiery, red pimples. Each time one would resolve, another one would pop up (story of my life). And that day, I was just pissed off. I felt like half my brain was making cookies and the other half was self-loathing, disgusted by having to look at me. I was trying my best to have fun with the boys, but I was irritable, half-there and I couldn’t change it.
Then Tom came over to admire our progress. I couldn’t even look at him. All I could see was him looking at me and thinking how awful I looked, with yet another red pimple on my forehead. He of course didn’t say a thing, or even notice for that matter, and was joyfully impressed with the cookie creations. He was so oblivious to my self-loathing that he even said,
“Ok boys, picture with Mama!”
My brain reeled with revolt, not wanting this day to be documented in any way, not to mention my unkempt hair and overworn loungewear. But, I mustered a smile and vowed to never look at the photo again (see above).
A few weeks later I was sorting through my photos and came across the cookie-making day. It was true that my hair didn’t look freshly done and I was wearing an old t-shirt and leggings, but where was this horrific acne I was so upset about? When I looked closely, I could make out a small blemish, but it was nothing like what it had felt to me that day. In fact, had I not remembered this day so viscerally, I would have ventured to say this looked like a super happy day of making cookies with my boys.
YIKES! Had my sense of myself gotten so distorted that I couldn’t see past a few small blemishes? That only perfect skin was acceptable? Only perfect beautiful nails were acceptable. Anything less than that was abhorrent? It was truly an amazing realization to see how vastly different my self-image was from the actual image I was seeing just a few weeks later. It was a real kick in the pants to realize how awful I was being to myself, how self-hating and bludgeoning, over something that is largely out of my control. And that’s where I have often gotten myself in trouble, is thinking that it is something I am doing wrong or something I can change. When in reality, I have done and tried so so so many things, and nothing has ever truly worked. I have always come back to nail-biting, always come back to having some sort of acne on my face.
It's not because I’m not trying, I know that for sure.
The truth is, everyone has these things that keep them from feeling free. And it’s obvious what keeps them in their prison of self-admonition, because it’s what they admire in others…“look at his smile, he has great teeth.” …. “you have amazing abs.” …. “how are her arms so toned?” …. “I love her hair, it’s so long, I wish I had that kind of hair.” … “he has such broad shoulders.” … “her skin is so smooth, hairless.”
Other people may be admiring my legs or my hair or my abs or my eyes, while I can only see my bad skin and nails. I really don’t think I’m alone with this. It’s such a cruel world we have found ourselves in, isn’t it? And to be honest, I actually think I’m one of the lucky ones because I think of myself as having a pretty damn good self-image, with a lot of confidence and resilience.
Yet, I still spend so much energy and mental space on the few places that my body is not performing exactly as I want. Seriously, why?!? Doesn’t it seem like wasted time and energy? I hyper focus on perfecting, changing, tweaking, and I’m not even talking about someone in the public eye. I’m just talking about the regular, run of the mill, everyday human. I’m happily married, nothing to prove, nobody judging me, but me. And yet, I haven’t found my way to acceptance yet.
I have to wonder, what would happen if I just said to myself (and believed it!)…
“You’re going to have a few zits and short nails, but you’re still a rockstar person who is going to do good things in the world.”
Honestly, WHAT WOULD HAPPEN??!
Acceptance of my perceived flaws feels like this little child that’s hiding around the corner, watching me each time I get furious or berate myself with self-hate or disgust. The child peers out at me and says “are you ready for me yet?” I know she’s there because I have been tempted by her before. I have felt her inviting me to choose acceptance, to choose to stop thinking I will be happier once I solve the problem that is my face or my hands. The wiser version of me knows that the true path to freedom, to happiness, is not in the fix or the solution. The wiser version of me knows that the sooner I can truly invite acceptance out of hiding and find a way to be OK with these so-called flaws, the sooner I will find my way to the happiness I think I will have when my skin is clear or my nails are long.
You see, the cycle never ends. Because wherever there is a perceived problem, there is a need for freedom from that problem. For me, the cycle goes: perceived problem —> self-hate —> quest for solution —> hope for freedom. What keeps me trapped in the cycle is thinking that freedom (from the mental space taken up by the perceived problem) will only be available to me if I find a solution. So I fixate on getting rid of my acne in order to reach freedom, instead of what I should be fixating on, which is to simply try to feel free. Because here’s the secret- I believe I can feel free, I can feel joy, I can feel beautiful, without fixing the problem! How? By inviting that child out from hiding around the corner, and having an honest conversation with her about what it would feel like to stop trying to change or fix the flaws. What would it feel like to take all the energy I use in finding a solution to my problem and put that toward feeling free right away?
For me, feeling free from my insecurities would mean letting go of hope for a solution. When I truly believe that there may never be a solution and THAT IS OK, I will be free. Because I would not obsess over finding the magic product, but just wash my face every morning and night, and know that is enough.
It would mean that when I see my own flaws, I could handle their existence without immediately blaming or hating myself. Instead, I could see my bitten down nails and simply see them. Maybe one day, I could get to being grateful for my flaking, brittle, short-ass little nails.
It would mean that every time I notice my short nails or a new zit on my face, I could honestly say to myself,
“Everyone has something. This is mine, and it’s ok, because I’m still awesome.”
That would be freedom.
With love, Lindsay