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They Hate me Because I Wear Make-Up

31 Jan

It’s true. They seriously hate me because I wear make-up.  I’m not talking about the shellac on your face, eyeliner, rouge, and mascara kind of make-up.  No, I’m talking about the emotional make-up that has almost always made me up. I was one of the teenagers you hear about who has the perfect life, or at least they pretend to have the perfect life. I was rarely seen NOT smiling. My laugh could be heard from one end of the school to the other. I’ll never forget painting my self portrait in school without a smile. I was told that it didn’t look like me because no teeth were showing (NO, I’m not buck-toothed). I painted over my mouth and started from scratch, this time including a big smile with large, white teeth shining through. I don’t know what happened to that painting. I thought it was hideous and flat. I couldn’t seem to make my eyes smile quite as much as my mouth did. But that was my reality. That painting truly captured what I felt inside, not the Summer that I was so keen at portraying.

I was the lead actress in my own life. I began hiding my feelings and wearing emotional make-up when I was still in elementary school. I went through a lot during my childhood but I’ll discuss that at a later date. The fact is that I felt like I had to put on a smiley face for everyone. I wanted my dad to think I was immensely happy at my mom’s house and I didn’t want my mom to know that I was either happy or unhappy at my dad’s house – I wanted her to think I was neutral. I learned quickly how to hide my tears; not an easy thing for a fair skinned blonde girl to do. I look like an albino leopard when I cry. I eventually learned how to hold my tears in and I believe it was at that point that my heart began to harden. Each tear that I refused to release became a brick inside my heart.

It didn’t take long for me to be dubbed “The Ice Princess” by my family. No feeling, no sympathy, no emotion. That wasn’t and ISN’T the case. I feel deeply. Too deeply. I’m passionate but I sometimes feel as though I have to hide it under a bushel basket. I care more about what people think is going on in my life or who I am than being me. The real, authentic me. So I put this make-up on to be who I think people want me to be. I have been guilty of pretending to have the same interests as other people to appease them. I’ve done it with men and I’ve done it with women. And it’s done nothing but cause me heartache, pain, rejection, and loss.  It’s caused me to daily apply another layer of make-up.

Sometimes I’m unable to keep the make-up on and my frustrations become very real. I am incapable of being fake with people. If I have something bad to say about or to someone, I don’t usually want to ever be in their company. Why would I talk about someone behind their back and then pretend to their face that I like them? I can’t do it. That make-up melts off in an instant and my painted-on smile resembles the sneer of Chuckie. When I know that I’ve been talked about and am on the receiving end of the gossip, I have a tendency to be downright ugly. I don’t handle gossip or fake people well. But wait…isn’t this entire post about how fake I am?

Dangit. You got me. But here’s the rub: I’m not fake about my passions or my intentions. I’m not fake about whose time I want to share my own with. I’m not fake about my dislikes. My facade is there to protect me. To make people think that I’m happy and that everything is wonderful. It’s the face of a mime that has been painted on since childhood. I find that with each passing year the foundation begins to crack. A little here: Crow’s feet.   A little there: Laugh lines. Since my pregnancy with Madilyn, chunks have begun to fall off of my face. The make-up is stale and I can’t fight it anymore. I chose to ignore the degradation of my mask for nearly 16 months. But one day I woke up, looked in the mirror, and didn’t recognize the eyes that stared back at me. They used to be blue but they’re grey now. They had no life left in them. The same eyes who used to look upon an empty canvas with loaded paintbrush in hand with excitement; now dull and slate grey. The same eyes who found an honest joy in life in general; now unexcited by anything. Smile lines had faded and a downcast shadow lie where enlightened crow’s feet once danced.   Large chunks of foundation had calved from my face and it wasn’t mine anymore, not that it ever was.

That was 6 weeks ago.

I have since begun the removal of my make-up. I am daily applying make-up remover with a soft cotton ball to eradicate years of daily application. Each day a little more surface area wipes clean. Each day I’m a little more honest with myself and with the people around me.  Each day I try to write about something that I’m genuinely passionate about, hoping that with each typed word, a little more of my true self can be revealed.  Some days I rub a spot raw and those are the painful days. Then there are days where I work lightly on a new area, softly scrubbing away at the shellac that has become my face.

I appreciate those who have been on this journey with me for years, and those who are just jumping on the roller coaster. I cherish the people who love me unconditionally, even when I say or do something that hits a nerve because they know my heart and know that I am never, ever coming from a bad place.

I can be nothing but honest now. Because the more make-up I choose to put on, the more ugly I become. So I’m stripping down – take me or leave me. What I need now is maturity, honesty, authenticity, and strong people by my side. What I don’t need are more fake people surrounding me, liars, weak minds, and lack of understanding. I am using the people around me to help me grow, no matter what role they play. Instead of applying more make-up when someone lets me down or stabs a knife through my back, I will pull the knife out and use it to aid me in the removal of years of artificial happiness. So again, thank you for being on this journey with me. Thank you for supplying the make-up remover, the soft cotton balls, and the knives.  Without each of these tools, I could not continue to purge.

And a huge thanks to Gwen Stefani and No Doubt for writing a song about my life:

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Women. Are. Disgusting.

25 Jan

If you have a vagina, I’m talking to you.   You’re disgusting.  Don’t look at me that way!  You are!  We all know that men are animals, right? Well, I’ve come to the conclusion that women are animals too. The worst sort of animals, actually. Downright disgusting, gnarly, poo-flinging, insect eating animals who are able to wrap themselves in pretty little packages to ensconce just how nasty they really are.

This isn’t really a new revelation but I guess maybe I’m getting to the age where it’s really beginning to bother me. I’ve lived with women (names and relation shall remain anonymous), who left bloody pads in their underwear, on the floor, for days at a time. I’ve lived with women who left smeared blood drying on the toilet seat – front and back. I’ve even been known to forget to flush a used tampon from time to time.  But the worst sort of crimes happen in public bathrooms.  I try to stay away from them but I’ve been either pregnant or nursing for the past 2 years which means that I’ve either had a baby chillin’ on my bladder all day long, or had a full bladder from pumping myself with fluids so that I could maintain my title of “milk factory”.  Thus, I have visited more public restrooms in the past 2 years than ever in my life.  One thing remains a constant: no matter where I am, what sort of swanky restaurant or new movie theater I attend, the women’s restroom is a bordello of nastiness.

I’ll never forget being at a bar in downtown Orlando several years back and having to use the restroom.  I was the DD that night so I’m sure I had OD’d on H2O.  My friend and I made our way back to the restroom so that she could use it but I refused.  I was going to hold out until the very end.  Well, the end came 30 minutes later and I just couldn’t hold it anymore.  So we went back to the restroom and lo and behold, there was a freaking turd on the toilet seat.  ON the toilet seat.  Not IN the toilet, but ON the toilet seat.  Needless to say, I didn’t relieve my bladder there.  I did, however; take a picture and it was my profile photo on MySpace for months on end.  Ask my friends.

My husband manages a cafe that is adjacent to a public park.  There are often events there and because the building is city-owned, he has to let people who are not patrons of the cafe use the restrooms.  Unfortunately, the city doesn’t provide cleaning services, my husband and his staff do.  I can’t tell you how many days he comes home complaining about how disgusting the women’s restrooms are.  Tampons, pads IN toilets (REALLY?!), feces that is either too large to flush, or feces that someone just didn’t flush, pee on the floor, wet hand prints on the walls, poop-filled diapers lying on sinks and counters instead of disposed of properly, I could go on and on.  Today I was at the cafe, and true to pregnant form, I had to pee.  I left my dear daughter with her dad so I could pee without wrangling her and worrying about her touching some nasty particle on the floor.  Naturally, the first two toilets had pee ALL over them.  The second of which, had more toilet paper than one single urination should EVER call for.  This woman had obviously wrapped her hands in toilet paper before wiping, afraid to touch her own pee, and then used half of a roll on top of that to wipe her urethra, all the while spraying bio-hazardous waste all over the restroom stall.  The third stall had wet toilet paper on the floor but it was the cleanest of the 3 and I didn’t really feel like using the handicapped stall because the toilet is just too tall for me to hover over, being that I’m 8 months pregnant.  FORGET that whole not hovering thing.

While hovering, I got a little urine on the toilet and after wiping myself clean, I wiped down the toilet seat too.  Like I feel ANY decent person would have done.  But apparently decent women just don’t wipe up after themselves.  Is it REALLY that difficult to wipe up your own piss?  Would you rather wipe your own up, or someone else’s?  I know that a dry toilet seat doesn’t mean a clean toilet seat but good Lord, seriously!?  We can’t even wipe our own pee off of a toilet seat?  We have to leave it for someone else to do?   Wouldn’t using a public restroom be a much more pleasant experience if we could rely on the person who went before us to clean up after themselves (like I do)?

This is a call to action.  Wipe your pee off of the toilet seat when you use it.  We yell at and nag our men for leaving the seat up, but we women can’t even wipe up after ourselves when we know damn well someone else is going to use the toilet after we do.  I would personally be extremely embarrassed if someone watched me walk out of a stall before they went in it, only to discover that I had left little bits of myself all over the seat.  Clean up after yourself.  Give men the “Dirty Animal” label back.  I don’t want it anymore.  And God forbid, wrap your blood-soaked pad up in toilet paper and put it in the receptacle.  Flush your tampon.  And if you absolutely MUST poop in a public restroom, don’t leave the stall until your turd is good and flushed.  IF you have trouble with it, contact someone who can clean it up so the rest of us don’t have to wait in a long line, crossing our legs and doing the potty dance to get into the ONE clean, working stall.

Thank-you.

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