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Self-Portrait - Written when I was 18
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Self-Portrait - Written when I was 18 |
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Honeybee Member Ascendant
since 1999-12-26
Posts 5372Ontario, CANADA 
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I would paint a girl, naked, exposed. I would trace her silhouette with a soft pencil outline: an average frame, of average height with less than average proportions. She could be any girl. I would mix up a skin tone: a pale shade of grey on cream. Each imperfection would be accounted for: every broken blood vessel, large pore, acne scar, freckle and the persistent shine on the tip of her nose. I would style her hair carefully, setting each super-straight strand in place with a stroke of dull, lifeless brown. Each imperfection would then be covered. Her skin would almost resemble that of a porcelain doll's, with matte powder on her face to camouflage the endless flaws that are still too difficult to conceal. Her nose would be slightly crinkled - lines light and fine, as if to smell something. She would start to look as though we might be related. A prominent stroke would be used for the eyes, blinked of fate hued melancholy, woven of sapphire in waves of green. The thrust of stare would be intensified with jet-black mascara, smokey grey eyeliner and frosted roseate shadow to catch the small flecks in her iris. Although once very bright, the eyes would be as blank as the painted on eyebrows, shaped perfectly, not a single hair out of place; with defined brow bones higher than the CN tower. Her lips would be full, slightly puckered, adorned of garnet gloss to cover the boring pink hue. Then I would sketch the smile. I would paint with quick strokes, then light strokes, as the cheeks lift up to reveal the barely spareable cheekbones that are usually covered by baby fat; and to showcase the straight teeth, a result from last year's braces. Her eyes would squint, as if looking at her true love in the sun; and there would be a glare in her glasses - her kaleidoscope through which she sees the world. I would mix up a dark shade of peach for the shadow in the deep hollow where the collarbone meets the neck. Then, the naked skin would be covered. I would dab on a scarlet textured shirt, playfully low-cut to bring vulnerable the barely-there clevage; with the aid of a padded push-up bra that hides like a coward beneath the extreme shade of red. A fine brush would be used to delicately trace the string of snowflake pearls draping across the "olive-oil-esque" neck to accentuate the protruding collarbones that she starved herself for three weeks to better define. You might think that this is where it would become difficult to keep the brush strokes honest and even, and where the paint might start to sting a little as if poured into an open cut. She would start to resemble me. Really, what would sting would be the ribs. I would paint the sharp outline of each one, in remembrance of the months spent trying to shrink away on plain rice, beef bouillion, diet pills and water; or the day the body gave out in Biology class; and the pulse slowed to near nothing; or the lies told to her mother and her friends, swearing that it must have been the fumes from that day's dissection. Formaldehyde will do that to some people, you know. I would draw her arms, then sketch slowly down to her hands. The right hand would grasp a Barbie doll, who would have long, ever-so-slightly bouncy, blonde hair, with flawless skin, perfectly applied makeup, high cheekbones, and pouty, cherry-red lips. Barbie's eyes would be bewitching blue, and she would have oversized breasts, barely-there hips, and an anorexic-looking waist: a constant reminder that she will never be good enough. Then, I would sketch the left hand holding her report card, all advanced courses with straight A's to please everyone else, knowing that she can never be a disappointment Or maybe, it's more like she can't disappoint herself. Virgos are known perfectionists, afterall. Then, I would paint the fingernails down to the fingertips with a transparent mauve shade for the poor circulation that she has had for her entire life. Like seeing myself in a clouded bathroom mirror. Next, would be the belly button placed beneath a never-too-thin waist. I would draw her mother's face in the middle, smiling - a center of gravity, holding everything together. Her hips would be voluptuous, though marred with bones and tiny pink stretch marks sticking out from starvation. I would draw heavy lines around her stomach to symbolize the grumble from hunger pangs - too sudden and strong to ignore or temporarily cease with a glass of water and lemon. Only four calories. The wail of her stomach would soon win. She would have to eat the chicken noodle cup-o-soup instead. Fifty-one calories. A sacrifice. Most difficult would be the inner thighs and genitals, for the Saturday morning on the city bus when she was in grade seven; when a drunk man with a sandy-blond beard slid his hand on her leg - across, up, down and under. I would add one small raindrop tear down her cheek, to remember sitting there, very still, for far too long, surrounded by a few friends and so many people reading the newspaper or looking out the window;sitting there, with eyes focused forward, at a loss for the courage to yell for help, the way they always taught her in grade school sex-ed class...and it always sounded so easy, and it should have been so easy. I would add a ripe rouge to the cheeks - embarassment. I would cover the legs and the inner thighs with dirty handprints to remember the pressure of the man's fingers, the way they rubbed, the way I could feel them for weeks; the way I still feel them, sometimes, because I have never told this to anyone before. I would use a thick brush to paint a black skirt to cover the bottom half of my body, to hide my shame. And besides, everyone knows that black is slimming. A near-perfect reflection. I would draw another tear, larger, for all the times my father told me that I was ugly, fat and stupid or that I would never amount to anything. With dark, rage of strokes, I would paint the rainbow of bruises - strokes of yellow, purple, black and blue. Blue - the way my body and heart were made to feel so low. Next, I would draw the legs, knees, chubby ankles, and finally feet. The toenails would be painted red, for all the times they've been exposed through sandals or spiked heels. A shade of blue would be softly added around my body, for all the summer's wearing a bikini that left me practically undressed, not because I wanted to wear it, but, because I wanted approval or undeserving attention. Looking at her might hurt me. Parts of the canvas might sting and some tears may fall onto the palette to thin the paint. Looking at her might make me proud. Other parts might please me. I would stand back when it was finished, to look at myself, like a mirror, and enjoy my naturally long eyelashes, my small nose, my long legs and my delicate hands - long fingers tapered at the ends. After a while, I would find a hammer and a nail and hang my painting in plain view in a place that I would pass at least once a day. And so, in viewing my self-portrait, many times over, there comes a time, when all I really can do is cry. Looking at me, I weeped for all the years and all the tears and for all the days and all the ways I disrespected and distrusted myself only to be reflected back to me in the ways that others treated me. Yesterday, I cried for all the things that could have been or should have been. I cried for all the dreams that I had hoped would come true that had yet to become reality. Yesterday, I cried for the me I wanted to be and for the me society wanted me to be, and I threw out my almost neverending list of all the things I wanted to change about myself. I cried for all the times I tried to be sexy and exotic, but, underneath the mask I wore, people still saw Melissa, the girl next door. I cried for all the superficial things I turned to, to fill the void in the fut of my stomach, only to be content, but, not happy. Yesterday, I cried so hard that I could not see for hours because I wanted my father to be my daddy so badly I ached. And yes, there is a difference. I cried for all the walls that I have built around me to protect myself from rejection and abandonment, waiting for my prince to climb the walls and save me and love me, which only left me more hopeless and lonely. I cried because I am far too young to feel this damn old, battered, plain, empty and used. Funny, how life can make an eighteen year old feel like a forty year old sometimes. I'm telling you that I weeped until my bitterness ran out of my eyes and out of my nose onto my blouse and onto the designer skirt that I got on sale. I weeped until my ears become red and hot, until my head pounded and until I could no longer see the soiled tissues of jaded dreams lying on the floor at my feet. I cried because I knew that I had to wake up and accept my regrets; and when it wakes you up, it slaps you in the face and I mean hard. And it feels so good, and so very, very bad. But, today, I knew that I was capable of anything, that, I too, have something to offer to the world, that my goals are important, and that I am important, because I'm the only me I've got. Today, I admitted to myself that even my mistakes are life lessons and that does not mean that I am a failure. Today, I realized that I no longer have to strive to be perfect and that I don't have to achieve the impossible or win awards all the time to prove my worth. I know now, that I don't have to make up for all of the hell that my Mom and I have endured. I've learned that just because I am in pain, it doesn't mean that I have to be a pain. Though sad really, how through my helpless anger, no one heard my plea for help. Today, I finally realized that I had to find the me I forgot I was, the me who was almost lost in my childhood and early teenage years or lost down the toilet after binging on food to comfort the insecurity inside of me. Eventually, I will learn not to be ashamed, and eventually, I will learn to see myself exactly as I am, and eventually, I will learn to admit that parts of me are beautiful. Now sigh...take a deep breath...I am beautiful in my own way. I am beautiful. My body is the greatest gift that I'll ever own, and I must learn to accept it and learn to someday, not today, but, someday, to love my body and myself. My body is like a yearbook - full of memories and experiences. Every layer, imperfection, unique feature, scratch or scar tells an incredible story which belongs only to me. You see, yesterday, I cried. But, today, I smiled. I am finally proud to be Melissa Monette, now I can be my true self. Happiness. Complete. By Melissa P. Monette copyright 1997 [This message has been edited by Honeybee (08-10-2002 10:53 PM).] |
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| © Copyright 2002 Melissa P. Long-Monette - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
... part of me wants to leave this at just an ellipsis. that might cover the silent admiration i have for this piece and the introspection revealed within. on second thought, i realized that you probably wouldn't understand what i intended by it, so: ... Christopher |
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Janet Marie Member Laureate
since 2000-01-22
Posts 18554 |
Melis...I will be back to read this when I have quiet time and can give it my undivided attention. Im so glad to see ya posting something here...I love reading the poets "long winded side of pen"  I'll be back like a bad rash  |
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GOlDsparklESS Member
since 2001-12-13
Posts 428central nj |
wow...what can I say? I respect your story, and the courage you had to fight the "monsters" in your life... this response is inadequate, but just know that you speak for many people with your experience. I'm eighteen, and although I do not share your life experiences, I can relate to the painful realizations and struggles. Your story is a reminder that hell really is a place on earth. I'm glad that you finally realized your true nature, also proving that you can create heaven inside yourself... this is an excellent articulation of the struggle to find your truth... and that's it. much love, manisha |
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Janet Marie Member Laureate
since 2000-01-22
Posts 18554 |
She would start to look as though we might be related. A prominent stroke would be used for the eyes, blinked of fate hued melancholy, woven of sapphire in waves of green. The thrust of stare would be intensified with jet-black mascara, smokey grey eyeliner and frosted roseate shadow to catch the small flecks in her iris. Although once very bright, the eyes would be as blank as the painted on eyebrows ==================================== A fine brush would be used to delicately trace the string of snowflake pearls draping across the "olive-oil-esque" neck to accentuate the protruding collarbones that she starved herself for three weeks to better define. You might think that this is where it would become difficult to keep the brush strokes honest and even, and where the paint might start to sting a little as if poured into an open cut. She would start to resemble me. Really, what would sting would be the ribs. I would paint the sharp outline of each one, in remembrance of the months spent trying to shrink away on plain rice, beef bouillion, diet pills and water; ======================================= Like seeing myself in a clouded bathroom mirror. Next, would be the belly button placed beneath a never-too-thin waist. I would draw her mother's face in the middle, smiling - a center of gravity, holding everything together. ======================================== What you wont see in this reply across the distance and thru this screen-- is the times that I held my breath while reading...or the times I actually shouted out an emote or explictive of admire or respect or an emotional reaction to one of your metaphors or images... what you wont see are the tingles I felt across my arms and shoulders while reading... or the way I shook my head at the pure unadulterated honesty of this powerful purging write. The fact that you wrote it at 18 makes this piece even more impressive... and speaks volumes to your born talent of expression and the need to write to give voice to the child who had much of hers taken away. This is an exceptional write Melisa...its depth of self exploration and in the end the inner strength that is found in the self discovery speaks volumes to your character. Thank you for sharing such a candid part of you...there are so many young women who struggle with this...Im sure they can find strength in your reflections. heart-hugs lovely Butterfly poetess  mothyme |
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Honeybee Member Ascendant
since 1999-12-26
Posts 5372Ontario, CANADA |
Christopher, GOIDsparkLESS and Janet Marie ~ I truly appreciate your replies, you've got me breathing a sigh of relief as I was hesitant in posting this very personal piece. I'm really at a loss for words to tell you how much your respect and praise means to me...so, please at least accept my sincere thank you! I'm almost 23 now, but, I originally wrote this when I was 17 turning 18 for a magazine contest. Chatelaine magazine (a respected Canadian fashion/women's issues magazine) asked young teens and young women to write about their bodies and experiences; and the top three essays would win cash prizes, first place would win a four year scholarship at the university of their choice. Well immediately emotions and ideas poured out of me, I wanted to enter this contest eagerly, but, I was insecure about my chances and I never entered a writing contest before, so I just assumed that I wouldn't fair well with the judges...also, I didn't want such a personal account of my life strewn across North America. I was also in fear that my father would somehow read this essay and come after my mom and I, but, that's another story. So, I never entered the contest and I regret it now. Luckily, I achieved 96% in my last year of high school, which is a 4.6 GPA (in American terms) and I received a scholarship on my own. But, now my mom and close friends and family feel that I would have placed in the top three. I guess I'll never know. But, sometimes it's best to keep these things to myself. And, honestly, I'm not vain enough or perhaps I should rephrase that...I'm not confident enough to enter anything of mine in a contest. But, being able to post at passions is certainly close enough and very rewarding in my books "Poetry is not an opinion expressed... it is a song that rises from a bleeding wound...or a smiling mouth" ~Kahlil Gibran~ [This message has been edited by Honeybee (08-10-2002 10:50 PM).] |
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Kethry Member Rara Avis
since 2000-07-29
Posts 9082Victoria Australia |
Melissa, amazing story, amazing insight and amazing courage to post this. I applaud you! Not only for the way you have allowed friends in but also for the way you have painted the complete picture, in shadows and hollows that show the dark as well as the light. Kudos and heart hugs Kethry Here in the midst of my lonely abyss, a single joy I find...your presence in my mind. Unknown |
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