Disclaimer: This will probably not contain the same level of enthusiasm or optimism as previous posts. Emotional distress and manipulation will ensue. Proceed with caution.
RECENTLY on DIGGING DEEPER with SARAH STATON:
- People with low self esteem tend to feel patronized by compliments.
- It’s me. I’m people with low self esteem.
- If I can separate the compliment from my personal outlook on myself, I can begin to accept the statement.
I do not want to write this.
So the last few posts I’ve made have been mostly based in my upbringing. Sure, my most recent installment included a blurb about my (still lovely) boyfriend, David, but we can agree that the majority of my recent reflections have been focused on my early development. Today’s post will be moving toward what has occurred in my more recent past that could have affected my self esteem and therefore my ability to receive compliments.
My mother was the focus of my first blog post. I grew up watching her deny compliments and talk negatively about herself. This eventually transitioned to her criticizing me and directing pretty hurtful comments toward me.
My mom is a wonderful woman. She is one of the smartest women I know, and she’s just as compassionate and caring. A lot of my best traits I learned from her. I say this to preface because I do not want to paint my mom as a bad person. This is purely for research and reflective purposes. I love her to the ends of the earth and I know she loves me. That being said, my sisters and I have separated Mah into two distinct personalities: Mom (or Mah as I call her) and Mary. Mah is on our side and will stay up all night talking with you even when she has work at 6:30 that next morning. Mary is terrifying. Mary will tell you to your face that she can tell you’ve gained at least 20 lbs just by looking at you. She’ll take random things you told her in confidence and use it as “evidence” of some assumption she has. I love Mah with my whole heart , but Mary scares me to no end.
My mom picked out my clothes and did my hair until I was in the 3rd grade. She would always style my hair into a cool new braid or try a new look she thought of the night before. As I got older, I had more freedom over what I wore and how I did my hair and makeup. My mom did not take to this very well. I stopped caring about my appearance near the beginning of high school. This was a progressive decision, and I wasn’t trying to be defiant about it. I just didn’t want to put forth the effort for the same people who I have grown up with. By my junior year, I had all but completely stopped wearing makeup to school. My mom would regularly suggest I put on some mascara or eyeliner on. These were harmless suggestions until I didn’t heed them, and then her most common response was to criticize me or try to change my mind by explaining why I needed it. These moments were occurring inbetween heartfelt “you don’t need a lot of makeup” conversations.. so you can probably understand my confusion.
This next subject is very difficult to discuss but makes sense to open up about: my weight. I have literally been raised to be self conscious and obsessive about my weight. This is 100% because I grew up to have a unhealthy relationship with food. My mom was constantly talking about portions and how overweight she was and how easy it is to gain weight but how hard it is to lose it. She would make sure to let me know at every restaurant or fast food place that I didn’t need to finish it. Ugh I just had a full body shiver. That phrase brings back so many sad memories. Memories like being excited for McDonald’s but feeling nervous or guilty for eating all of my fries. Memories like getting seconds of our family spaghetti dinner like my dad and sister but then being told I didn’t need seconds. These memories are all before I was in middle school.
SO to make sure we’re on the same page: anytime I ate, I was being scrutinized. When I ate less, I was praised in some direct or indirect manner. Okay, let’s move on.
**I realize there’s probably no actual need for this, but for responsibility’s sake here is a trigger warning for self harm **
It got worse in middle school. The summer before the start of the 6th grade, I lost the remainder of my baby fat and hit a mini growth spurt. I was wearing a size 0 in Aeropostle jeans! (no, we never bought these jeans but I got some from my first yard sale I went to) I also got contacts and a new haircut that year. I felt like a new person. I was getting noticed by boys, and was allowed to start wearing junior clothes. My mom was so happy to buy pretty clothes that would be especially flattering because I was thin. So yeah if you haven’t gotten the picture yet, my self worth became DIRECTLY TIED to my clothing size. The 6th grade was also the year I stopped playing softball. Instead of letting me figure out what sport I would be best suited for IF I WANTED TO PLAY ONE, my mom was quick to let me know that I needed to play a sport or else I would gain weight. That was probably when I really started to internalize that my beauty and value was determined by how much I weighed.
So with the boy thing, I realize it sounds really superficial and cringe-y to bring it up, but being noticed by boys was a real come up for me. I was doomed to be in the “nerd” category for the rest of my days, but if boys thought I was pretty, then maybe I could be more than the smart girl. This did not happen becauseeeee my “best” friend of the time would conveniently like any boy I did. She would be an obnoxious flirt, and I would befriend them. She would be picked, and I would get overlooked. Every. Single. Time. This continued into 7th grade. I got my first real boyfriend, but I didn’t really. He was her “best guy friend” and she was always talking to him and texting. It was around this time that I fell into what I now know as depression. I’m not sure what caused it, but it was real, and it hurt. I felt worthless, unloved, and pathetic for feeling like that. I would try to talk to my friend about it, but she would just assure me that I was being ridiculous because I had a perfect life. She would remind me that she had it worse so I couldn’t complain. I began self harming. I did it pretty consistently for about a year. My parents do not know. Most of my friends do not know. That’s as much detail as I’ll give. I interrupt the regularly scheduled programming to point out a serious psychological issue started early and never fully went away. This, with my mom’s persistent weight talk, definitely stuck and affect my self esteem today. Okay. On with the trauma 🙂
In the 8th grade, I was on our school’s varsity soccer team. Our coach had us run laps or sprints all of the time, This resulted in my lowest recorded weight in my adolescent/early adult life: 120. I hate this number. I wish this number could cease to exist. This is the number Mary would remind me of up until VERY recently. Now, let me tell you– I was 14 at the time. What 14 year old is fully grown and developed? Right. N O N E. So I was a growing and ahem developing woman being told I looked my best at a weight that 1) felt impossible and 2) was probably unrealistic for my frame and activity level. She would also tell me this most of the time at my most confident. If I were to say “yanno I think I lost some weight!” or “I’m pretty happy with my weight right now”, MARY WOULD TELL ME “MMMMM I THINK YOU LOOKED YOUR BEST WHEN YOU WEIGHED 120 POUNDS”. These began the dark years.
RECORD HALTS
Here’s your reminder that my mother is not a monster who hates me. I know she is just the product of how she was raised and her (warped) idea of good health. Carry on.
I gained weight. I kept gaining weight. Even when I was thin, I was still reminded of that perfect 120. Even when I was running cross country in the fall and starting in varsity soccer games in the spring I was not 120; I couldn’t get to 120.
In 2016, both of my Grandpas died within a month of each other. The morning of the second funeral, my mom opened my bedroom door to check on my progress getting ready. I was wearing a black business-cut dress with my black blazer. She informed me that I didn’t have to wear all black. I said I knew that, but I wanted to wear it. She argued with me over my outfit some more before delivering the final punches. She told me she didn’t think the dress was “flattering”. I disagreed. Her immediate rebuttal was that she didn’t want me looking like a whore at my grandfather’s funeral.
In 2016, she disowned me for the better part of a year because I tried to sneak out to see a boy they didn’t like. Yes, this was dumb and I certainly was wrong to do it, but even looking back now I don’t see how it was reasonable or right for her to scream and curse at me. She broke my mirror with how hard she slammed my door. She ripped my “Catholic” hoodie off of me because I was clearly not faithful and just “going through the motions”. She screamed at the top of her lungs that she was going to get my father so I could tell him myself… how much of a slut his daughter was. This was because she assumed the worst and wouldn’t believe anything I had to say because I was a liar and she “f*cking hates liars”. That hurt okay moving on.
In 2018, I was going to attend my senior prom. When it came time to pick out a dress (we always bought online with no issues), Mary told me she was not going to buy a dress until I lost 20 lbs. This was a month before prom, so really, I had less than a month to lose 20 freaking pounds. I lost 10, and she “caved” and bought me my dress of choice. Mind you, these dresses never cost more than $200. Outrageously cheap for prom dresses and they were good quality. Next.
Same year, I was going to my boyfriend’s prom. I didn’t want to wear the exact same dress I had worn a month prior, so I had planned on wearing the dress I wore the year before. I was sure I had already told my mom this. The dress was jersey material, altered to my height, and pretty! Because of its easy material, it made the most sense to me to take that to the prom 3 hours away. In a discussion about the arrangements, it became apparent we were thinking of different dresses. I said I wanted to take the black dress, she argued. I knew she would say her real reason in a moment, but I still wasn’t quite prepared for her to laugh in my face when I said I thought I would fit in it. She cackled and asked if I was serious because she could tell from looking at me that I’ve gained at least 20 lbs since that dress. She then made it about me wanting to look like a slut at his prom and that was the only reason I wanted to wear it.
Without continuing further and further into some of the worst things she’s said to me, it’s pretty plain to see that not only was I raised to be self conscious, but also to associate confidence and clothes she didn’t like with promiscuity and immodesty.
This is not a tirade against my mother or anyone. I do not fault anyone for their most likely irreversible damage they’ve done to my confidence. The primary reason I chose to look into this topic today is because I’d be ignorant to exclude these occurrences and experiences from my reasoning. I’d be kidding myself if I said this stuff didn’t affect me. To truly get something out of this assignment, to take anything from this, I need to be serious with myself. These experiences do not define who I am, but they did shape who I am. To ignore that would be to ignore my struggles and if I erase the struggles the triumphs aren’t as triumphant.
Thank you for sticking to the end. It’s been a very difficult page to write. In the fourth and final post, we’ll be able to connect the dots and chart my progress. This has for sure been a journey.
Thanks again, over and out.
Sarah xx
Brave and Bold 