Hate Me, Love Me

I remember climbing up onto the vanity in our cramped yellow bathroom. I was small enough to put my feet in the sink while I balanced the rest of my tiny frame onto its sides.

I would stare in the mirror, questioning the reflection before me. Who are you? I would ask, believing that one day she'd respond.

I examined every part of that face. The pronounced Armenian nose, the German blue eyes, the high cheekbones, the pale skin, the gap between my two front teeth, the scar on my forehead and another that would dance upon my cheek whenever I would laugh.

I hated that face. My face.

I was not beautiful. I never would be . . . I wasn't the smartest, coolest or the most talented either.

And, I didn't care. Not yet, anyway. I didn't know enough to care what people thought of me. I blindly went about my life in my scruffy clothes, ratty shoes and unkempt hair. I sang from my gut. I yelled out answers and didn't care if they were wrong. I hopped and twirled and danced down the streets (in the mall, the grocery store, the park). I would fall to the floor in fits of laughter (sometimes for no reason at all). I was living as loudly as I could, drinking in every drop of life. Not caring . . . not knowing.

But sometimes knowledge comes at a price . . . the euphoric innocence of youth. My voice was silenced, my hands rested firmly in my lap (even if I was sure I knew the answer), the dancing stopped and seldom did laughter escape from my lips. I did this . . . to myself. Believing I could just fade away.

As a young girl, not yet stumbling into adolescence, my carefully crafted facade began to give way to tiny cracks from each "well-meaning" comment and criticism . . . my face, my body, my brains, my abilities. I wasn't smart enough. Pretty enough. Good enough.

The words came from others . . . and sometimes the words were unspoken. The stares. The whispers. Last picked. Overlooked. Left out.

I spent the better part of my youth trying to prove myself. Trying to prove that I was good enough . . . worthy enough. I became the person they thought I was, the person they wanted me to be. I cowered under criticism. I said YES when I meant NO. I soothed feelings in spite of my own. I gave up. I gave in. I compromised and never gained a thing.

And then something happened. I went back to that girl, sitting on the vanity, her feet in the sink, examining her every feature, her icy blue eyes filled with self-loathing

and I shook her . . . awake.

I made her abandon the cloak of the past--the histories that were not hers to bear.

I am not the same as I was a decade ago, a year ago . . . even yesterday. And, I doubt I'll be the same tomorrow. That's fine with me . . .

My face is a constellation of flaws, there are bags under my eyes and my hair declares war on me every day. I have a quirky personality (and often a lame sense of humor to match). I say things that might make you cringe or even cry. I'm smart, but I have to work at it . . . nothing comes easy. Nothing. I get frustrated, irritated, annoyed, and plain old ANGRY, but I try to keep it all in check. I cry too much and sometimes, not enough. I'm a pessimistic optimist who expects the worst but hopes for the best.

You may hate me for what I say, what I believe in, for the car I drive or for how I part my hair.

You may love me for my unabashed honesty, my self-deprecating humor, my patient and calm demeanor (my incredible humility).

Whatever your choice, this is it. This is who I am and who I will be. Hate me . . . love me.

I no longer make apologies for who I am, what I do or what I believe.

I can't let that little girl down. I can't ever let her think that she doesn't matter or that she won't just fade away . . . because if I do . . .

I'll let him down. . .


and that just can't happen.