Appearances

This past Friday, I had lunch with a paternal aunt that I hadn't seen in years.  Truthfully, I can't remember the last time that we had the opportunity to spend actual quality time together--my teenage years?  Possibly.  Between being separated by physical miles and each having our own lives, we simply drifted apart and lost touch with each other.

She was married to her second husband over the past fourteen years and has been separated from him for about six months.  She expressed how the first seven years were the best years of her life and how it was the first time that she truly felt loved in a relationship and now understood the statement regarding being married to your best friend.  She expressed that they had both made mistakes in the years following that led to their current situation, but that she still loved him and that they had almost a decade of wonderful years together.

What surprised me about all of this was the rest of the family's reactions, especially her adult children's reactions.  I saw my aunt and step-uncle together during those first years and I never doubted her happiness.  She seemed to be deeply in love and truly happy for the first time.  It showed on her face, the way that she carried herself, in her actions, and in her words.  However, it seems that I was one of the few that saw this or believed that she was actually happy.  

When my aunt was with her first husband, the father of her children, she always dressed to the hilt, perfect make-up, perfect hair--she always presented herself well and was up-to-date with the latest fashions and styles.  She explained that this was largely due to her own insecurities and his comments regarding how important it was to him to be seen with beautiful women, which sadly, were not always her.

With her second husband, she was able to dress as she wished and in whatever manner was most comfortable--he didn't care if she wore make-up or not, so often she chose not to.  As she explained it, he loved her for who she was and it didn't matter to him what the rest of the world thought--as long as she was comfortable and happy.  Her family and children however, saw this as her "going downhill" and refusing to take care of herself.  They missed that she was happy and focused instead on her former "made-up" appearance verses her new "naked self".

I understand this on several levels, she became a different woman than they remembered her as.  She was no longer rushed, no longer frantic regarding her appearance, she was more relaxed.  Sometimes these abrupt changes appear to others as though something is wrong with us, when in reality we have finally embraced who we are and are more comfortable with presenting the real us to the world.  Her adult children saw this as her new husband changing her into something unfamiliar and the change concerned them.  As a result, they struggled with truly seeing her happiness and made assumptions that these changes were a reflection of her inner self and that she had quit caring about herself and her outward appearance--also common symptoms of depression.  

I should note here that these are her opinions as to why her children didn't care for her second husband and thought that he was bad for her--I haven't actually asked them and probably will not.  Her interpretation is enough and provide the basis for my focus, today.  I am not stating that there was anything wrong with the reaction that others had to the new her, either--just simply that the automatic assumption was that there was "something wrong" with who she was becoming.  

The observation that I am making is how difficult it can be for the world to accept when we abruptly change our outer appearance, especially drastic changes.  People are comfortable with the known; change is always suspect.  It is normal for others to make assumptions regarding these personal changes, whether they are based upon fact or reality is another question, altogether.  

Consider this, when someone suddenly either gains or loses a significant amount of weight, the difference can be unsettling when you next run into them, expecting them to appear as you are used to seeing them--sometimes you don't even recognize them.  I have encountered several friends after they had lost one hundred, two hundred pounds--quite simply, I had no idea who they were until they reintroduced themselves.  We have a certain expectation regarding appearances and sometimes even the years can change a person so drastically that we don't recognize them later.  It is simply a fact of life.  We hold a mental picture and when that mental picture no longer matches the person in front of us, it can be unsettling.  Our natural reaction is to wonder inwardly, why?  What made them change?

In my aunt's opinion, the reason that our family and her children did not care for her second husband was due to them blaming him for these changes within her and suspecting the worst.  I cannot say; I always liked him and was grateful that he seemingly made her happy.  I was also quick to challenge negative comments the family would make about him, so they eventually quit making such comments in front of me.  I only have her opinion and thoughts regarding the matter.

Overall though, I related greatly to her story.  When I was with the PFA-ex, he constantly badgered me about my appearance.  I didn't wear enough make up, I didn't show enough cleavage, I didn't dress sexy enough--these were serious issues in his eyes and the cause of many arguments.  I did try to please him, so I often attempted to appear as he wished me to be seen, regardless of the fact that it really wasn't who I am, on any level.  I saw it as a simple way to please him and not much different than a costume, it was easily taken back off when the day was through.  

However, when that relationship ended so poorly and put me in such distress, one of the first things that I did was throw out all of that make-up.  It wasn't even a question of "I may want to wear this and look nice for some future event"--it was straight out anger at what it represented and how much I had let myself be changed.  It was almost an act of rebellion throwing it away and with that came the strong affirmation that if folks needed me to wear a mask to like me, I don't need them in my life.  I was adamant that I would never allow myself to be a slave to my appearance again, for any reason.

I realize that not all of you know what I look like in real life.  I am very blonde, very pale, my skin is often blotchy and easily irritated.  I had always worn make-up any time leaving the house--from around thirteen on, I just always wore make-up.  Maybe not the great amounts that Mr. Vain wanted, but I always wore concealer, facial powder, and mascara, at the very least.  

I remember one day, around 2006, showing up to work without make-up due to running late and the question everyone threw at me: "Are you sick? You don't look good."  They weren't used to seeing my non-existent eyelashes (they are blonde and really not visible without mascara); my splotchy skin, and general pallor.   It simply wasn't how they were used to me appearing, the naked face under the mask.  If you have watched the before and after make-up tutorials or witnessed the differences between celebrities "caught without make-up" verses what the public normally sees, you know that make-up can make a huge difference in a person's appearance.

However, after I left the PFA-ex, I lost the desire to appear as anything other than exactly how I am.  It wasn't depression or "not caring about myself"--it was simply the realization that I have no desire to appear as anything other than myself and that if that didn't please others, I truly did not care.  My goal was no longer to make others comfortable by conforming behind a mask, but to let the world see me as I truly am; pale skin, blemishes, and all.  Why should I alter who and what I am?  I no longer saw a reason to hide my true face.  My motto quickly became "Love me as I am or get the heck out of my life."  It was that simple.  It was also a quick way to weed out any men that would have similar desires as the PFA-ex did--men more focused upon the external appearance of their partners than who the person actually was as a human.

Looking back, I can see how this probably concerned others.  Additionally, between 2008 and 2010, I had lost a total of seventy pounds, due to depression when I was living with him and his constant badgering about my weight.  My physical appearance had changed greatly.  Add to this, the world was now, for the first time ever, seeing my naked face daily--a pale, splotchy, eyelashless face that I know took many by surprise.  

Add in an angry ex-sister-law and my stepmother who had never liked me and is a gossip hound to boot, not only eating up the PFA-ex's stories, but adding their own spins to it, I can see now how things transpired as they did.  My paternal family has always thought the worst of me, I was always the black sheep.  When my cousin twice left her husband, it automatically became my fault--of course not through any fault of the marriage itself--but I guess that is what I get for letting my house be the "cover" when she was actually staying with her new beaus.  I have decades of similar stories, but they are neither here nor there, at the moment.  

The simple truth is, my paternal family expects the worst of me and it doesn't take much to head that direction.  It has always been that way and I cannot deny that in my teenage years especially, I enjoyed feeding into their beliefs.  It was easier and more fun than trying to get them to see who I really was, when they were so bent upon believing the worst.  And how very heartbreaking when no matter who you are or what you do right, they do not see it.  Eventually, self-preservation will either make you walk away or add to the illusion.  For many years, I enjoyed not only allowing their expectations to seem correct but to feed them--the worst and most evil-looking clothing I could find?  Wearing it to Grandma's house.  The most disturbing band logos imaginable?  On my shirt when our father would pick us up.  I was going to get lectured, belittled, and cut down regardless of what I wore or did--I just chose to make it easier and picked which areas I allowed them to target.

I am still like this in a lot of ways.  If I know that someone believes ridiculous rumors about me, I am apt to play into those assumptions around them for my own amusement.  It may not be very mature, but my inner prankster has never been able to resist the entertainment value of it.  It is not much different than when I was in my early twenties and running into a young lady that had been bad-mouthing me and calling me a "Satan-loving lesbian" behind my back.  My response upon next seeing her out was to wink and blow her a kiss.  It has been my experience that confronting such people never accomplishes anything.  People will believe what they want, either way and most people, oddly enough, want to believe the worst.  I tried the route of attempting to rationalize and change opinions early on in life--it didn't take long for me to realize that it simply gave them more fuel for their fires and made me look pathetic.  Why bother?  

So yes, I am responsible for a lot of that negative image that my paternal family holds of me.  My thought has always been that it was their own fault for never really getting to know me but by instead choosing to judge me based upon my outer shell.  Who needs constant judgment and to constantly strive to hold up some superficial image?  Not to mention, this was my family.  I believed even then, as a child, that they were supposed to love me unconditionally.  That they did not, but instead regularly cast me in a negative light; eventually I reached a point where I quit trying and just made it my own personal joke.  It hurt much less at the end of the day.

At any rate, by the time that I had left my PFA-ex, I was seventy pounds lighter, displaying the face of pallor, and I was ecstatic.  I had escaped him.  I was home.  I was free of his chains.  I had my life back.  When I was with him, I wasn't sure that any of those things would ever happen again.  The year that I lived with him was spent crying uncontrollably, miserable, depressed--I was a shell.  I was barely surviving.  I wanted to die.  Living with him was daily Hell and I hated the position that I had placed myself in.  By the time, I left and returned to my own home, the tears had already been shed.  I mourned the dissolving of that relationship as I lived it.  I loved him so much, but after I moved in with him and by the time that I discovered who he actually was, it was too late.  

But I hid that.  I hid my embarrassment, my bad choice--few people knew what I was really living through while I was with him.  Who wants to admit that they are a huge idiot and that their wonderful soulmate just became a sadistic bastard and now, to boot, they are trapped living in a nightmare of their own creation?  I didn't.  I was supposed to be smarter than that.  How could I let myself fall for such a ruse?  I felt stupid, in addition to the daily mental abuse and terror that I was now living through.  So yes, I grieved very hard after moving in with him.  By the time I escaped, I was past that part of it, even though few understood my reaction.

Apparently, the normal thing to do when a relationship dissolves is to wallow in misery and cry anytime other folks bring it up.  Me?  I clearly was not having the expected reaction.  I was excited to be on my own again.  I was free.  I was so grateful that I could spend time with my friends and family again--he had kept me so isolated, other than time with his family and his own friends.  I practically bounced when I walked after leaving.  It was like discovering that an incurable disease that was supposed to kill you in less than six months had suddenly vanished and been healed.  I guess until you live in an abusive relationship and believe that you will not survive, it is difficult to understand when your life is handed back to you intact and whole again.  

So yes, looking back and seeing myself as they did, I can see now how things transpired as they did. Seventy pounds lighter, naked face looks like hell compared to the made-up face they were used to, bouncy and happy when they expected tears and depression?  Yes, I can see how his tales that I "must" be abusing drugs because why else would I leave such a wonderful and supportive partner as he was?  How could that realistically happen when just a year before that I was so happy, so in love and so sure that he was the man that I would marry?  Yes, I see now how easily they were led.

Factor in that none of them knew the real me, that none of them have any clue who I really am--it does all make sense.  I did try to explain, but as usual, my words fell upon deaf ears.  No, I see it now.

When my father came snooping at my house, Saturday April 10, 2010--my vehicle at the garage, him believing that I was working, and that he could just search my property without me knowing (he was in his state vehicle and uniform)--as he walked up the hill and low and behold, there I am in the yard doing yard work and catching him off-guard--yes, I can see it.  Me with my allergies raging, no make-up on, also having spent time in the sun--him having been told by my ex, by my then sister-in-law, and by his own wife that drugs had to be the answer... Yes, I see it.

His accusations that I was on meth and that I had all of the signs?  I bet it did appear that way.  Seventy pound weight loss, excessive pallor, blotchy skin, excessively happy (when he felt I should be miserable)?  Yes, I can see it.  But I still struggle with his refusal to see everything that I pointed out, showing that I was not doing anything wrong, that I was trying very hard to escape from an ex that still wasn't letting me go, that I could use his help in that matter--but he refused to listen.  It still boiled down to his refusal to see me.  THAT has always been the problem, his refusal to see me.  To see me, clearly.  To hear me.  To know me.  To let go of judgments and expectations and simply open his eyes.  That is not an easy thing for many folks, I am realizing.

He still doesn't understand his absence in my life.  I don't believe that he ever will.  Most days I can walk away and not think about it.  He never was a great father to begin with and his actions that day, combined with the ones that followed on the day that I was granted my PFA, were pretty par for the course.  My decision to walk away and not permit him back into my life was truly the result of thirty-six years of his refusal to see me clearly; his regular insistence upon expecting the worst of me.  Thirty-six years of being made into a scapegoat because that was the easiest solution.  Thirty-six years of attempting to control a child you never had a hand in raising, but attempted to intimidate instead, will eventually backfire.  My decision to walk away was not due to my inability to forgive several colossal mistakes on his part--but then again, he still refuses to acknowledge that he has ever made any mistakes, ever.  That certainly doesn't help our current standoff, either.

I can acknowledge that perhaps he truly believed that he was acting in my best interest.  I understand that part of being in law enforcement is seeing the ugly underbelly of society day-in and day-out to the point that it taints your vision.  I understand that mentality, combined with his low expectations of me; being on drugs made sense to him.  I can accept that as a parent, if he thought I was abusing meth, he would feel the need to step in and intervene.  But when you learn that you were so wrong and so grievously hurt someone both physically and emotionally--you don't continue with the charade.  Not if you wish to keep them in your life.  But that would also have required admission on his part that yes, he was wrong.   But I guess admitting ignorance may be even more challenging than expecting someone to open their eyes and clearly see what is directly in front of them.

People see what they want to see.  People see what they expect to see.  I wanted to believe that the PFA-ex was the person that he made himself out to be--so that was what I saw.  I missed the red flags or did not think they were as big as they actually were, until it was too late.  My sister-in-law and stepmother wanted my changes to be due to awful causes and gossip worthy--because it made for better tales to pass along and it helped make me into the villain that they had been telling people all along that I was.  If I was actually the victim, it would have taken the wind out of their sails and backfired for them.  My father?  He simply has never been able to see me as my own person, as someone that he could appreciate if he truly took the time to meet and get to know me.  My father has always viewed me as a disobedient child, a human that reflects on him negatively in all ways, but one that he has never been able to successfully mold into his own image or maybe he actually fears that I am all of the dark parts of him rolled into one horrible person?  I cannot truly say.

When my father showed up unexpectedly, six years ago, today, I was surprised and excited that my father had actually taken the initiative to come visit me.  I happily showed him my yard, my house, my life.  I thought that he was finally taking the time to get to know me, to see how I spend my days, to see my life--but he wasn't really seeing.  He was scouring, snooping, trying to find some sign of wrong-doing because that is all my life has ever been in his eyes.  A mistake.  From conception to present day--a mistake, one that he has admitted he would flush down the toilet if he could.  Six years ago, today, was the last time that I welcomed him into my life and was excited to see him.  Six years ago, it ended with him shaking me, accusing me of being on meth, and the realization that he is incapable of seeing me or my life.  Six years ago, today, was when I officially gave up hope upon a having a healthy relationship with my father.  Six years ago, he was told to leave with the words that until he was willing to actually see me, hear me, and be a positive influence, he was not invited back into my world.

I wonder how many more lifetimes it will take before he sees?  Will he ever?