Beauty is Pain

anonymous

cw: disordered eating, body shaming

I am five years old and sitting criss-cross applesauce, tugging the fluff from a gray pile carpet. My auntie’s steady, skillful hands run a brush through the tangles atop my head, pulling the tumbleweed locks into a neat little chouquette. The bristles tear through my hair with a dull crunch, and the elastics sting as they snap against my scalp.

“Ayí,” I wince, wriggling out of her lap. “You’re hurting me.”

She pulls me closer and fastens another strand, tightening the pin even more resolutely. “Hold still, my darling. It’ll all be worth it. You’re going to be the prettiest ladybug in the kindergarten play.”

Still, I can’t help but squirm, and my auntie strokes my cheek.

“Just a bit longer,” she says. “Beauty is pain.”

I am eight years old and tottering around my bedroom, admiring my glossy platform sandals as they catch the light. I stumble from the bookshelf groaning under stacks of Nancy Drew mysteries to the window draped in faded lavender and lace, and my shoes clack against the hardwood in a delightfully grown-up way. They asphyxiate my ankles, contort my arches, blister my heels. My calves ache like h-e-double-hockey-sticks with each cautious, trembling step. But that’s just the price I have to pay to shove my lumbering elephant feet into strappy peep-toe pumps. Beauty is pain.

I am ten years old and perched on the bathroom counter, dripping goopy Wonder Wax onto the patch of skin between my brows. As the hot wax runs down my nose, its acrid fumes seep into my throat and linger on my tongue. Pricks of blood bead up with each satisfying rip. It leaves behind a smarting burn, branding me with its scalding love bite. But that’s nothing, because those pesky hairs are gone at last. Beauty is pain.

I am twelve years old and about to leave for Hannah’s party, sucking my belly into a little black dress. The phone rings. I’m late. She wants to know where I am. I’m missing the clown noses at the photo booth and the popcorn bags at the snack bar, and didn’t I know how long she’d spent planning this carnival-themed bat mitzvah? I smile. I’m on my way. Be there soon.

After I walk into the reception room and give Hannah a hug, I discover one more attraction she never mentioned. There’s a funhouse mirror above the bathroom sink, except it isn’t very much fun. I see arm fat and leg fat and trans fat and saturated fat and calories per serving and black bars on white labels. My breaths come in shallow puffs. Hunger gnaws at my ribcage. But that doesn’t matter, because my thighs are getting thinner and my jeans a size smaller. It’ll all be worth it. Just a bit longer. Beauty is pain.

I am thirteen years old and I am so tired. I am so tired of being pulled and squeezed and torn and reduced. On the last day of school, my English teacher leaves me with a knowing hug and a package wrapped in faded newsprint. Inside is a blank marble notebook inscribed with a William Wordsworth quote:

“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.”

I clutch the book to my chest and begin to cry.

I am eighteen years old and battle-scarred but triumphant, breathing my heart into a tattered black Moleskine. In goes the bounce from my rough frizzy hair. In goes the dance from my big clumsy feet. In go the anger from my thick dark eyebrow(s) and the laughter from my too-soft tummy and the booming, storming strength from my thunder thighs. And margins flutter and mountains quake and blood-red ink flies across the page as I write, write to turn my pain into beauty.