The Girl with Her Childhood Self Attached to Her Ankle

Submitted by Siera Whitaker

TW: sexual abuse

No one had ever told me I was shit to my face. But I had to accept that I felt this way about myself. My awareness of my own mortifying perception of my value crept up on me how one defected cell mutates in the body slowly wreaking havoc without its person knowing. Quiet, calm, seemingly from a distance, and with the intention of killing me. When I came to terms with this understanding recently, I felt like I had betrayed myself. How could I ever think so poorly of myself? The question bit deeply into me, causing unbearable pain in my chest that far surpassed the ones that came along with my various losses. It was hollow and deep and dark and gaping open with sore edges. The realization of my self-negligence haunted me with receipts that showed up as flashbacks in my head. 

The time I got in a car with someone I consider more of a stranger than an ex-boyfriend today who was high and drunk as he drove on the backroads of South Carolina with low visibility and me in his passenger seat. I can still smell the stench of his smoky breath from when he would lean in to kiss me and feel the hairs stand on my arms frightened by the eeriness of the night as I silently prayed that I wouldn’t end up in a ditch because of a collision with a deer or another car. The time I lied to my mother and told her I was going to spend the night at a friend’s house when I had really gone to spend the night with a guy who was separated from his wife so he could take up space from my body when he never had intentions of loving me beyond that moment. When I wanted to be seen so much so that I told a friend I wanted to be part of her so-called gang just to have a place to fit in. These situations had occurred years prior. However, they appeared spontaneously one day like an old friend from the past passing by my front porch. The inner confrontation that ensued after my lack of self-worth was made visible to me made me want to scratch my face until my skin hung from my nails, and I was unrecognizable enough to become someone else. 

I cringed at my own self-deprivation and my desire to receive love from anyone willing to give it to me knowing well love wasn’t what my encounters wanted to give all those years ago. I called myself desperate. A dumbass. Thirsty for attention. I felt embarrassed and ashamed for subjecting myself to such low-quality beliefs and situations. I got angry with myself for exposing myself to situations where I came out on the undeserving side of circumstances. Then, when the negative self-talk began to dissipate- something I’ve been addressing by incorporating mantras and other methods into my daily routine- the reckoning began. Not one meant to punish or torment me further but meant to challenge me to do things differently than I had in the past. To challenge me to love myself fully. To pour into myself with the same care and frequency I did for so many others. To claim my worthiness and demand respect of myself for me. To shed the skin of the girl with the white and blue bow-bows in her hair, along with her blemishes, and emerge anew. 

I realized I needed to forgive myself. I had forgiven those I felt I needed to for my own peace. But it was my turn. I felt like I was carrying my childhood self on my ankle. As I’d take steps, I’d feel the weight of her presence on my feet. I was in need of comforting her, the little girl who would get so excited to see her dad come home from work but would arise disappointed the next day when realizing he got in late again. I needed to heal the girl who thought it was okay to let other girls touch her in the places it wasn’t okay to be touched in. The girl who thought it was required to give her body to boys because she thought that was what women did and that was what her value consisted of. I needed to listen to the confusion that girl felt when her mom rarely said she loved her. To the girl who would watch her mom and dad on their never-ending cycle of fight, drugs, fight. To the girl who would ask herself why does my family not love me? To the girl who was rarely taken seriously when she’d express herself. To the girl who wasn’t loved nearly enough as she deserved to be loved.

I had to recognize that some of my struggles were simply placed on me because of my gender, skin tone, and socioeconomic status. That these things weren’t in my control. That they were nothing to be ashamed of. That they have shaped me into who I am but only to an extent because they don’t determine who I am on the inside. That I didn’t have to let these factors determine the trajectory of my life. That I could still be who I aim to be and go in life where I want to go.

I told myself I can give that girl with the bow-bows in her hair the love she deserves now. In the present. And in the future. With all the best intentions. With all the warmth I can muster. I can give her ice cream to cheer her up when she is feeling down. I can paint her nails pink. I can shower her with rewards for her accomplishments. I can hug her just because. I can fix her hair up into the crown it is. I can teach her that her value is based on more than her vagina.  I can ensure her she can choose marriage or her career, and that she has options that range outside of those, too. I can make her laugh until her sides hurt and praise the beautiful twinkle in her eyes that she sees when she looks in the mirror. I can give her the world.

Self-care is not a trend. It’s medicine. It’s a practice. It’s a challenge, especially for those of us who haven’t always known our worth. It’s a saving grace above all else because it can literally be the difference between life and death. I’d still be my executioner if not for it (and my faith, of course). 

In my case, the lack of self-care was a learned behavior I picked up from other women that I am now working diligently to correct. Personally, I’ve seen many women in my life do for others at the expense of themselves. We harbor secrets because we were told to hold them in while keeping our legs crossed and hands folded on our laps. We are taught to be the nurturers, even if it means sacrificing our own sanity and health. And when we step outside of these adjectives, we are looked at with horror, confusion, and pity. We’re looked at like our painful periods are normal just because we are the humans that have been deemed acceptable for giving birth. Like we must fix our husbands’ plates because it’s the wifely thing to do. Our role in this world is linked to the word “woman” as if we must only be seen as someone who benefits a man. Like our identities can’t subsist without them. And unfortunately, for women within the spectrum of my complexion, we emerge as insignificant in society because we bear a skin color that is engraved as such in the majority of people’s minds alongside the title. 

While I learned self-negligence from women, I learned unworthiness from men. The first man in my life was flawed by his own background. Any man who abuses a woman feels like they have the privilege. And they feel they have privilege because oftentimes, they do. Just count the number of male CEOs at big corporations across America. The men that came into my life after he wasn’t as present only were after what I could give them, not my intelligence or anything worth depth. I saw how men thought it was okay to grope me just because I laughed at a joke of theirs. I could read their thoughts about me even if they were a friend claiming to not like me in that way. I was looked at for my face and body more than things of substance. And this male privilege has been normalized within all major institutions. Just look at cases where women claim to have been violated by men, and you’ll get the picture if you haven’t already. ( And if you can’t get the picture, then you shouldn’t have read this far.)

Breathe, Siera. 

However, women are on the brink of change. More of us are awakening to the fact that we aren’t just a benefit to a man. We’re realizing we are a benefit to the world. We’re creating businesses, obtaining degrees, and saying no to getting married and having children unless it’s what WE desire. We are beginning to think of our own value and our own contributions to our lives, for the sake of ourselves. We are beginning to take charge of our self-care, and we’re emerging as changemakers and better human beings. We are unifying to amplify one another’s voices by sharing the belief that our stories are important and should be told. We’re learning that we aren’t a representation of how we may have been treated in the past by oppressors, abusers, and molesters. We’re learning we’re perfectly well, the way we are and that who we are doesn’t have to correlate to what’s expected of people given the gender girl at birth.