the safe space project: choosing my own ideal

For most of my life, I've envied no one. As a young girl, I was the daring one of my friends who jumped into the middle of action without thinking twice of the consequences. I was comfortable around boys and boyfriends, was free thinking, of average height, thin, strong, thick haired, well dressed. My body, from the outside perspective was petite yet provocative; 5'3", 120 lbs with 32 DD breast.

I not only liked who I was, I loved myself and my life. Except on occasion, when my mature body coupled with my sense of confidence evoked a strong sense of lust from older men, lust that I was too young to understand and ill-prepared to handle. My trusting, independent mind could at once be considered a gift of maturity and potential for heartache. The attention from boys and men took its toll on my sense of purpose as a young lady. While giddy girlfriends prepared for a night out by stuffing bras and gossiping about boys from our study hall, I was deep in my closet juggling two distinct selves. The first, who’s instinct it was to wear out a compression bra under a t-shirt, and the other who was beginning to believe it was a better move to choose the low cut halter top that needed, and garnered, constant attention. I had come to expect the regular club bouncer would never once glance at my fake ID. He busied his eyes with soft roundness of my tits, which teased and taunted in the halter. On more than one occasion, after hours of guzzling cheap beer, I came to feel I owed him something.

I suppose I imagined my teenage breasts had found purpose after tormenting me through middle school. Recreational sports had become a thing of the past before ever reaching high school. The last time I remember handling a ball, I was thirteen and playing in a girls basketball league for the YWCA. The girls on my team wouldn't recall me wearing two sports bras simultaneously to prevent my breasts from swinging directionless because I came to the locker room already in uniform. They would have thought I was sitting on the sideline recovering from defensive tactics, not because my adult sized jugs were so sore from continuously being flung, smashed into and flattened, that I was near tears. On the ride home from what I knew would be my last game, I cried silently in the back seat knowing my newly formed boobs were too much a distraction from the game to ever play sports well again.

I paced the gynecologist's office just after my nineteenth birthday pleading for a referral to a plastic surgeon who would give me the green light for a breast reduction. The Doctor did her best to persuade me I was blessed to be so well endowed and reluctantly gave me the referral I desired.

I spent the weeks leading up my appointment compiling edited and re-edited lists of every possible reason I could conceive of why my breasts were a nuisance and possible danger to my health. But before presenting my data to the surgeon, I threw myself into the arms of this stranger, buried my face into her lab coat lapel, sobbed and begged for her to take them.

The insurance company responded to our case within a week, the answer was no.

I grew into a woman, lost baby fat and gained hips, began to use my sexuality as a tool of persuasion. During an internship, I was sent to interview a local artist, and though I had done a fair share of research on his work and personal history—prepared lead questions and formed a connection through daily emails—I fell back on a low cut shirt and flirtation as insurance to make our time together as advantageous as possible.

I would be remiss not to mention, during this fragile period of entering adulthood, the man who would soon become my husband knew my intentions of forming relationships was not a threat even if I did not, and loved me without judgement, but I had lost my self love.

Later that year Matt and I founded a creative studio and I realized I could no longer rely on the primitive desires of men to gain clients. I channeled my former self, hid my money makers behind button-ups and pull-overs, found again my assertiveness—and clientele looking me in the eye. I let myself be overtaken by a new sort of confidence in honing my expertise in selling Matt's illustration work.

As our wedding approached and it was time to choose a dress, I began again to value other areas of my body. I applauded myself for running every other day to quiet my mind, admired my toned and tan legs in the mirror, focused on tightening my ass. And after, as we flipped through our wedding photos, I concentrated on facial expressions and overall atmosphere.

Time passed, our son began to grow in my belly and I relished my melon sized protrusion, never once restraining myself during a meal or worrying about post-partum muffin top. I loved pregnancy. Of course I knew there would be excess weight to lose once my son was born, I expected a need for more routine physical exertion than I was accustomed to, was sure I would shed the pounds without resistance—and I did. Mostly.

Just a few weeks after he was born, as my stomach shrank and my hips narrowed, I sunk into a deep seeded depression, blaming my mood swings and general emotional distance from my family on the difficulty of breast feeding. But every time his sweet lips were close to my naked breast, resentment appeared. I lied to myself, visited lactation consultants, pointed a finger at lack of latching, low milk supply, sleepness nights and for many months denied the resentment was a result of my now sized 34 H/I breasts always needing to be contorted so that my hungry boy could find the nipple in a mountain of flesh.

My disproportioned body image was not in my head. Intending an industry joke about the effects of Photoshopping, a friend edited a photograph of Matt and I from the summer before so that my pregnant belly was placed on Matt, and I was once again slim waisted. He left intact my mountainous boobs which solicited comments suggesting this photo was true to my current physical appearance. My breasts never deflated after breast feeding and my ego had.

In the following months I hunched over, used my baby to conceal my torso and searched desperately for clothing that would both hide my body and still be appropriate for a twenty-something year old.

During a transitional week—filing paperwork for an audit and weaning myself off of being a full time Mom—a wave of knowing washed over me. It was time to do something more proactive if I ever hoped to find myself.

With Matt's encouragement, fully expecting to pay for surgery out of pocket even if it meant staying lean on extracurricular activities, I returned to my gynecologist expecting to demand a referral to a plastic surgeon. She handed me two slips for specialists considered the best in the area without hesitation and within weeks I found an understanding, scrupulous man willing fight with my insurance company to cover the cost of the procedure.

It was a painful ordeal, took what felt like months to heal, and of course I have scars. But these scars are precious to me. They empower me to project my mind and not my body. These are a daily reminder of how far I have to come to accept myself. 

Laura Duquette

www.12grainstudio.com

two years. four months. nineteen days.

i remember the day life ended. it wasn't as ceremonious or scary as one would believe. it felt like any other day--i fed the dog, locked the door, and at 8 am left home in the direction of newport news. i had just enough money to buy gas to get me back to buffalo--if i forewent any food along the way. i had no where to stay and no possessions to my name except for the two rubbermaid containers in my backseat. those rubbermaid containers stayed in my backseat for almost a month because in some alternate universe there was something i could do to reverse everything. my family and friends were courtesy enough to not mention that i seemed to be home for more than a visit as the weekend turned into a long weekend turned into weeks, months and finally years.

the thing that still stings me most about this time period is what a fucking liar i was. "i'm totally fine." "it was never right." "we all saw this coming." "can't wait to move on." but here's the thing that people don't tell you--no matter how many activities you put in your schedule, no matter how many times you refill your wine glass, no matter how many lies you make up for others, you cannot lie to yourself. we've all been through these types of endings. we've all told ourselves these lies. but i have friends going through life changing events right now and i'm writing this to tell you, when your whole life changes no matter the catalyst, it is a hell of a lot easier to go through it with people than to try to cover it. there is no shame in pain, in tears, in irrational rants where you perhaps disclose an almost too detailed account of how you will kill the people who brought this pain to you.

the worst part of life ending is that people have all these expectations for you. apparently there is a time frame in which everything is supposed to be tied up into a little box and walked away from. they'll tell you it's when papers are signed. they'll tell you it's once you have a job again. they'll tell you it's when all the flowers from the funeral have died. they'll tell you it's once you've climbed out of debt. the judger is allowed to have a whole airport full of baggage, but you, my friend, must be clear of heartache and drama. as i talk to my friends who aren't through their storm yet, i have realized that talking about my life-altering experience to help them has made it worth it all and has been therapeutic. but there's one thing i have yet to really admit to myself. so here's the biggest, hardest confession that i will ever make: i feel like i just got my life back two weeks ago.

everyone gets to choose their own bench marker of when whatever said life-altering event is over. i had to move thousands of miles on a dime, with no money, a mountain of debt, heartache, a sense of failure, nowhere to live and no job. i know this isn't the worst thing to every happen to someone but let me tell you, it wasn't very pleasant. thankfully i had a bundle of apology jewelry to sell and a sympathetic sister to get me through. i found myself and found love. i found jobs but nothing i lived for or that helped pay the bills. it wasn't until a few weeks ago that i took a job that will allow me to pay down debt and actually save money. this seems like the final puzzle piece for me to say that although life ended, i gained MY life. a life that i am proud of. a life where i don't feel unfulfilled and underappreciated. it wasn't until two weeks ago i felt like i had all the tools in front of me to tell my old life to fuck itself and fix whatever is still hanging in the balance. i'm glad i went through the struggle because now i know i can make it to the other end of anything.

two years. four months. nineteen days. that's how long it took for me to feel whole again. so friends who are hurting right now--go through your process. you get to decide when you run your life again. i hope for you, it's faster. i hope for you, everything falls in line quickly. but if not...if for you it takes time...that's alright, too.

the safe space project: a study in beauty.

A Study in Beauty

Page Nolker

I was a teenager when I stopped reading fashion magazines and began my long journey to stop judging my looks. At one point in my life I have rejected and resented every part of my body and appearance from my hair to my toes. My bushy eyebrows, sleepy right eye, inadequate lashes, crooked nose, too large nostrils, full lips, huge smile, revealing gums, protruding chin. My right index finger is fatter than the rest and I once longed for square, strong fingernails instead of the ones I have. Of course my breasts didn’t measure up to my expectations as a young woman—whose do? My two birthmarks came under critical scrutiny before I even hit my teens; no one else I knew had them. I have judged my vagina, my ass, my thighs, behind my knees and I recall more than one adolescent summer spent obsessing over my toes and wishing that feet came without them. 

That kind of self scrutiny is crippling so in my early twenties I bought a painting by the artist Margaret Lazzari from her study on beauty and made the subject my muse. I vowed to rewire my brain’s standard of beauty and learn to enjoy myself. I studied the portrait’s languid, sensual self embodiment and the sexiness inherent in her calm and self possession. She hangs in my bedroom; her radiant, compassionate warmth the first thing I see every morning. Over the years, she came to personify my idea of Grace and my feminine ideal. She became my icon of beauty; my guardian angel.  

I have spent hours in front of the mirror witnessing myself. Wondering why I never look the way I feel? Why my two profiles seem unrelated? Noting how a child and a woman share the same space. 

For six years I cut my own hair—and still do on occasion. I used to admire older women with smart short cuts and dream about finding the courage to cut mine some day when I also was older and no longer afraid. I didn’t end up waiting and the experience was more cathartic than I could have conceived. Of all my features, I hated my hair the most. I hated getting my hair cut from my earliest memories. I hated sitting still in front of a mirror being examined by a stranger—submitting to their interpretation of me. I cried every time I got my hair cut growing up and it became a family joke. My father would greet me when I came home ready with a paper bag that had eyeholes cut out. It wasn’t until I chopped my hair off and began cutting it myself, stopped caring and started walking around in the world confidently—despite my amateur effort and the occasional bald spot—that strangers, men and women, started stopping me on the street to tell me how much they loved my hair. Astounded, that’s when I realized people weren’t responding to my hair itself, but to my attitude; the energy with which I wore my hair. 

The self portrait at the top of this post was another intentional act of healing. Like getting my hair cut, I hated having my photo taken; I hated photos of myself. I arranged for a photo shoot with my niece and went to the mall for a makeover in preparation. For years, I hadn’t owned any makeup to speak of. I wore only the basics and only to weddings and formal events. I selected a young art student at Sephora and asked for his help. I explained a little about myself and intention and then handed the creative direction over to him. He made up only one half of my face and asked me to compare them. He’d done a nice job and I told him truthfully that I liked both sides. Surprised, he told me women buy makeup to hide, no one ever says they like they’re natural selves. He also told me I look like Annie Lenox. I’d heard that before. Not really knowing what Annie Lenox looked like I assumed the resemblance was surface: short hair, long face; an androgynous look. 

The truth is: I don’t want to look like anyone but myself. I prize being original; my own one-of-a-kind in everything I do. Still, curious I went home and googled images and videos of Annie Lenox. Unconcerned about the details of similarity, I studied her energy. I wanted to see how Annie Lennox embodied her beauty, her self. 

Actions speaks louder than words and confidence conveys more than a perfect smile, pinup figure or beautiful hair. My whole is greater than the sum of my parts—priceless wisdom I spent the first half of my life learning. 

**You can find more of Page's insights and personal journey at babeeffect.com**

why i run.

one of the major things that keeps me motivated while i am training is reading books by or about successful people. over the last year or so, i have read dozens of books about successful runners, bikers, business owners, creative types and humanitarians. and in all of these books there seems to be a part where they tell you how they succeed and why they do what they do to begin with. specifically in running books, there is always the answer to the question of why we run. there are of course those arguments that it must be natural if children do it. there are the arguments that we were gorillas and really enjoyed playing tag with antelope; it came about as a survival skill; our bodies were designed for it to get from place to place. it's always some scientific, anthropological, ignorant, generalized-for-every-human-being-ever bullshit. but what's lacking in the dozens of books that i've read is the 'I'. i don't think that i have finished one of these books with the answer of why a single athlete does what they do besides that they can.

i have openly and honestly been having trouble getting back into running this summer even though my mind and motivation have lofty goals. so yesterday, after several tough runs in a row, i decided to give up on running and tossed my shoes in the recycling bin. but this morning, after a terrible night's sleep, my body woke up and wanted to run. that's why at 6:03 am, about ten seconds after i heard jim's engine start to leave for the gym, i leaped out of bed and dug up an old pair of running shoes and hit the pavement. (i didn't want him to know i was running in case it was another shitty run and then i'd just pretend i never went.) something in me wants to run. something in me can't just let it go. so, why do I run? i've struggled to answer this question and i think that's the start of why i have trouble with the actual action of running. if i'm not doing it to benefit myself and get something out of it, of course i am just going to get frustrated. so this morning on my run i really thought about why i run and here's what i came up with.

i run because i've never been a mentally strong person. most of my failures in life started in my mind and then manifested themselves in my life. i want to train my brain to overcome, to push beyond boundaries. running pushes me further emotionally and mentally than it does my body. this is a war zone for me but i rather work it out on the pavement than in an important area of my life.

i run because since college i haven't followed the career path that i assumed i would. this has led me to a feeling of stagnancy and feeling like i don't have goals in the sense that most 26-year-olds do. to be incredibly honest with you, i will avoid going to events or gatherings where i know that i do not have a career similar to the other attendees. i run to have goals and bench markers and prove that i can still accomplish something even if it's not in the expected ways or in the way that society tells me should be important to a 26-year-old.

i run because i hate sweat. hate is a major understatement. what i've learned is that moment that i feel moisture on my neck is the moment that i pick up my pace a little. one of my favorite quotes is by muhammad ali. he said 'i don’t count my sit-ups; i only start counting when it starts hurting because they’re the only ones that count'. i run because it's the one time i am motivated by something that usually makes me cringe. when i sweat, it means i've worked.

i run because i love to depend on myself. i like knowing that i can use my two feet to get to somewhere that seems so far away in my head. one of my favorite runs is from my house down to canalside and back up through downtown. there are gentle hills and straightaways where you feel like you're making no progress at all but i know at the end i've run about 7 miles of my city. as i start to move towards a lifestyle that is more about refinishing, growing my own vegetables, minimizing the tangible things i have, eating to fuel my body rather than my taste buds, owning one car instead of two, nothing makes more sense than to be able to use my two feet to get to where i want to go.

a lot of us say that we like running when we're playing sports because sports are distracting. i don't think that's it. i think that we like running when we play sports because there are no measures of the running we're doing. we're just listening to our body and running accordingly. so this morning for my run i decided to run like i would when playing sports. i stopped trying to speed train. i put on old sneakers. i put on worship music and slowed even under my normal pace for part of it and far above my normal pace for parts. the only thing on my mind was catching the sunrise near the water. it was refreshing to forget about training and checking my pace, my mileage and remember that running is not about why everyone else run, it's about why I run. running is the only time i feel appropriate being selfish and that's why i run. it's why my shoes will never land permanently in the garbage.

the safe space project: engendering safe space.

You, yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection. 

– Buddha

We all have insecurities. Unfortunately, they don’t subside with years, job titles, or fanciful thought.  In fact, I would be willing to bet that the aforementioned only exacerbate that which we hold so tightly, and secretively on to.  

Which warrants a critical conversation on our culture’s proclivity toward dismissing the subjective, or at very least containing it. As a society, we have compartmentalized times for talking about our feelings and emotions rather than making it a deeply integrated part of our daily interactions with one another. I believe that we need to provide the safe space necessary to foster healthy and meaningful relationships with each other that result in open discussions about our personal misgivings.

Suffice it to say, my sister’s courageous statement of self-love in a moment of

self-doubt has produced such a space; I feel it wise to make use of such an opportune moment. In the words of Marianne Williamson, “As we let our own lights shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.”

So, here goes. If my sister can lament of body image, I have the now have the ability to publicly proclaim that, since I was a child, I have struggled to rectify my internalized identity with my outward expression.

Growing up, gender norms were reinforced quite strictly. My mother’s telling of my birth always details the fact that she “waited 18 years for a girl.” And she never lets me forget it. Though she may have finally gotten her girl, my refusal to wear dresses on occasions that required them became a repeat topic of discussion. And, I cannot count the number of times I was made to play house with my sister in lieu of football with my brothers.  

“I wish I had been born a boy,” I thought to myself.  

It seemed like the only logical solution. I had grown weary of the constant corrections – and reminders – of proscribed gender roles and my inability to properly fulfill them. Fortunately, my understanding of gender identity and expression has changed quite dramatically since childhood.

Through many evolutions of thought and awareness of self, coupled with the many encounters of supportive individuals that I now call community, I am able to succinctly describe why it is that I reject the gender binary. Not in an attempt to be countercultural, but in order to free myself (and others) from the confines of a social construct I (nor they) have never agreed to.

I am a self-described genderqueer.

For the most part, I now can confront the looks of confusion or embarrassment – and sometime both – that come with the length of my hair and the skinny ties that I wear. And I am also more than accustomed to adults and children alike asking, “Are you a boy or a girl?”

But. Why does that matter? Why should that matter?

I am who I want to be(come).  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVg7mtgEqGY

-Sarah E. Bishop