The Closet Monster

I know a lot of people who can't sleep with their closet door open for fear the Closet Monster will pop out and eat them. I don't like sleeping with my closet doors open, either, but it's NOT because of a monster.

I love pretty things: shoes that sparkle, dresses that twirl, anything pink. Over the years, I collected a closet full of beautiful things that made me so happy, sometimes I'd slip into a fancy dress just to spin around my bedroom and feel like a princess.

Those beautiful things don't make me happy anymore.

I still gaze lovingly at the garments and run my hands over shimmering fabric or intricate beading, remembering where and when I last wore the item. But now, trying to feel like a princess instead makes me feel like an ogre as none of those lovely things fit me anymore. My new body - the body with larger breasts and fuller hips, the body I'm desperately trying to love - no longer shimmies into a size 2, much to the chagrin of the ruched, red Ralph Lauren dress that's begging to be worn one last time.

I've always put a lot of care and effort into my appearance. And I know where it comes from - I was told how ugly I was for so long that, when I wasn't ugly anymore, I couldn't risk sliding backwards and had to maintain a certain level of attractiveness. After all, if I was going to be loved, surely I had to be pretty, right? I'm still trying to put all that care and effort into how I look, but it sort of feels like shoveling shit against the tide when your closet has betrayed you.

A typical mourning morning looks and sounds something like this: I need to get ready for work and pull dress after dress out of the closet and hate them all. Stripes, polka dots, black, white, pink, red...are all strewn across my bedroom floor in a sad looking heap. By now, I'm sobbing, late for work and still in my underwear. I'll finally choose one of the things I feel comfortable in and race out the door, makeup optional.

What's happening here? This isn't me!

No. It's not me. This is the new me and I have to stop fighting with her.

I've never really embraced my body. In fact, I have always fought against it, hated it and called it terrible things I would never call anyone else. I have felt ashamed that my thighs brush together, that my chin is too small, that my breasts aren't exactly the same size. (I do have nice eyes, though.) My body has changed thanks to a steady diet of, well, food, and I'm thinking it's time to try and see myself differently. I could keep up this nonsense of trying to fit physically and mentally into what was or I could take a giant leap forward and start loving what is.

 

I have a ginormous bag packed to bring to a local consignment store. It's full of frilly dresses and other lovely things, all which I have outgrown. It's not about outgrowing those clothes physically; I've outgrown them emotionally. What they represent - fighting to be skinny, fighting to be pretty enough, fighting to be good enough to be loved - that's what doesn't fit me anymore. I am so much more than my clothes and shoes. I'm not just pink and sparkling and superficial.

That said, I deserve to get dressed in the morning and leave my apartment, head held high, feeling confident and knowing I look great. I deserve to own my presence and not feel badly I take up a little more space on the bus than I used to. I'm beautiful, with or without a few extra curves. And with that, I'm off to buy a couple of fabulous new fall outfits, outfits that fit the NEW me. I'm totally worth it.

Much love,
Bethany