self esteem and jelly beans

I am a beauty queen and

a teenage dream

my body's full of self esteem

and jelly beans

I like me, now. I like the person I'm becoming, and who I currently am. I couldn't say that until recently. Maybe it's the Lexapro talking, but I feel self love for the first time... in probably my whole life.

It's not the love I thought I had for myself when I would look in the mirror as a teen, appreciating the full lips I had inherited, or the big eyes people told me were pretty. I liked my looks, but even still, there was always something to hate. Whether it was the "bacne" that never showed signs of disappearing, or the cellulite that showed up when I was 9 years old... even my best assets fell short to me. And not just the physical ones.

I've always been a clumsy person. I would "fall sitting down" as my mother said. I was dubbed distraida by my entire family—nothing could ever quite hold my attention. I would get lost in thought, or follow a butterfly in the middle of a soccer game that I was supposed to be playing. While cleaning, I would find all the things I had lost in my own mess and just marvel at them instead of putting them away.

Forgetful should have been my middle name. I could not remember to complete tasks, or seem to remember what I needed to bring along with me when I left the house, or anywhere really. I've left hidden treasures—pieces of me—all around the east coast by accident. Out of sheer forgetfulness.

By the time I remember I've left something behind, it's just a little too late.

I've always meant well, but just never planned well. This trait, along with the full lips, is an inherited one from my father, and is a part of me that I've disliked the most. It's most unfortunate because this trait is even more prevalent than my big lips, or eyes. It affects my every day life, relationships and jobs. For a long time I worried that I would be a terrible mother because I might just forget that I was one. Or even worse—that I would get distracted and disenchanted with motherhood, and leave it halfway done like all my other projects.

Any time I spill, trip, need to run back and forth from my car to my apartment to retrieve a forgotten item, I can hear my mom, grandma, grandpa or dad saying "Ayy, Whitney. Whitney, Whitney, Whitney..."

While it was said with love, the main flavors in that phrase were frustration and defeat. I could tell just how tired of me they were by the amount of times they repeated my name. Once they breathed their last "Whitney", it would be followed up with the same sentence... almost as if they had a meeting to hammer down a script or mantra to repeat so they wouldn't toss me out a window. "I just don't know what to do with you anymore."

Well, that made two of us.

My saving grace was always my sense of humor—yet another inherited trait from my father. I would use the humor to soften up whoever I was annoying, then turn on the also inherited charm to get them to forgive my errors and forget their frustration. It was a survival skill and a coping mechanism, but it never worked when I was the one frustrated with myself.

There have been, and I suspect will be, many flushed moments where I'm rushing around in search of a lost item that I desperately need—sweating, praying to Satan that I might stumble across the object magically. Sometimes those prayers are answered, but when they aren't, I beg myself to change while repeating "Ayy, Whitney. Whitney, Whitney..."

In those moments where I've been tired of being the conductor of "The Hot Mess Express", I've felt hopeless. But I lived inside this vessel, and the only choice left was to learn how to live with it, and maybe even learn how to love it.

At the end of a particularly challenging "Whitney" day, I would lay there, staring up at the ceiling covered in blankets and guilt. One night I just decided to hug myself and say "I love you, Whitney" out loud and mean it. And to be honest, it hurt at first. But then, I finally meant it.

I guess on some level, I've always cared for myself. I mean, hell—it's just me in here until the lights go out. But this new love that I have for myself feels healthier. The old Whitney would have bought a $20 bag of candy from the mall and carried it around like an emotional support Chihuahua, picking at it throughout the day. Of course she would then leave about $16 worth of candy on the metro seat on the way to work, and when she reached for it later, more tears of frustration would come. *true story*

Over time, I've tried to give myself the patience not many others were able to give me as a child. Instead of allowing the self-hate to engulf me, I've had to learn to forgive myself and stop crying over spilled milk. I've had to adjust my self-interactions and think about how I would approach these situations with my son: I would tell myself it was going to be okay, and then put a system in place to keep myself in check.

Sometimes I forget those systems and fall into the old habit of chastising myself. But once I cool off, I give myself a quick reminder that 30 years of bad habits are going to take more than one try to correct.

I have had to relearn a lot. From the way that I wake up in the morning, to the way that I go to bed at night. I have to wake up earlier than normal to get my head on straight. I need to have a clean house to find all the things I am bound to lose. I need to put myself to bed early to curb exhaustion-induced anxiety, because, that anxiety makes it impossible for me to move past a single moment and plan for the next.

The statement "You have to love yourself before you can love anybody else" always made me gag. But looking back, I think maybe I was interpreting it incorrectly. Learning how to raise myself all over again in adulthood has actually made me a more patient, kind and understanding mother and person in general. Mothering myself turned into loving myself, which in turn taught me what I could accept as love from others, and what was a healthy amount of myself to give away to someone.

Self-help gurus like to tell you that self love "comes from within", but sometimes you have to learn how to love yourself through example. So, I've been watching the loved ones around me, and poaching their good habits.

I'm grateful to have friends like Bethany, who have taught me how to slow down and listen—to respect children with genuine care and listen to them with real curiosity. I wish I had that when I was little, and it's given me a newfound patience for my son and myself. It's created a healthier bond for us both. Taking the time to listen to him and hear him out has helped me reflect those same actions on myself, and has made me more conscious of other's feelings. I step outside of myself and my own self-absorbed anxiety. I learn to take a moment to breathe, and just listen. I can now welcome a distraction from a small person or my own random thought, instead of disregarding it and getting frustrated.

I'm lucky to have a baby sister who, despite being raised in a similar fashion, was the first one to open my eyes to what patience really looks like in practice. Watching Daisy talk to her children like they were humans and soak up their love was just as joyful as it was heartbreaking. Heartbreaking because, I think my self respect could have been greater if maybe she had been my mom. Her patience and willingness to forgive me at my messiest, meanest and ugliest has been a huge lesson to me. If we could both come from the same place, and she could be this good, I just might stand a chance. So, I've copied her style here and there, and it's gotten me this far.

I'm fortunate to have friends like Lisa, who have taught me to look at and appreciate what I have and who I am. If something cannot be changed, then I have to find a way to move past it. No need for dwelling on what can't be changed. She has helped me appreciate myself. She thinks I'm beautiful and loves having me as a friend... just the way I am. And I trust her, so I've learned to trust that.

For a lover like my "potato", who knows all there is about me and maybe even all there will be. He is one of the smartest robots I've ever encountered. If he finds me even the least bit entertaining, then despite all my "Whitneyisms", I must be pretty great.

Progress isn't linear, so I know I'm going to find it hard to live with myself on some days. But after all, love isn't perfect.

My head might be in the clouds, but I'm getting used to the altitude.

To see more of Yang Cao's beautiful work, visit his website https://www.yangcaoart.com/