Don’t Mistake My Confidence for Self-Absorption

Women suffer, silently.

Before we’re even taught basic arithmetic, the idea that we need to count calories to maintain our worth as humans is wedged into our core beliefs. We’re taught to receive the world as passive observers, to keep our voices low and our bodies invisible. To be seen and not heard. Can you hear me now? We fold ourselves up like paper cranes in public. We shrink ourselves, we stunt our own growth in hopes that we’ll one day be as inconspicuous as a blade of grass. Light and ethereal, gentle as a plume of smoke from a candle. We’re barely there. A real woman is effortlessly beautiful and brilliant and kind, but don’t you dare talk about your successes you narcissistic bitch, didn’t anyone ever teach you to be humble?

When I was young, I became that hollow little girl, but only in my dreams. I’d become so light, I could float away if both my feet left the ground at once. In a big, open room, I’d lose touch with the ground and begin to drift towards the ceiling. I’d gasp and wail and claw at the air, but my screams were silent.

Can you hear me now?

I learned to never overstep my bounds. Most girls could at least fill a room with their presence. My bounds were a chalk circle drawn around my feet. I was disgusting, deviant, an unworthy lump of a child. The lowest hanging fruit. I remember talking about Zac Efron in 5th grade art class. All the girls thought he was cute. I thought he was cute too, but I didn’t dare open my mouth—what’s more repulsive than a fat girl with a crush?

The dreams morphed into hallucinations. I’d wake up in the middle of the night with a tremendous weight on my chest, paralyzed, petrified by the piercing screams and flashing lights and the chilling hiss of whatever was breathing down my neck.

The hallucinations gradually disappeared. So did my body. I wanted to become so thin I could slip away through a cracked window, leave without opening a door. Dissipate without a sound. My heart was barely beating.

I was lucky enough to get professional help. I thank Goddess every day for that. Four years later, I have the confidence of a cis white man, and you cannot take that away from me. Do you feel threatened by my unwillingness to submit?

This is for you, who called me a narcissist early on in my recovery. Do you have any idea what it takes to convince yourself that your own voice is worth hearing? To finally shed the persistent, aching awareness that you are taking up too much space? I no longer fold myself up like a withering flower when I appear in public. I have fought for my right to declare my own value. Don’t you dare try and take that away from me.

A narcissist? Really?? I spent twenty years truly believing my right to life would be unlocked when I obtained ~that body~ and only just now realized I’ve held the key all along. You, who were born with a genetic makeup that would render your voice authoritative, not shrill like mine. Your body adequate without a second thought, not requiring explanation like mine. Don’t you dare pick at the confidence I’ve generated from countless hours spent rewiring my thought process. I hope you feel threatened by the space I take up. I’m not giving any of it back.