I Remember

    You can't hate yourself into loving yourself. I wish someone would have emphasized this to me when I started having body image issues at the age of 8. This one goes out to all the mean girls--especially to the biggest mean girl of them all, myself.

    I remember being 8 years old with long brown hair in a blue floral bikini at the Chandler Park pool on a scorching summer day. I remember going up to my mom asking for a quarter for the pop machine, so I could get a can of Dr. Pepper. And I remember the lady she was talking with saying, "Oh, this is your daughter! She's so skinny and tan. She could be a little model." I was a normal, 8 year old girl in a bathing suit who had never given much thought to her weight or appearance and didn't quite know how to receive this "compliment." This moment. This exchange is what I feel all of the issues with my body image come back to. Where they're rooted. It's weird how one second the world is innocent. Then, all of a sudden you become self aware, hyper aware, critical, and insecure. It's funny; I don't even remember this woman--really remember her.  I can't even picture her face, but I remember her words. Words stick with you. Words have power and weight. As Maya Angelou once said, "Some day I think we will be able to measure the power of words. I think they are things. They get on the walls. They get in your wallpaper. They get in your rugs, in your upholstery, and your clothes, and finally in to you." The words got to me.

    The first person that I heard use negative language toward their own body, specifically, was my Momma. My Momma is tall and fair skinned. She has bouncy blonde hair that can often be found swept up out of her way. Nothing gets in my mom's way. Not even her hair. She is brown eyed and long nosed. She wears her jewelry like a badge of honor never going anywhere without it. She would look naked to me if I ever saw her without at least one set of earrings, a necklace, and two rings on. She likes jeans, white tennis shoes, hoodies, fuzzy socks, and flouncy blouses. She is my mother. She is strong and beautiful.

My beautiful Momma

    I idolized my mother growing up--I still do. For many girls, they learn self loathing from the women that raise them or just women in general. Whether it be consciously or unconsciously. My Momma is a beautiful strong woman who uses her body every day to work, move, and help people--to help herself, family, and customers. But, I can remember that strong woman being broken down in a dressing room staring at the number or letter(s) on the label of a piece of clothing. I remember. We have all been this woman.  Why do we, strong women, do this to ourselves? 

    I, of course, don't blame the women in my life for thinking of themselves negatively. I don't blame them for it rubbing off on me. I blame society's rigid ideals of women. I blame the magazines, tv shows, and movies. I blame the media. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't dislike all things to do with society and the media--though it may seem that way considering my constant outcry for change. But, the way women are discussed as fragile and delicate (which it is okay to be), and the way women's bodies are discussed and treated, particularly, are the issues that get me fired up. Females are strong as hell. We are so much more than our jean or shirt size. We are moms, teachers, helpers, doers, artists, coaches, lovers, fighters, and so much more. We are women. 

Art by me, Stacy Hall. Quote from the Unbreakable
Kimmy Schmidtt

    I can recall being about 10 or 11 sitting in my mom's beaten down maroon Nissan outside of the Dollar General gaping at the town's homecoming issue of the paper. Staring at the homecoming court and just crying. Crying my eyes out, and telling my mom, "I'll never be one of THOSE girls, will I Momma?" 

    I remember being in the bathroom in 8th grade and having a group of girls tell me, "I wish I could be as skinny as you, Stacy." While when I looked in the mirror, I saw a distorted image of myself.  What they didn't know was that I was too sad to eat. I could control my eating; I couldn't control my surroundings.  

    I can recall being in the 9th grade sitting by myself at lunch eating nothing, being a hundred pounds of skin and bones, writing in a journal while I tried to avoid the eye contact of everyone around me. I remember my Momma being so scared running into the bathroom when I choked on my toothbrush brushing my tongue thinking that I was throwing up what little food I ate. I never did throw up for the record. 

    I can remember sitting on the white and purple floral duvet cover of the extra long twin bed in my dorm room Sophomore year while two of my "friends" sat in the floor and discussed how they had both eaten two cookies today, and they couldn't believe how fat they felt. I also remember them making fun of the size XL shirts they found at Walmart that they said fit them like dresses. I was an XL.  They knew this.  I remember wanting to do nothing but eat a whole container of cookies after they left I was so angry. I remember eating the cookies.

    I have been thin. I have been fat. I remember under eating or eating nothing. I remember telling my parents I was practicing "portion control." I remember binge eating during finals week my Junior year of college, avoiding studying, watching Dawson's Creek, and crying about how messed up my idea of self was. How I didn't know who I was or how I'd ever be happy.

    I remember last summer at 24, having my husband take photos of me in my cute outfits, because I happened to one day come across a post of someone who looked like me with the hashtag "body positivity." I remember finally not being angry at my body anymore. I remember learning to stop hating myself. I remember my journey. It's important not to forget. I am so glad that I finally realized after more than half of my life that you can't hate yourself into loving yourself.

Thanks for reading,

Stacy

The New Normal

    Many individuals, myself included, struggle with mental illness or some type of disorder. For me, depression accompanied by anxiety has been a part of my story, since I was 11 or 12 years old. Mental illness is overtly stigmatized in our society. People who live with a mental illness and are open about it are very often unfairly stereotyped at some point as "crazy," "insane," or "out of control." This type of language surrounding mental illness is harmful. When used, it can cause the individuals struggling to withdraw and can potentially reaffirm what they already feel about themselves which could lead to an episode or worse. Normalizing mental illness is my only solution to this problem. We should actively try to learn more about mental illness through research, we should discuss it often, and we should support one another to eliminate unnecessary shame. It's okay to have a mental illness. It's normal. 

Me, around the age of my first episode

    I had my first depressive episode during the 8th grade. This may sound hard to believe, especially of someone so young, but this is not as uncommon as you may think. The suicide rate for young people ages 15-24 as reported by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention in 2015 was 12.5%. This number is alarming to say the least and only increases with age. As a teacher and a once depressed young person, --not saying that I am cured merely that I am no longer what I consider to be a young person--I worry. I worry about my past students so much. I want them to have resources, and I want their friends and parents to be able to recognize the warning signs and triggers and understand the coping mechanisms. I want normalization for that lonely, distraught, terrified 8th grade girl.

    For me, my depression coupled with anxiety are like two dancing shadows. They are dressed in a black darkness and glide up behind me while I am trying to stand in the light. They're inviting me to dance, and I have no say in whether or not I will accept their hands in invitation. 

    In this video posted by Button Poetry, the speaker describes what depression is like for her through spoken word poetry. The poem tells her story and fight to have her mental illness recognized as valid by her mother:

    This video is so powerful, because you can hear the cries of approval. You hear the speaker's voice and the voices of others overcome by affirmation of their like minded feelings.  I know I will always have bouts of depression, but videos like this give me hope. Hope that we are building a community of support.

    If things become too bad with my depression, I know that I can seek support in other ways. I can do this through counseling when needed, and I have through Multi-County Counseling of Oklahoma. Their services are amazing. I also know there are other resources out there like the Suicide Prevention Lifeline, the Trevor Project, and online support groups. Not everyone knows this or has access to these resources which is why we have to spread this information like our lives depend on it. Because the life of someone we know, very well could.

Tell people how you feel. Offer support. Be there.

    There is a popular show on Netflix right now called "13 Reasons Why" based off the young adult novel that demonstrates the need for access to resources and support systems.  It brings to light the fact that people with depression who are contemplating suicide rarely reach out on their own. The story that is depicted throughout the series is about a girl, Hannah Baker, who takes her life and the 13 reasons that lead her to the decision. If you notice someone withdrawing like Hannah, then you should go to them. Plead with them. Tell them of their value to this world. We have to try.  We have to communicate.

WE can't give up.

  

    

    In order to enact change, we have to offer support and as much understanding as we can to anyone suffering from a mental illness, so people know with assurance that they aren't in this dance alone. There are so many of us. Each defined by our unique experiences yet existing as parts of the same whole. We all make up the face of mental illness. We need to redefine how the world views us. We are here. We are people trying our best everyday. We want life, and we want a sense of normality. We may not always know how to get their by ourselves, so please offer any help you can to aide in the cause for normalization. We are the new normal; it's time we all accepted it.

    At times, mental illness can be so debilitating, but when we stand together there is hope for the future. Hope for the next generation. The more we talk, listen, research, and attempt understanding--the more we do-- the better things will become. Have hope. We can end the stigma together.  

Thanks for reading,

Stacy