This is a very personal story - or should I call it a testimony. It's kind of crazy that I have never stood in a public forum and said these things, but here I am, posting it online, where thousands of people will have access to it. Still, I know more than a few people who are currently going through what I went through, and I think that maybe it's time for me to share how God is working in my own life. Maybe, just maybe, it will be the encouragement that someone else needs.
My story starts when I was a little girl. I can't really give an exact age, because I remember experiencing this...thing...for as long as I can remember. Before I start the actual story, let me give a context.
I was born and raised in the Bahamas. For those who don't know, the official name of my country is The Commonwealth of the Bahamas (either that or The Islands of the Commonwealth of the Bahamas, not sure anymore which one is the correct one, but the first one is the one on our passports). Now, the population of the Bahamas is currently predominantly Black, but we were also a nation that had that horrible institution of slavery and, as such, colorism is a real thing, even today.
I am dark-skinned. I have always been dark skinned. I was what people would call a "chocolate baby." Up until I left the Bahamas as a young adult, I had only met a few people darker than me, and I still have a hard time finding make-up that matches my complexion. My hair was trademark "natural hair." Not the "pretty hair" that forms fine curls and waves when wet and looks like in the paintings of Black pride. Nope. My natural hair are the kinks you see when you look at paintings of the slaves; it is hair that shrinks so much that, no matter how long its actual length is, it looks like a small afro if not stretched out while drying. Plain brown kinky hair that grows straight out. I was the recipient of many jokes, simply because I was so Black. I was the poster girl for being Black in a country that still thinks that light skinned women are God's gift to mankind while dark skinned women are a curse. Things got worse when I was about 10 years old. It was then that I discovered that my skin reacts horribly to insect bites - mosquitos, ants, sandflies (a.k.a. no-see-ums), would leave my skin spotted and very itchy. When I scratched, it got worse. Eventually, I ended up looking like I was suffering from chicken pox (which, coincidentally, I never got). To top it all off, I was skinny. Not small or thin. At the age of 13 I was 5'3 and could hide behind a light pole.
I was teased mercilessly at home, by my two brothers, at school, at church. I entered and left my teen years as the unattractive, unloveable friend. Me being smart was the only thing that caused people to have any semblance of respect for me. But that didn't stop the jokes - jokes that I took seriously. Jokes that made me feel as though I wasn't pretty or interesting enough. Jokes that made me feel as though whatever version of "love" I got, I deserved, even if it wasn't love at all.
At the age of 16, I started dating a young man. Technically, we didn't date. We just started "going." Funny thing about it was, even though I was his girl, he was everybody's man. I have never been the type to fight with another woman over a man, my pride wouldn't allow that, and so he and I argued about it, but I never left. At least, I didn't leave for good. I always wandered back to him. At the age of 20, I lost my virginity to him. Turns out, I wasn't the only young lady he was fooling around with. I found out a few weeks later that not only was there another woman (again), she was pregnant with his child. I was devastated and angry.
In order to prove to myself that there had to be something attractive about me, I started to sleep around. Back then, I had convinced myself that I was doing it to hurt him, to make him realize that he had lost something valuable and pleasurable. Looking at it now, the only person I really hurt was myself. Each new conquest plunged me further into the dark cycle of feeling attractive and then feeling worthless as the guys that I slept with rejected me. The pleasure that I got from sex lasted as long as the orgasm did, while the guilt and pain thrived in the periods of time in between each encounter.
I was lonely and wanted a meaningful relationship, but it seemed to be so far out of reach. I remember crying whenever I was alone with my thoughts, questioning what was so wrong about me. Was I really that ugly? Was my personality so bad that no one could stand to stay in the same room with me longer than it took them to get dressed? Was it that I was too smart? Or maybe I wasn't smart enough? Why was it that these men had no problem having sex with me, but didn't ever want anything more than that? The questions haunted me day and night. There was no peace for me, none at all. I felt like I was drowning. I actually longed for death, but even death did not want my company.
My story starts when I was a little girl. I can't really give an exact age, because I remember experiencing this...thing...for as long as I can remember. Before I start the actual story, let me give a context.
I was born and raised in the Bahamas. For those who don't know, the official name of my country is The Commonwealth of the Bahamas (either that or The Islands of the Commonwealth of the Bahamas, not sure anymore which one is the correct one, but the first one is the one on our passports). Now, the population of the Bahamas is currently predominantly Black, but we were also a nation that had that horrible institution of slavery and, as such, colorism is a real thing, even today.
I am dark-skinned. I have always been dark skinned. I was what people would call a "chocolate baby." Up until I left the Bahamas as a young adult, I had only met a few people darker than me, and I still have a hard time finding make-up that matches my complexion. My hair was trademark "natural hair." Not the "pretty hair" that forms fine curls and waves when wet and looks like in the paintings of Black pride. Nope. My natural hair are the kinks you see when you look at paintings of the slaves; it is hair that shrinks so much that, no matter how long its actual length is, it looks like a small afro if not stretched out while drying. Plain brown kinky hair that grows straight out. I was the recipient of many jokes, simply because I was so Black. I was the poster girl for being Black in a country that still thinks that light skinned women are God's gift to mankind while dark skinned women are a curse. Things got worse when I was about 10 years old. It was then that I discovered that my skin reacts horribly to insect bites - mosquitos, ants, sandflies (a.k.a. no-see-ums), would leave my skin spotted and very itchy. When I scratched, it got worse. Eventually, I ended up looking like I was suffering from chicken pox (which, coincidentally, I never got). To top it all off, I was skinny. Not small or thin. At the age of 13 I was 5'3 and could hide behind a light pole.
I was teased mercilessly at home, by my two brothers, at school, at church. I entered and left my teen years as the unattractive, unloveable friend. Me being smart was the only thing that caused people to have any semblance of respect for me. But that didn't stop the jokes - jokes that I took seriously. Jokes that made me feel as though I wasn't pretty or interesting enough. Jokes that made me feel as though whatever version of "love" I got, I deserved, even if it wasn't love at all.
At the age of 16, I started dating a young man. Technically, we didn't date. We just started "going." Funny thing about it was, even though I was his girl, he was everybody's man. I have never been the type to fight with another woman over a man, my pride wouldn't allow that, and so he and I argued about it, but I never left. At least, I didn't leave for good. I always wandered back to him. At the age of 20, I lost my virginity to him. Turns out, I wasn't the only young lady he was fooling around with. I found out a few weeks later that not only was there another woman (again), she was pregnant with his child. I was devastated and angry.
In order to prove to myself that there had to be something attractive about me, I started to sleep around. Back then, I had convinced myself that I was doing it to hurt him, to make him realize that he had lost something valuable and pleasurable. Looking at it now, the only person I really hurt was myself. Each new conquest plunged me further into the dark cycle of feeling attractive and then feeling worthless as the guys that I slept with rejected me. The pleasure that I got from sex lasted as long as the orgasm did, while the guilt and pain thrived in the periods of time in between each encounter.
I was lonely and wanted a meaningful relationship, but it seemed to be so far out of reach. I remember crying whenever I was alone with my thoughts, questioning what was so wrong about me. Was I really that ugly? Was my personality so bad that no one could stand to stay in the same room with me longer than it took them to get dressed? Was it that I was too smart? Or maybe I wasn't smart enough? Why was it that these men had no problem having sex with me, but didn't ever want anything more than that? The questions haunted me day and night. There was no peace for me, none at all. I felt like I was drowning. I actually longed for death, but even death did not want my company.
No comments:
Post a Comment