Dog Tails

This past week brought up a vulnerability that has been with me since I was old enough to reflect.


You’d think I know how to handle it by now. But, sadly, nope.

See, I have a severe case of low self-esteem. And it’s a very real thing.

And when I say low, I mean if self-esteem were a physical bar on a playground? Yeah, that bar would be flush with the ground as not to trip.


Ever since I can remember I have struggled to enjoy any of the gifts God gave me, except maybe my hair.

I have extreme issues with how I look, how I walk, speak, eat, stand, smile.

And to make matters worse, it’s cyclical too because I hate hating these natural things about myself.

I’m like a dog chasing its own tail.



A lot of this comes from being the only girl in a sea of brothers. Or maybe just being a girl.

If you’ve never had one, let me clue you in on what it means to be a young person with a vagina.

First, everything about you is noticed and commented on: Boobs. Periods. Eyes. Bad Skin. Good Skin. Under arm hair. Leg hair. That hair. Curves. Posture. Tight Clothes. Loose Clothes. Bathing suits. Oh, and did I mention boobs?

Then there’s sex.

From the ages of 11 to 19… your entire universe is obsessed with you and sex. Either someone wants to f*ck you …. OR your mom is convinced the ounce you gain is because you’re pregnant because there is no way a teenage girl can be alone with a teenage boy without banging.

Then you lose the weight and, boom, it’s back to talking about how you look.


All of that is so obnoxious and a complete breach of privacy. Let alone plain rude.

In full disclosure, I reserved that part of me beyond the age of 19. Why? Because I rule me that’s why. Not society. Not boys. Not rebellion. Not curiosity.

Moving on …


What plummets my self-esteem like no one person can is a photograph.

Oh god how I loath me in photographs.

I watch in awe people taking selfies. And I wonder if they secretly practice that look when alone in their room.

I’ve come to the conclusion that they all do.


I have two school pictures that I like: One in grade 2 and one in grade 9. All the others are painful.

No kidding. In one, my parents gave me the night before a Henry Vth haircut with crooked bangs. They then sent me to school the next day wearing a too small dark green turtleneck.

I looked liked a little boy being choked by Seymour.

I was 6.

Every couple of years I stumble on that picture, and each time I do I pause to wonder if my parents ever truly loved me.


At my wedding reception I called time on the excessive 20 minute photo shoot.

The saving grace is that it is the photographer’s job to ensure the bride looks great in every snap he takes. He did, and she did too.

Which was good because those photographs were in every family house I visited for seven years.


So, what happened this week?

In the grand scheme of things? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

In my self-loathing world though … I was part of a work dinner on Wednesday where we had to take photographs. And I sucked it up. And now those pics are posted all over the socials and on my company’s internal website.

And I look like a greasy pink whale swinging upside down next to supermodels.


When my boss had me take one with him, he said he was going to put it on the next meeting slides. I had to beg him multiple times to please not do that. He was laughing until he realised I was serious. Then said he would not.

Anyway, by then I was back to being uncomfortable in my own skin and hated myself for revealing that part of myself.

Absolutely ridiculous to be slayed not by dragons but by a lens.


This is a part of me that I’ve experienced so many times now but have never written about before.

It still feels a wee bit early in the day to find the funny from this post. Cross fingers that by this afternoon I’ll hear me concede a few chuckles.

Baby steps.

Happy Saturday.

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