"I'm Not A Model."

I sometimes hear myself saying this, usually in the following context: “I look pretty good today. I’m not a model, but…” And I’m realizing how much it bothers me, that that phrase has become some sort of qualifier.

“I’m not a model.”

Most women aren’t. We aren’t models…we’re us, yet somehow the barometer by which we measure our self-worth, our “good hair” days or “good skin” days or “skinny” vs. “fat” days or whether our butts and breasts are appropriately perky…is models.

I don’t just mean the comparing and contrasting that goes on when you read a magazine (such as Cosmopolitan). That’s an active form of comparing, where you’re consciously processing this printed material and aligning next to your own perceived misshapen bulk.

I’m talking about the unconscious comparing, such as I described above. Deciding, without even realizing it, that the absolute best, #1, top-of-the-line you can be is a model or model-like.

“I’m not a model.”

Today was the day I had an epiphany regarding that phrase. Today I realized how utterly absurd it is, in any and every context. I’m not 5’11”, nor will I ever be. I’m not gonna be struttin’ down a catwalk anytime soon, or gracing the front covers of any publications, nor will I probably ever.

So instead of making models my barometer…instead of saying, “Well, I came thisclose to model hot today,” I need to say, “I was a pretty good Me today. Not my best Me, but good. And tomorrow, I’ll try to be an even better Me.”

Because here’s the thing: Even on my very worst days—the days that eat away at me, the days that wrench my insides, the days I want to be over before they start—I still want to be me. If I was a model on my worst days, I could never appreciate or be happy with being me on my best days. So that’s why I have to be me, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year.

I may not always like it. Nobody looks in the mirror and loves what they see all the time, unless you’re Narcissus. That’s just the way the world works. But I can no longer get down on myself for not being or looking a certain way. I spent too many years doing that already, and it’s no way to live.

It’s not living at all, really…it’s existing just for the hope that you someday might escape who you are.

Except I don’t want to escape who I am. Not anymore.

“I’m not a model.”

…But why should I have to be?

I still remember the first time I realized that a guy thought I was cute.

Then I thought maybe it was a joke, or he was on drugs.

It happened back when I was in college. My self-esteem was incredibly low then...or, more nonexistent, because it had been so slowly chipped away throughout middle and high school. And when you’re told you are ugly every day, or made to feel it, for years on end, you just start believing it. I had no reason to think differently.

So it wasn’t only the idea that someone found me attractive that blew my mind, but that I could be something other than ugly. I had believed it was just a simple, permanent fact that that’s what I was, and there was no changing it. And then someone was defying that, going against everything I’d heard for so long, and showing me another option.

The problem there, though, was that the belief that I was not ugly didn’t exist because I believed it, but because someone else did. So once again, my self image and view of myself came from other people, albeit in a different way. It’s only really been in about the last five years that I have grown confident about my appearance, on my own, without validation or approval from others.

The thing that I realized is that whether you hate your body or love your body, if either one of those things is fueled by what other people are telling you, then it’s not coming from you—it’s coming from them, and they still have the power. I didn’t want that. I wanted to be the one with that power, the one in control of my feelings about myself, because I spent so much of my life powerless and feeling like I had control over nothing.

So it feels good to be able to look into the mirror these days and think, “You know what? I am pretty darn cute.” Cause now, even if no one else thinks so, I don’t need the reminders. Because I am the reminder.

Dear Victoria's Secret:

The above shirt is being sold on your website, as part of your PINK® collection. Had it not been for your Semi-Annual Sale catalog that arrived at my home recently, I would never have known it existed. As I flipped through the pages, somewhat bored and certainly unimpressed by most of your selection, I stopped dead in my tracks when I got to the page with this item on it.

It is a safe assumption that the products in your PINK® collection are aimed at college-aged young women (18 to 23 years old, let’s say). College costs money—in terms of tuition, board, academic supplies—and for many people, that cost is prohibitively high. Scholarships and loans don’t come close to making a dent, and it leaves many young people who want to attend college financially unable to do so.

What this means is that individuals who are enrolled in college—an overwhelming percentage of whom are women these days, outnumbering men, in fact—should count their blessings and not party more, because that would be a profound waste of the money that either they or their parents have invested in their education.

Therefore, to sell a product encouraging young women to “party more” and “study less” is downright irresponsible, and retreads the stereotype of women not needing to be “smart”—that once again, intellect and job readiness come second to being pretty and having fun. The clear message here is, “Why worry about your future, about becoming financially solvent and able to support yourself when you can just meet a boy at one of those parties, and he’ll take care of you?”

While Victoria’s Secret has never been a bastion of women’s rights or using imagery in its ads and commercials that don’t set unrealistic standards for women, it is both disappointing and appalling that you would stoop so low as to perpetuate this outdated, misogynistic mindset.

In short: Your secret is out, Victoria. And it ain’t pretty.

The Discomforting Skin

Fifteen years ago, walking around in my body was an exercise in torture.

I'm referring not only to the bullying to which I was subjected on a near-daily basis at school, or the tumultuous relationship I had with my parents at home, but to my actual physical self. This once 95-pound body that hardly seemed to exist, and over which I felt I had little to no control.

A mirror is one of the most dangerous weapons that you can give to a teenager. Every time I would come near one, it was as if someone was whispering, "I dare you, I dare you" in my ear. My breath caught in my throat, and for those few brief seconds before I would look, my heart would fill with hope that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't hate what I saw this time.

But I always did.

Every time, it would leave me clawing at the surface of my skin, pushing against the edges of my psyche, desperate to break free. I felt trapped, imprisoned in a cell made of flesh and bone. Seeing my reflection--this grotesque image that I had absolutely no way of changing--made me furious and sickened, all at once. Being present and confident in myself was a far-off pipe dream; I was barely attached to my body, and could never hope to be aware of it.

For many individuals on the autism spectrum, there is a lack of awareness, in terms of knowing ourselves. Some of this stems from spending the first eighteen years of our lives being told who we are, how we learn, what accommodations we need. Someone else is the arbiter of our needs, and quite frequently, we never have the opportunity to discover what those are on our own.

This lack of awareness carries over to the physical. Many people on the spectrum are immersed in the pursuit of the intellectual, so our bodies simply become meaty display cases for our minds. But what happens when you don't "know" your own body? When you can't tell what it feels like when you're in pain? When your arms, legs, and other parts are just "there," but don't really mean anything to you?

For me, it meant having to ask my parents, "Do I have a fever?" or "What is this pain I'm feeling? I don't know where it's coming from" or "My [xyz body part] feels funny. What does that mean?" Relying on others to tell me about myself had become automatic, a reflex in response to what had been happening my whole life. I wasn't able to listen to my own body. I just didn't know how to do it.

As the years passed, I grew more and more comfortable in my own skin. I went to college, had a boyfriend for the first time, and in addition to this relationship, I also developed another one--with my body. Parts that had never meant anything before suddenly came alive, as if someone turned a switch and threw a brilliant spotlight on them. I began to develop, both mentally and physically, and slowly but surely, my perception of self started to shift.

I find myself now frequently standing naked in front of the mirror. Eyes which once went immediately to the places with which I was unhappy and that I deemed "flawed," now hold an even, level gaze. I don't look down or away--I look straight ahead, not seeing what I wish I could see, but instead seeing what is actually there. And liking it.

To do this takes time, and it takes being alone with yourself for a long time. I know almost right away now when I am not feeling well--the scratchiness in my throat, the tingling pain in my ear when I have an ear infection. All of my "dots"--beauty marks, moles--sprinkled across the landscape of my body. I know them. No longer am I relying on my parents or others for answers. I have looked and listened to all these inner parts of me, learned to understand what they are saying.

Now, nobody knows my body better than I do.

This is such an essential skill for individuals with Asperger's Syndrome and on the autism spectrum to have, and yet it seems to rarely be addressed. Perhaps some people think it is tied too closely to sexuality, but so what if it is? We are sexual beings, on the spectrum and neurotypical alike, and it's senseless to ignore this part of ourselves simply because it makes other people uncomfortable to talk about it.

Helping people on the spectrum learn about their bodies and how to take care of them--both inside and out--can mean the difference between someone who recognizes a physical symptom, can describe it, and is able to get appropriate intervention, versus someone who waits until they are asked if something is wrong, is unable to effectively describe it, and does not receive needed medical attention until it is too late.

Being aware of your body--not only what it does, but that it is yours, that you have autonomy over it and a responsibility to take care of it, is a big part of being a functioning adult in our society. It is one brick of many in the path that leads to having self-confidence, to individuals thriving and living independently--to looking in the mirror and seeing its reflection smile.