Yesterday, I read something online that said, "Repost this if you honestly believe or have ever been told that you are ugly.” I was able to see how many reposts it had received, and the number was almost shocking-—well past a million. After reading it, I realized I had a lot to say on the subject, which is why I am writing this.
His name was Tommy. I remember his shaved head. Even when the campus was bustling—after classes let out, as everyone ran to find their bus home—I could spot him from afar.
He followed me around, calling me “Ugly Amy”—over and over, from the moment I set foot outside the building right up until I got on the bus…and sometimes he followed me onto there, too.
Being called ugly while standing outside the school was often the cap to a long day of being called ugly while standing inside it. When it started—back in the dark ages of junior high—it was exactly that: Outside of me. Other people called me ugly, and I believed it was in their control. They decide if I’m ugly; there’s nothing I can do about it; they’re neurotypical, I’m “wrong”; they know better. I don’t.
In high school, however, it changed. When someone would call me ugly, the word didn’t simply die in the air after it was said. The voices that spoke it were not without; now, they were within. That “little voice” inside. The one no one else can hear, talking at me, every second of every day. Telling me that I was ugly—telling me it was my fault.
It was in my control now. If only I could get breast implants. Wear makeup. Get rid of my “weird” toes. Not be too skinny to fit into the clothes that would make me beautiful. I am ugly.
After being told the same thing, day in and day out, I internalized it. I believed it. It shifted the burden from them onto me. Not only did I feel responsible for being “ugly,” I felt responsible for others’ reactions to my “ugliness.”
I felt guilty for looking the way I did—that, if I could somehow be not ugly, they would have something better to look at, and they wouldn’t be so mean to me. To my mind, it wasn’t their fault they were calling me ugly—they were just letting me know, because I didn’t know it myself.
By high school, I more than knew it. I knew, and could never forget.
I haven’t thought of myself as ugly for a long time, but I don’t see myself as beautiful, either. To this day, when someone compliments me, says that I am pretty, or cute, I don’t really take it in. “Ugly” is what I am more prepared for. I don’t feel it about myself, and I would roll my eyes at someone if they were to actually say it. But, somehow, it still feels closer to the truth than “pretty” does.
It saddens me that so many people have been called “ugly” in their lives, or feel that way about themselves now. We spend so much of our time trying to look like this “perfect” person, but that person doesn’t even exist. The standards that society has created are so impossible to achieve that even the people we think of as the “ideal”—tall, thin, blonde, whatever—see themselves as ugly.
For years, I desperately wanted to look like someone else. People sometimes do these “celebrity lookalike” things (“Oh, she looks like Gwyneth Paltrow!” He looks like Ben Affleck!”), and in high school, I would be devastated when I realized the only person that I looked like was me. I thought I couldn’t escape it.
Well, I was right. I can’t escape it. But the only person I want to look like now is me. Because that’s who I am meant to be.
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.
