It’s true. They seriously hate me because I wear make-up. I’m not talking about the shellac on your face, eyeliner, rouge, and mascara kind of make-up. No, I’m talking about the emotional make-up that has almost always made me up. I was one of the teenagers you hear about who has the perfect life, or at least they pretend to have the perfect life. I was rarely seen NOT smiling. My laugh could be heard from one end of the school to the other. I’ll never forget painting my self portrait in school without a smile. I was told that it didn’t look like me because no teeth were showing (NO, I’m not buck-toothed). I painted over my mouth and started from scratch, this time including a big smile with large, white teeth shining through. I don’t know what happened to that painting. I thought it was hideous and flat. I couldn’t seem to make my eyes smile quite as much as my mouth did. But that was my reality. That painting truly captured what I felt inside, not the Summer that I was so keen at portraying.
I was the lead actress in my own life. I began hiding my feelings and wearing emotional make-up when I was still in elementary school. I went through a lot during my childhood but I’ll discuss that at a later date. The fact is that I felt like I had to put on a smiley face for everyone. I wanted my dad to think I was immensely happy at my mom’s house and I didn’t want my mom to know that I was either happy or unhappy at my dad’s house – I wanted her to think I was neutral. I learned quickly how to hide my tears; not an easy thing for a fair skinned blonde girl to do. I look like an albino leopard when I cry. I eventually learned how to hold my tears in and I believe it was at that point that my heart began to harden. Each tear that I refused to release became a brick inside my heart.
It didn’t take long for me to be dubbed “The Ice Princess” by my family. No feeling, no sympathy, no emotion. That wasn’t and ISN’T the case. I feel deeply. Too deeply. I’m passionate but I sometimes feel as though I have to hide it under a bushel basket. I care more about what people think is going on in my life or who I am than being me. The real, authentic me. So I put this make-up on to be who I think people want me to be. I have been guilty of pretending to have the same interests as other people to appease them. I’ve done it with men and I’ve done it with women. And it’s done nothing but cause me heartache, pain, rejection, and loss. It’s caused me to daily apply another layer of make-up.
Sometimes I’m unable to keep the make-up on and my frustrations become very real. I am incapable of being fake with people. If I have something bad to say about or to someone, I don’t usually want to ever be in their company. Why would I talk about someone behind their back and then pretend to their face that I like them? I can’t do it. That make-up melts off in an instant and my painted-on smile resembles the sneer of Chuckie. When I know that I’ve been talked about and am on the receiving end of the gossip, I have a tendency to be downright ugly. I don’t handle gossip or fake people well. But wait…isn’t this entire post about how fake I am?
Dangit. You got me. But here’s the rub: I’m not fake about my passions or my intentions. I’m not fake about whose time I want to share my own with. I’m not fake about my dislikes. My facade is there to protect me. To make people think that I’m happy and that everything is wonderful. It’s the face of a mime that has been painted on since childhood. I find that with each passing year the foundation begins to crack. A little here: Crow’s feet. A little there: Laugh lines. Since my pregnancy with Madilyn, chunks have begun to fall off of my face. The make-up is stale and I can’t fight it anymore. I chose to ignore the degradation of my mask for nearly 16 months. But one day I woke up, looked in the mirror, and didn’t recognize the eyes that stared back at me. They used to be blue but they’re grey now. They had no life left in them. The same eyes who used to look upon an empty canvas with loaded paintbrush in hand with excitement; now dull and slate grey. The same eyes who found an honest joy in life in general; now unexcited by anything. Smile lines had faded and a downcast shadow lie where enlightened crow’s feet once danced. Large chunks of foundation had calved from my face and it wasn’t mine anymore, not that it ever was.
That was 6 weeks ago.
I have since begun the removal of my make-up. I am daily applying make-up remover with a soft cotton ball to eradicate years of daily application. Each day a little more surface area wipes clean. Each day I’m a little more honest with myself and with the people around me. Each day I try to write about something that I’m genuinely passionate about, hoping that with each typed word, a little more of my true self can be revealed. Some days I rub a spot raw and those are the painful days. Then there are days where I work lightly on a new area, softly scrubbing away at the shellac that has become my face.
I appreciate those who have been on this journey with me for years, and those who are just jumping on the roller coaster. I cherish the people who love me unconditionally, even when I say or do something that hits a nerve because they know my heart and know that I am never, ever coming from a bad place.
I can be nothing but honest now. Because the more make-up I choose to put on, the more ugly I become. So I’m stripping down – take me or leave me. What I need now is maturity, honesty, authenticity, and strong people by my side. What I don’t need are more fake people surrounding me, liars, weak minds, and lack of understanding. I am using the people around me to help me grow, no matter what role they play. Instead of applying more make-up when someone lets me down or stabs a knife through my back, I will pull the knife out and use it to aid me in the removal of years of artificial happiness. So again, thank you for being on this journey with me. Thank you for supplying the make-up remover, the soft cotton balls, and the knives. Without each of these tools, I could not continue to purge.
And a huge thanks to Gwen Stefani and No Doubt for writing a song about my life:
Come to Our Nest 
Oh Summer … I just love your writing. It’s like I’m having a conversation with you. I feel like we should be at a Starbucks or something.
I hope that writing about some of this can lighten your load. I don’t deal with a ton of ‘heavy’ stuff but blogging has really helped me sort through feelings.
And know that while there may be people who disagree with you or flat out attack you for what you write or how you feel … there will be more people who appreciate you and the fact that you’re sharing this with the world. There will be someone out there who will stumble upon your blog and think, ‘I’m so glad I’m not alone.’
And all the Negative Nancy’s won’t seem to matter anymore.
Thanks again for your support, HW. You are truly an inspiration yourself and I appreciate our recent chats. I don’t think anyone, even Kyle, realizes how deep and dark I run. But I’m definitely working on changing that and I’m actually looking forward to the journey. I know it’s not going to be easy every single day but I’m glad I’m not doing it alone. Women like you ROCK.
No … women like YOU rock. I’m convinced – the more that women talk about their issues, own them, and resolve to work through them – the better off we are all going to be. We will be better wives, mothers, friends, and daughters. If you keep it all inside, you’ll never be the you that you want to be.
It’s cathartic. It’s therapeutic. It’s healthy. It’s freeing.
Found you from the Leaky B@@b. I just read your tweet about “wife is boring in bed” and I am CRYING laughing. Best tweet ever.
I just read your post and noticed that it is tagged postpartum depression. I’m making the assumption that your makeup is now coming off as you deal with PPD, even though PPD is not mentioned within the text of the post. (Can you tell I’m new here?) If that is the case, I just want you to know you are not alone. (In fact, you’re not alone even if that isn’t the case!)
I think it’s wonderful that you are finding your authentic self, and I highly doubt that who you are underneath it all is ugly.
Thank you, yes I am dealing with Postpartum depression. I denied it for 16 months and was finally honest with my doctor in December. I am pregnant and in my 3rd trimester so I was reluctant to try any drugs but my ability to take care of my kids and husband were being impaired by my depression so I reluctantly agreed. I am now doing much better but going through some growing pains. I am going to continue to write about my growth and my experiences with PPD so that I can (hopefully) help other women who are going through it.
Thank you so much for visiting!
[...] dysfunction, family history of alcoholism, being a woman, and self-esteem issues. I always wore emotional make-up to hide the way I was really feeling. Each new layer of make-up that was applied caused me to [...]
[...] So if you’ve been reading me since I first started blogging (when I was Rebel Crunch Mama), you know about the “Gossiping Geese” and how a few “friends” decided that I was unbearable to be around because I’m *GASP* opinionated. [...]