I cut my hair (and I didn’t post a pic)

This landed on my doorstep, along with some amazing fall treats. Much like pennies from heaven in the middle of a very bad spell.

This might seem like no big deal to you. If you know me, you’re probably thinking, “Well thank god because who gives crap about your hair? You’re way too obsessed with your damn hair.” And you would be right.

The thing is, I’ve taken no less than 300 different selfies of my new non-blonde hair from 30 different angles and in several different locations and lighting situations and I couldn’t bring myself to post a single one.

There isn’t a filter known to the Internets that could get me to feel differently about any of those (to me) hideous photos. I should note here that it’s not because I don’t love my new haircut! I do love my new, shorter, much darker ‘do. I haven’t not had color on my hair since I was probably 19 years old. I’m kind of shocked by how dark my “real” hair is. There’s still  little blonde left on the ends. To get rid of all of it, I’d have to buzz my entire head and I couldn’t bring myself to do that. But as of my next haircut all of the blonde will be completely gone. I kind of can’t wait. Then maybe I’ll do it all over again. Who knows?

I do love my new hair cut but I pretty much loathe the rest and I couldn’t bring myself to post a single shot.

I swear to you, this isn’t one of those posts where I am asking, nay, practically begging someone out there to reassure me that I am truly not a monster; that my eyes are broken; or that my perceptions don’t mirror reality, so give it up already Beth. This is decidedly not one of those posts. You might say those things, but you should know that there is no amount of protestations that will make me see myself any differently right now, or maybe ever.

I know it’s in my head. It’s been in my head for nearly ALL of my very impressive 50 years of life. It’s the barometer that I’ve always cared about, the only fact of my existence that gave me any reassurance that things would always be ok for me somehow because at least I was pretty. I’d always have that (even if I couldn’t actually see it with my own eyes). It didn’t matter. I’d have to take your word for it but that was almost good enough. I used to take and post all of those selfies because for that instant in time, I could see it. That thing you always told me in the comment section!

Being pretty was critical to me. It was, sometimes in my own twisted psyche, the only thing that mattered – why people wanted to hire me, like me, date me, marry me, reward me, give me chances…all of it. But I couldn’t see it for myself. I needed other people to tell me, show me, make me believe it somehow.

I know! This is pure insanity hence the reason I’ve been in therapy for fifteen years and the reason why at 50 years old I still have such a twisted view of the world. Pretty never mattered as much as I thought it did. It never mattered to anyone else as much as it mattered to me. I clung to it after every heart break and disappointment, every bump in every road. The first thing I needed to know after being dumped by a boyfriend was “Is she prettier than me?” I mean, good lord. That’s messed up.

I’ve read a few articles this week about whether or not MS ruined a person’s marriage. I get that and I can understand how hard having MS would be in a marriage or partnership. As you all know, I’ve often said out loud and with great vigor that the only thing that might make this whole late-in-life diagnosis of MS worse for me would be to have to go through all of this mess along side of and in front of another human. It’s too hard to imagine trying to be a good partner to another person when I’m so openly struggling to live on my own. I feel terrible for people who’s MS has so clearly messed up something so critical in most people’s lives. This disease takes so much.

I’m letting it ruin my relationship with the one who matters most. Myself. I can barely look at myself. I struggle every time I have to leave the house. I struggle even more when I’m forced to try and make any effort at all. Like on the days I actually make it into the office. I put makeup on and choose an outfit that works with my very sensible shoe choices – and pack up my backpack and walk out the door like it was any other day. But it has yet to feel even remotely close to any other day. I’ve begun to wonder if this is going to happen, and potentially get worse, after future relapses. I being to wonder if I can actually survive something like that.

There’s nothing attractive about pulling your bright green plastic puke bag from your backpack when the random wave of dizziness and nausea take over. Nothing can make you feel pretty after that.

When I got home from my pedicure on Saturday afternoon, the note above was in a bag left at my front door, along with a plant and some fall treats. The card fell out of the handwritten note when I opened it. I picked it up, read it, and promptly burst into tears. I never burst into tears. Well, almost never but it’s gotten a lot more prevalent since my diagnosis on December 15 of 2015 that I randomly burst into tears. But this time the tears just sprang out of my eyes, I didn’t fight them or even attempt to stop them, not that I could have if I’d even tried.

This face, this body, all distorted by high dose steroids, has become my enemy. It makes me fall down and not be able to get up. It makes me want to sleep 24 hours a day. It makes me hurt and spasm and tremor without warning. It makes me want to never leave the house when it’s hot outside and never actually leave the house for days on end this last goddamned hot, humid summer.

This face looks so much older than it ever has. I used to take great pride when people would tell me how I didn’t look anything like my real age. As if I had any control over the DNA my parents gave me so graciously! It made me proud.

Nobody has said that to me in a while now. If they did, I’d probably laugh right out loud. I might not look 50 years old but I feel like I’m 550 years old and nobody can tell me they can’t see that written all over my face. I’ve got steroid gut. I’ve got gray hair and I don’t even care enough to cover it up. I’ve begun to hate putting on makeup not just because I know I’ll have to have the energy to take it all off again at the end of the day – but because I don’t think it’s fun anymore. It’s no fun at all putting makeup on this face. In fact, it just pisses me off.

I miss myself so much! I haven’t seen myself in such a long time, that when I read this card yesterday, it was the first time it dawned on me that maybe it shouldn’t matter to me as much as it did. I want to be a bigger, better person (not just in my clothing sizes) where none of this matters to me. I sat in Cheryl’s office last time, I actually made it there to her office before I threw up, and I cried for a solid hour. WHY could I still care about all of this stupid shit when I have actual REAL things to worry about now? Why can’t I get over this once and for all? Why does it matter so goddamn much? No matter how much I resist it, how many times I’ve written about it both here and in my journal where things get a whole lot uglier…it’s always there. Like an irritating itch you can’t quite scratch for over 50 years.

OK. So here’s the best of the worst set of selfies I’ve ever taken since the advent of the selfie about 10 years ago. I do love my new hair. I do love seeing what color nature intended me to be. But I’d be a liar if i didn’t admit that I’m including it here, way down here at the bottom of my post, because then it won’t haunt me every time I look at my blog comments.

At least it’s finally convertible weather? For me anyway.

Effing MS. It ruins so many things. I need to figure out a way to not let it ruin the me I have left in me. It was never about the way I looked. I wish I had known that earlier.

2 thoughts on “I cut my hair (and I didn’t post a pic)”

    1. I’m lucky to have friends who see that in me. What I can absolutely NOT see myself right now. ? also. I miss you! ❌⭕️

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