I remember the dream. I was staring at myself in the mirror of my college basement apartment. Like some dreams, the edges of the visual frame were blurry. Like I was watching a movie—both in the production and observing the production in one chimerical, nebulous moment. I watched myself prepare for the day. I applied makeup. First, foundation. A lot of it. Then blush. Then bronzer. Then eyeshadow, sparkles, liner, and so on and so forth until the canvas of my face was nothing short of resplendent. With empty eyes I stared. Confused. “I thought I was more beautiful than this” was the impression that entered my mind.
I picked up a sponge and slowly began wiping the makeup off my face. Stroke by stroke the painted veneer was removed. It took a long time. A very long time. Hours…hours. My hands and arms moved slowly. Thoughtfully. With purpose. I felt so calm.
Then I awoke.
I walked to the same mirror from my dream. Then, in perfunctory fashion, I did in real life and real time what I had just seen: I primped for the day. Except unlike the dream I didn’t remove it afterwards. I looked fantastic. Truly. A bouffant of red, lavish hair, dramatic brown eyes, scarlet lips…but I felt so sad inside. I did not feel beautiful. I wanted to cry. But I didn’t. Mostly because I didn’t know how. I didn’t feel much emotion back then. I wanted to feel, really, but my feelings were distant, and ominous though it may sound, dead. So I did the best I could, and carried on. I was nineteen.
When I was twenty-one I was to Mexico for vacation. It was Christmas time. The air was humid and thick. It was night and I knelt beside my bed on the cold, concrete ground. Gosh, I was so unhappy. And see, Mormons don’t drink, don’t do drugs, and don’t participate in promiscuity, so if I wished to live consistently with my faith—and oh, how badly I did! With my WHOLE HEART—I couldn’t escape like many other hurting souls might escape. So I prayed. I asked for clarity and what to do for healing. I poured out my heart. I told God how miserable and lost I felt and plead for guidance and the faith to press on. Dramatic? Yes. Ernest and true, though? Yes! As I sat in silence, letting myself feel still, an impression came to my mind.
It was this clear thought: “Face your fears.”
“No.
No.
No.
PLEASE. GOD. NO.”
I audibly whispered.
If the body could scream in silence, that is what mine was doing.
And my greatest fear? One, at the time, that induced chaos, dread, and painful anxiety at just the thought?
…was to not wear makeup.
…..to not wear makeup.
To not. Wear. Makeup. That’s it. That was it.
(Oooh scary makeup *in the voice of Emperor Kuzco*)
Obviously there was much more to that. Obviously there were underlying wounds of profound worthlessness. Inexorable hauntings of childhood pain. True belief I was unfit to be loved. Chasms of criticism, harbors of hate, and overall ardent determination to forever conceal twenty-one years of owies. What I convinced myself to be indelible emotional scars that must be tucked safe away.
And, for me, at that time, makeup was just that safe blanket over my hidden grief.
I didn’t really understand all that back then: the connection between my fear to be vulnerable (not wear make-up) and all my hurt feelings. I just knew I would rather be dead than let someone see me. And me, at the time, in my mind, was just pain.
The first day I ventured out on BYU campus makeup-less, I focused on my breathing. I looked at the ground. At my feet. It was winter semester. The mountains were covered in beautiful snow. But I kept my naked eyes down. I attended my classes. I talked with my acquaintances. Looking in their eyes was difficult. I felt prickles of panic clinging on my skin and creeping up my throat. I prayed.
“God..please God…help me. I. feel. So. UGLY. Hold me. Please.” I felt a warm feeling in my heart.
I walked on. Bathrooms were my favorite places. I cried in their stalls. Still I prayed. All day. I had never prayed so hard and so much.
I had never needed to.
But boy, oh boy, I needed to now.
Spanish class was particularly difficult. I already loathed the exposure of my imperfection when I spoke my broken Spanish, but now, broken Spanish spoken with pale lips, dull eyes, and a broken heart was more than I could bear. And WORST OF ALL. WORST OF ALL. THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BOY IN ALL OF PROVO SAT BESIDE ME. Of course he did. Of course he looked like 1941 Jimmy Stewart with all the class, charm, and intelligence in the world. Of course he was goofy and funny and kind and spoke Spanish BEAUTIFULLY with his chestnut locks falling perfectly over his green eyes. Yep. Yep. Of course he was perfect. And of course he sat beside me. I remember smiling at him one day, and in my head telling him “I promise you, I’m beautiful. You might not be able to see it, but I’m beautiful.”
And slowly as the days and weeks crawled by I began to act as I thought a beautiful woman would act. Kindly. Bravely. Generously…I still felt all my owies but I began to feel a little light shine in.
I continued to pray.
When I looked at myself in the mirror one day and mean, nasty thoughts (complete lies) yelled at my reflection, I spoke out loud, “The way you are speaking to yourself, Rachael, is unacceptable. And it will not be tolerated.”
Lots of things began changing.
I moved across the country and joined a weightlifting team.
I began being more obedient in keeping God’s commandments.
I began trusting Him more.
I began repenting.
I began praying more sincerely and feeling more connected to Deity during those prayers.
I began having real friendships.
I began feeling sad and angry. Really angry. Like can’t breathe, can’t function, angry. I felt it all. Forgave. And it passed. With the Savior’s help.
I began feeling hope.
I began to begin to understand the healing power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
I began feeling…love, again.
Truer than I ever had. Holy even.
I saw a woman standing waiting for the bus carrying groceries one day. Her hair was greasy. Her face had acne scars. Her eyes and cheeks drooped. I felt a wave of love for this stranger sweep through me. I began to cry. I arrived home and sat in my car, overcome. And this thought entered my mind, “This. This must be how God feels for His children.” I cried some more. They were good tears. Tears of compassion. That was new for me.
At the checkout aisle in the discount grocery store the obese man who scanned my groceries had a faded tattoo hiding in the fat folds of his chapped wrist. Barely discernible it read:
“HOPE.”
I felt my heart ache and love from a Pure Source entered. I tried to communicate without words that he was loved. When I our eyes met and I spoke, “Thank you,” I spoke with all the kindness I could. And again I thought “This. This must be how God feels for His children.”
There was a woman at Wal-mart. She was skin and bones with glaring pink hair and the croaking voice of a heavy smoker. Life had beat her up. Badly. It was apparent for all to see. As I walked past, we smiled at each other. My heart broke. I felt love for this woman that did not come from me. Her smile revealed her crooked teeth.
Slowly, as I emotionally allowed the Lord to enter my heart, His love began to displace yucky feelings that once consumed me. And little by little the belief in “ugly” in myself and in others began to fade. Acrimonious mental and emotional turmoil crumbled away. Determination replaced apathy. Friendships bloomed on once fear-filled soil. I rediscovered lipstick. And mascara. And sparkles!! And I love it! But it feels different now. I feel different. I feel enough. No matter what. I don’t have to prove anything to anyone or show anyone who I am. Or hide anything. God sees me and knows my heart.
And that is enough.
I guess all of this jibber jabber and thought-sharing points to one main idea:
We never know the layers that exist inside of someone. The potential he or she has. Or the pain he or she has experienced. But God does. He is our Father. He created us. He loves us. With an everlasting love. As I have accepted this truth into my heart I have learned that He sees differently than we do and wants to teach us how He sees: clearly. Without constraints of time, appearance of body, man-made prestige, worldly abuse, or emotional pain—so acrid and confusing at times. He sees us as we were as children: innocent. And as we can become when we repent and give our heart to His Beloved Son, Jesus Christ: free.
I am still learning. But this I do know: I want to be free. Free from this world and live in a better world that I know exists because I have felt it in my heart. I have seen it in my dreams and in the eyes of children. And I want it. I want to be a woman and a child—all at the same time. I want grace and wisdom and wonder. I believe that Jesus Christ is the answer. It is His mercy that is the mighty healer. I know He is the way, and the only way, to fill the soul’s deepest hunger. Let us seek Him.
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