True You (3 page)

“Baby!” cried the mother. “What are you doing?”

“Getting pretty,” said the little girl. “All the pretty girls in my school have straight hair.”

“You
are
pretty,” said the mother. “Curls
are
pretty.”

“But straight hair is prettier. With straight hair, I’ll be more popular and everyone will love me.”

The story broke my heart.

And yet we all have similar stories.

As a little kid, I almost immediately started judging myself against others. That convinced me that something was missing. I felt that I was the wrong size and the wrong shape.

When we are kids, so many of us feel that things are wrong—not wrong with the world, but
wrong with us.

We’re not smart. We’re not valuable. We’re not worthy of being loved.

We’re also unable to stop idealizing others and minimizing ourselves.

He’s taller.

She’s thinner.

He’s cooler.

She’s prettier.

How do we break free of that way of thinking? What do we do when those voices—powerful and persistent negative voices—have us believing in everything but ourselves?

The truth of the matter is this:

The true you
is
curly hair.

The true you
is
straight hair.

The true you
is
kinky hair, blond hair, black hair, and every shade in between.

Everyone is different, and beautifully unique.

If we value our uniqueness, we value everything about us. We don’t need to look for a model of perfect beauty when we realize that our own beauty can’t be duplicated.

At age six, though, I didn’t have the slightest clue about my uniqueness. All I knew was that my sister was the most beautiful woman in the world—and I’d never come close to her beauty. By age six, I was already feeling bad about myself.

I’ve always loved horses, even though I’m somewhat allergic to them. If they’re not absolutely clean, I break out in hives. That doesn’t stop me from riding and loving them anyway. In Arizona, soul searching. Knowing I was looking for something and not understanding what it was. This was a period of healing and a beginning step, asking questions about myself that have brought me to where I am today.

I
deeply believe the words that Marvin Gaye wrote:
we’re all
sensitive people.

My own sensitivity became evident to me when, early in my life, my brothers started teasing me. There was nothing unusual about that, of course. Most brothers tease their sisters—and vice
versa. When we remember the taunting words as adults, though, the teasing sounds malicious. But it’s simply part of childhood. It’s how sisters and brothers relate to each other.

My brother Mike teased me the most. I adored Mike, and I know he adored me. We were extremely close. Whether it was because I was the baby of the family, or because we were kindred souls, Mike and I understood each other on a deep and loving level. He had a beautiful heart. From the very beginning of my life, I was inspired by his talent. That continues to this day.

But even with our strong connection, there was a great deal of teasing on Michael’s part. He had all sorts of names for me. For example, he called me “Dunk.” I think that came from “donkey.” I actually cherish the name today because it was his gift to me. A lot of his pet names had to do with my backside. I don’t cherish those names as much. But teasing was part of Mike’s humor. He meant no harm.

He often told me that I needed to be thinner. He had a vision of how I should look. When we went to the roller rink, he pointed out a girl who, in his view, had an ideal figure. To protect her privacy, I’ll call her Andy. Andy was white and svelte. She had a petite backside. As I got to know her, I learned she rode horses, and soon horseback riding became a passion of mine. In my eyes, Andy was perfect. She proudly displayed the ribbons she had won in equestrian competitions. She was well-dressed and well-mannered. I guess part of me wanted to be Andy.

When my brothers went riding, I held my breath until they invited me. I didn’t have the nerve to invite myself. When I wasn’t asked to come along, I was crushed. When I was asked, I was
elated. Every time I rode, I broke out in hives, but didn’t care. I loved the sport. And even though I looked up to the ladylike Andy, I was a natural tomboy. I liked climbing trees with my brothers. I liked wearing T-shirts and jeans. I fantasized about driving trucks and jeeps.

Girls and women have a special relationship to jeans. At least
I
always have. When I reached age eight, I started wearing Dittos, as many of the other girls were doing. It was hard finding pants that fit me well. I was small in the waist but round in the rear. Dittos’ Saddlebacks accentuated my behind. I owned a pair of Saddlebacks but was too self-conscious to wear them in public. I probably looked fine in Saddlebacks; I might have even looked cute. But I had internalized my brother’s teasing. I was convinced that my body shape was terribly wrong.

Later in life, even after I thought I had gotten over my complex about having a big butt, I remember checking into a hotel and using the name “Andy” to ensure my privacy. Then it hit me: why of all names should I have chosen “Andy”? At that moment I realized that I still had not let go of the Andy I knew; I still saw her as some fantasy, the perfect woman with the perfect body.

The things that get us early in life and stay with us!

Being teased. Being sensitive. Comparing ourselves to others.

All of those things can come together in powerful ways, as in a story a friend recently told me.

As a little boy, my friend had a severe stutter. He hated going to school. When the teacher called on him for an answer, he couldn’t get out a word. The teacher presumed he didn’t know the answer. The other kids teased him unmercifully, comparing him to Porky
Pig. He was taken out of an advanced class and put into a slow class. That only made him stutter more. His frustrations mounted. The greater his frustration, the worse his stutter, and the more the other kids laughed.

He told his mother that he didn’t want to go to school. She asked why, but he wouldn’t say. He kept his feelings inside. Inside he felt that, compared to the other kids with their fluent speech, he was nobody.

His mom insisted that he return to school, but things there got even worse. His teachers grew more impatient, his fellow students crueler. One night he finally told his mother what was wrong. His stutter was a source of tremendous shame.

“All the teasing makes me want to die,” he said. “Don’t make me go back to school,” he begged.

“You have to go to school,” she insisted.

He broke down crying, and the next morning, when he refused to go to school, his father took him there by force, dragging him into the classroom. The other kids pointed at him and laughed. My friend remembers this as the most humiliating moment of his life.

As an adult, though, my friend recognizes this as a moment when his parents were expressing love. They knew that sooner or later he’d have to face school. He’d have to face the world. They couldn’t protect him from that, and love required that they take action. They also sent him to a speech therapist. That, too, was part of their love.

Today my friend can still feel the pain of that humiliation, but it’s the love that saw him through. He made it through the
challenge of those early years. He still stutters, but the stutter doesn’t stop him from speaking, even in public situations.

“My stutter is part of me,” he says. “I’m not interested in hiding it or even losing it. As long as it doesn’t control me, I’m fine. As long as it doesn’t keep me from doing what I want to do and saying what I want to say, I’m a happy stutterer.”

When I ask my friend what practical solution he found most helpful, he explains it this way: “Put the problem—whatever it is—out there. Be open about it. Discuss it. Keep a journal. Record your thoughts and fears. Tell a friend. Tell your parents, and if they’re not sympathetic, tell an aunt or an uncle, a grandma or grandpa. Don’t try and hide. Fear thrives in isolation. Once exposed to the light of day, its power fades. The best advice I got about stuttering applies to many problems associated with shame. I was told to
intentionally
stutter in new situations, even when I didn’t have to. The speech therapist said, ‘When you try to pretend you’re not a stutterer and struggle to be fluent, you get even more nervous. So in any new situation, stutter on your first words. From the get-go, let people know that you’re a stutterer. You have nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. If people laugh, that’s their problem. Just be who you are.’”

The true you.

Mother’s love.

M
ike’s teasing really got to me. I took it way too seriously. But the more he joked about my big behind, the more determined I was to be thin. Even as a little kid. On certain days I decided simply to starve myself—no breakfast, no lunch. Because ours was a show business family, we were pretty much on our own. Other than
the extremely rare holiday dinner, we didn’t have regular sit-down meals.

There were times when Mother cooked marvelous meals. As a little girl, I loved everything she prepared. There was a special connection between us. She told me that I was the most affectionate of her children, the one who went around kissing my siblings and telling them “I love you.” I’m sure I was just mirroring my mother.

Even though Mother was very busy helping her children with their personal lives, she always found time to cook. The refrigerator was packed with whatever we wanted, and we could eat as much and as often as we liked.

That’s why I decided early on—without really thinking about it—that I had to depend upon my own willpower to lose weight. It was a matter of determination. Most of the kids in our neighborhood were Jewish, so there were always platters of bagels and cream cheese around, even at school. I love bagels and cream cheese. If I ate only a bite, though, I’d force myself to skip lunch. I’d get through the afternoon, but by the time I got home I was starving.

I had to break down and fix myself something to eat. I wasn’t tall enough to reach the stove, so I’d grab a stool, climb up, swivel around, reach in the freezer, and bring out a good-sized steak. I’d watched my siblings do it, I’d watch Mother, and I was determined to do it, too. I’d thaw out the meat, tenderize it, slice up the onions, go heavy on the salt and pepper, and butter up the pan. With jerking motions, I’d swivel all the way back so I could face the oven and stick that puppy inside. I loved watching it cook. The smells
were intoxicating. When it was ready,
I
was ready. Nothing has ever tasted that good.