I am getting divorced. As I write this, I have about 4 weeks before I leave my home. Such a weird thing to say as someone who never really felt married in the first place. I used to think that was because I’d chosen wrong, that I’d jumped into marriage too quickly but I think I’m just not the marrying type. Fiercely loving, yes. Government papers, no. And that’s not some radical feminist worldview (although I love a radical feminist worldview); I, without a doubt, know I have the capacity to love the same person for a very long time—I just don’t think marriage is in my life plan.
As far as divorces go, mine is pretty straight forward. We don’t have any kids, we don’t have any assets, we have one bank account that is easy to just close out and split. But of course, a marriage and a divorce is not just the physical things you have accumulated. It is year after year of living with a person, for better or for worse.
I decided, officially, I was done a year ago this month. Maybe someday I will write in detail about what it is like to decide you want to leave your marriage and how difficult that is, even when you know it is the right thing to do. How I love a messy love story but I now know the reason those stories don’t usually have different endings is because it’s really fucking hard to walk away once you’ve gone down the path you originally chose. That’s not to say you should stay in unhappy or abusive marriages. You should definitely not. But the “eh this is fine” or the “don’t want to rock the boat”— I’m not saying that is great either but I definitely understand why people choose to do it.
Last Summer I took my first solo camping trip. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was running from but I needed to leave. I didn’t fully realize it at the time, but it was the beginning of the end of my current life.
For a brief period during that time, I didn’t want anything to do with my two favorite people. On one of my camping trips, I was walking along a trail and I got a text to our group text. I read it and thought about throwing my phone in the woods, imagining my life without them and deciding it would be fine (the most incorrect thought I have ever had)
That Alecia feels almost unrecognizable now—a woman so insecure she didn’t want to talk to the two people she’s always loved the most.
But feeling unloved is brutal. And it spreads to all of your relationships. I’m usually pretty good at articulating feelings other people might not have felt for themselves but in this instance, I just keep wanting to say “Guys it was real bad! Can’t explain it, feeling unloved is just real bad!”
My insecurities didn’t start with my marriage though. I’m tempted to put the blame on the circumstances of my first heartbreak—which I’m sure is part of it, especially as it pertains to my insecurities with men—but I know that’s not entirely it either.
I have a memory, I was maybe 12 at the time. My stepmom is joking with my dad that if they had a biological kid, that kid would have huge thighs. I looked down at my legs and thought “they’d look like mine”
From about thirteen to sixteen, I’d crouch down so my thighs were at their maximum thickness and I’d run a finger along my leg, imagining where I’d ask a surgeon to use their knife, making my leg the desired size.
The amount of plastic surgery I might have had if I didn’t also have anxiety is astronomical. My legs, my nose; top priority but I doubt I would have stopped there.
Breast cancer runs in my family and “if I lose my boobs, what will men like about me” has been a thought I’ve had on more than one occasion. My insecurity does not come from a place of feeling unworthy— I am funny and kind and silly and smart and pretty. It comes from a place of feeling unfuckable, which I realize is a ridiculous thing to think about.
There are many reasons I wish my mom were here, but I wish we could discuss our need to have men find us desirable, together. Because my brain is always thinking about all the things, I think about nature vs nurture a lot. I wonder if I’d want the approval of men so much if my mom didn’t put so much emphasis on that for herself.
I don’t know if it was deciding to choose a happier life or my age, but sometime with the past year I decided to stop giving a fuck. So I went to Gap and bought two pairs of shorts, my first in at least six years.
I loved them. I still wear them even though they are a little too big for me now ( I’d be lying if I didn’t say it feels great I’ve lost 20lbs since I bought them) but my legs remain unchanged. They are what they are. Thick, flexible, covered in bug bites and tan.
I’ve lived in a beach town for almost two years, which means I’ve seen every variation of Hot Woman that exists. I could have found a thousand ways to hate myself. And some days I did. But I don’t anymore.
I like my legs now, even though sometimes when I sit a certain way, I’ll examine one of my few dimples and curse it; will it to go away. I’ll still see a photo someone else has taken and get the urge to cry but these days, I make my eyes travel upward and I’m usually smiling—how can I judge that body, when it seems so happy?
You ARE and have always been Beautiful!! Some of us LOVE the interesting oddities that others deem “unloveable”. I hope you are a happier person for all the changes you have made. See you soon!! Love ya.
Thank you for sharing! You’re a brilliant writer! I also have drawn lines with my finger at places I thought a surgeon should cut. Damn men and society’s unrealistic beauty standards and fatphobia!! Sending you lots of love! Xo tc