Pretty Hurts
This content includes graphic references to self-harm, abuse, and sexual violence.
With the death of Cheslie Kryst, I was immediately transported back to the time that I attempted to end my life. You never know what someone is going through. It has been my personal experience that because I am a Black woman that fits the current “beauty” standard that I don’t have any problems or that nothing is wrong with me or my life. That couldn’t be further from the truth. The beauty standard was not always a small waist with an abundance of backside. When I was in high school, wafer thin was in. Being 120 pounds in 8th grade, I was one of the shapeliest girls in my class and even now I’m still classified as obese for my waist to hip ratio.
People treat me terribly and I have experienced the deepest and darkest aspects of human behavior from a variety of people from a very young age. I repeatedly bite my tongue when harassed for my appearance, from all genders, either shutting down or overcompensating for fear of violence so that my safety is ensured. I have a wicked case of PTSD and a host of other mental health challenges due to my traumatic upbringing and other abuses against my person. I even scared myself with the results of a recently taken Dark Triad personality test.
Everybody has problems. Mine are probably a lot different than most because “pretty privilege” is indeed a thing that many must deal with, positive or negative. I never could grasp why someone would be angry with or jealous of me because of the way that I look, like it’s something that I can control. Many don’t see that it’s more than me being pretty, but that I am committed to remaining as beautiful on the inside as I am on the outside and I work diligently at it. Worldviews and the short-sightedness of others ruined me for a long time. Finally accepting me in my entirety has been an arduous journey, but I have survived to see the other side and can no longer stand on the sidelines.
As the oldest of eight, my father’s first child, and the one born outside of the marital relationship, the trifecta created a perfect storm in which I was reminded daily and very forcefully that I didn’t belong. Being the built-in black sheep of my nuclear family gave me the will, passion, and an unshakeable determination that one day I would do exactly what I wanted. I liken my childhood to one of an Aunt Jemima or Mammy character, a beautiful child raised by someone who constantly invalidated my individuality, repeatedly silenced my voice, and stole my choices because of someone else’s mistakes. It fueled my mind in a way I did not anticipate.
Stringent restrictions placed on me by my parents paired with their lofty standards were impossible for me. Being the product of a love triangle still permeates the very fabric of my existence. If Cinderella had a real-life, it would have been mine. Fairy tales are what I lost myself in as I had no friends and never learned appropriate personal boundaries from the peer group in my formative years. As a student, I was bright and brilliant but quickly learned to disappear through the cracks. In middle school, I could always be found in the library with Maya Angelou and Zora Neale Hurston, Harlem Renaissance poets Countee Cullen and Langston Hughes, Mary Shelley, and William Shakespeare. When I found out why the caged bird sings and what happens when dreams get deferred, my life made sense, so I was content to stay in the cage I created for myself until it was time to set me free.
Having come from such a large family, my father told me during my last years of high school that if I wanted to go to college it would be my responsibility to fund my education. No way could they afford to send me and take care of all my siblings. The FAFSA was not friendly to me because on paper my parents made too much money. No consideration was given to the size of our household. My guidance counselor advised me to apply to the college I wanted to attend and the one I knew I could get into. I was accepted to both, Hampton and Temple Universities, respectively, but I couldn’t afford the tuition. It was too late before I realized my mediocre grades would prohibit me from receiving academic scholarships and an athletic one was out of the question. I played sports only not to have to immediately go home after school and I sucked at them. With no other guidance, I lost hope.
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Leaving home immediately after high school with all my belongings shoved into two trash bags made me feel that my stepmother was ecstatic to finally kick out the trash, getting rid of the crack in the mirrored projection of our family’s perfection. Children who grow up in overly authoritative environments typically become wild, as did I. While I was finally free from my physical prison, my mind remained locked away for a significant amount of time. My rebellion and overall disregard for authority figures, the general mores of society, and how good girls are “supposed” to act in hindsight could very well be the reason I have the clarity I do now.
I moved in with my biological mother and finally I was with someone who could show me care and concern. She couldn’t afford to send me to college either so after a year off and one semester at a community college where she lived, at 20, I joined the military to become an independent student and have the GI Bill pay for my education. Being incredibly intelligent but having poor personal boundaries, the naivety of a puppy, no understanding as to how people truly are, how the world worked and being totally ignorant of my own reflection and the beauty within was a recipe for disaster. I ended up places I never should have been and developed a very nasty set of downright dangerous behaviors. I had a chip on my shoulder the size of the United States and I cared for nobody and nothing, including myself.
After a horrific gang rape at the hands of a young man I thought was a friend and all his friends, I felt internally that nobody cared if I lived or died. I did the only thing that made sense at the moment, I attempted suicide. When I wanted to try again thinking it would work this time, the idea scared me so bad that for the first time in my life I asked for help. I was checked into the psychiatric ward of a nearby hospital, the first of many stays over the years, and remember very distinctly the first woman who prayed for me. Surrendering my life to my faith really turned out to be my saving grace.
There is so much more to my story and now I am ready to tell it, not just for me but for every Black woman like me in the world that can’t quite elucidate how painful it is to be a beautiful person. A friend of mine said to me, “Sometimes I wish you would say something just because you can.” My voice had been silenced, minimized, and marginalized, I’d been repudiated for so long simply for being a beautiful woman and having an educated opinion that I could support argumentatively with facts, I had gotten used to not using it. Now I must.
Losing to the world such a beautiful young Black woman, a trailblazer and pioneer, a bright and shining example of femininity, poise, grace, intelligence, and gumption is heartbreaking. If opening my mouth and sharing my experiences can prevent this from happening again, it is my duty to speak up and say what’s real. And I don’t care how it makes anybody feel.
I will be forty on my next birthday and I have spent my adult life doing exactly what I want when I want to. I’m a college graduate. A veteran. I’m an artist, a writer, and an entrepreneur. I’m single and childless. I move when I say go, outside of when God tells me so. I have built a career for myself that I enjoy, and I can finally say that I love my life. What’s next, battling imposter syndrome to chase my passion. I’ve known forever that my voice was instrumental. Accepting that I am here not to fit in but stand out is a truth I ran from. But the journey of 1,000 miles begins with one step so I’m starting here with the dark psychology of love, hoping to transition into screenwriting.
I know I have what many refer to “pretty people problems” but who cares what they think. I care what I think. If I can encourage or inspire just one person to share their true feelings with the people that matter to them, to step into their purpose despite family, friends, or society’s judgment, to fearlessly approach life’s obstacles with a smile, then I have done my job. My feelings are mine and I am allowed to have them. So do you. That is the freedom afforded to each one of us. Don’t let anybody convince you otherwise.
This one is dedicated to Cheslie. Rest in Power, Angel. You will be missed.
If you are having thoughts of suicide, are worrying a friend or loved one is considering suicide, or would like emotional support, the Lifeline is available 24/7 across the United States. It is free and confidential. Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline or Veterans’ Crisis Line at (800) 273–8255, for TYY Users dial 711 then (800) 273–8255.
