She.
by Sascha Elk

She must feel good today - tells me I look nice, even smiles at me. It’s a strange, but welcome change; the sidelong glances of loosely bridled disgust have become more frequent of late. So frequent, they’ve become the new norm. On an average morning she’ll look as if there’s something foul under her nose if she so much as glimpses me. She looks away quickly, trying not to make eye contact. But sometimes it’s unavoidable, she’ll grit her teeth and hold my gaze if she has to, braving the sight of me. I know she holds her tongue in those moments – holds back whatever words are right there, wanting to be spoken but not daring, because she knows they’ll wound me, ruin my entire day – maybe even my week. She tries to be kind, occasionally, though, the fact that she has to try only makes me sad.

But today, she smiles. I’m not even wearing makeup; perhaps it’s the new clothes. It’s just a simple blue-black t-shirt and a light pilgrim style cream cardigan, but they sit well – flattering.

Even so, I still don’t want to go.

The beach: my version of that dream where you turn up to work naked. I wouldn’t feel comfortable walking around in front of a bunch of strangers in my underwear, so why would I feel different in a bikini?

‘I don’t think I’ll go in the water today,’ I say. Shame twists inside me, pulling tight on a knot in my stomach.

‘Okay,’ my husband says, a gentle smile, a nod of acceptance – whatever makes me comfortable. Forever a pillar of love and support. But I know he wishes I could just enjoy it – for all our sakes.

We go. Him, our daughter, and her.

The sand is cool and hard in the shadow of the cliff. There’s a throng of people in the wedge of sun still left on the beach, enjoying the last of today’s warmth before it too is swallowed by the evening. Bikini bodies. Bronze skin. Scant linen dresses. Smiles.

While my husband wades in the shallows with our little girl, I walk in the shade, too warm in the sun because of my attire.

I can feel it. Her good mood from this morning has slipped away, twisted into tension and disapproval. I feel like a coward for not going in the water, for not even bringing my bathers. But I know what she’d do if I went in. She’d spend every second scrutinising any part of my body that isn’t her idea of perfect. The backs of my thighs mottled and lumpy with cellulite. The pale flesh of my stomach, softly shuddering with every step, striped with shimmering pink stretchmarks. My upper arms, heavier now than they’ve ever been. I never lost the baby weight she thought would drop off me while I was breastfeeding – a bitter disappointment.

No, I can’t flaunt all those ‘imperfections’ with her watching. Even fully clothed I feel watched, judged. I can only imagine the onslaught of insults if I were to put my body on display.

No one is looking at anybody else. That’s what my husband says. I wonder if he truly believes that or if he’s just hoping I will. I seem able to listen only to her. Her constant belittling. The seeds of doubt she sews whenever I think I look nice. Do you really think that looks good? Does that really hide all your flaws?

No, darling husband. Someone is always watching. She is always watching. And because she is, so am I.

I look down at myself. The only skin visible aside from my face and neck, is that of my hands and feet. This is my greatest shame – hiding myself for the sake of her. And I know it’s wrong, to let her do this to me. I know I deserve better.

Why does it matter so much what I look like?

I know the answer: it doesn’t. But then, it does. She makes it matter.

A young mother walks past with her partner and toddler. She’s wearing a modest black bikini with wide straps supporting a heavy chest. Her flesh is like dough, milky and smooth, round and soft and rising around the seams of its restraints. I watch her, admiring her beauty, her confidence. Her acceptance of herself, exactly how she is.

She watches too. Assessing, scrutinising, comparing me to that woman.

She’s thinking: You couldn’t wear that, you’re too fat.

There’s a moment initially where I believe her, but then… no. She’s wrong. I’d look the same as that woman – like a mother, slightly over-weight perhaps, body changed and softened by pregnancy, but perfectly normal, natural and womanly.

‘I would love to have enough confidence to wear that,’ I say. A small stand. Taking the opportunity to tell her that her scrutiny is damaging. That perhaps if I was built up instead of torn down, brow-beaten with doubt and constant shaming – I might be able to put on some bathers and enjoy the beach with my family.

But it doesn’t matter what I say. She ignores any sense I make. And so do I in the end, because for as long as she thinks like that, I don’t feel safe.

My husband doesn’t understand. He only sees beauty when he looks at me, says I’m stunning. I try to believe him. But what I see is something skewed, something that changes from one minute to the next – one mirror to the next. In this, one reflection, in that, another. Sometimes his opinion, but more often hers. One minute attractive, the next, repulsive.

She hates me. She sneers at the sight of me and I spend my days ducking her, busying myself with housework - changing the things I can. While I work, avoiding mirrors, I imagine a world without her in it. A world where I can just be, without her sneering judgment. But I don’t have much hope of that happening. My greatest wish is that my daughter escapes her unscathed, that her poison doesn’t seep into that tiny, innocent little girl like it’s seeped into me over the years.

I tell my daughter her body is strong and healthy and beautiful – perfect however it is – whatever it does – however it changes. And I believe that, because I know it’s the absolute truth.

But I can’t believe it about myself, because she is forever in my ear, telling me I’m fat. I’m ugly. I’m asymmetrical. Out of proportion. Untoned. Unfit. Unattractive. Weird-looking. And if she’s feeling particularly cruel - deformed.

Some days she’s so awful, I cry. Some days, I wonder how she became this way – so cruel and bitter. But I know the answer.

She’s the girl who overheard her friend say she was ugly. She’s the girl who overheard her dad say she was fat. She’s the girl whose mother said her body would be beautiful ‘if’. If she toned up a bit. If she lost a bit of weight. She’s the girl who stubbed her toe in year twelve, said ‘Fuck me’, and her crush replied with a sneering ‘No thanks’. She's the young woman who was told by a co-worker 'You carry it well' when she was only a size 12. She’s the woman who was told the ten kilos she gained during pregnancy is ‘still hanging on tight’. She’s the bride who was told she’s ‘Too big here’ about her thighs, whilst being fitted for her wedding dress.

She’s the woman who, even now, hears every negative thing anyone has ever said about her body and appearance, every single time she looks in the mirror.

She, is me.

It’s hot. I feel suffocated by the shroud I keep myself wrapped in. The clothing, the layers of my shame. I take off the cardigan, feel the breeze reach my skin and instantly refresh me. Relief.

She goes to say something, voice her fear of people judging me. Shut – up, I tell her. Just, shut up – you’re driving me crazy.

I scan the beach for my husband and daughter, spot them crouching over rock pools, pointing to the tiny wonderlands that lie beneath the water’s surface. Near them, the woman in her black bikini has turned to face the ocean, one hand up to shelter her eyes from the glare, standing tall, gazing out at the horizon.

I roll the hems of my leggings up to my knees, and step out into the sun.

Sascha Elk is an emerging writer from the Mornington Peninsula. Inspired by struggles of the head and heart, she loves exploring truths of the human condition through fiction. Outside writing, her passions are film, music and nature. She recently completed her third major manuscript, and is enjoying country life with her husband and two small children.