Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:
I wrote this last year, but I thought you should read it. It gives you a good glimpse of how I felt up until, well, 2010. Just a few months ago, actually. How am I doing now wherever we are? Until we meet... xoxo
I've had three great loves in my life, all three of which rejected me. They were all silent rejections too. No words were said, and no reason was given for said rejection, such as “I need my space,” “This just isn’t working for me” or “I met someone else [read: someone who is prettier, smarter, less clingy, etc].
I’d even settle for the classic “I just want to be friends” routine.
But then again, I didn't need them to say the reason out loud. I already knew what it was: my physical disability. It was my own Scarlett Letter, a sort of man repellent, I thought, that seemed to make men want to stay at least 50 feet away from me. At. All. Times.
Some people are afraid to fall in love. Me? I'm afraid I'll never fall in love. Or should I say, I’m afraid I’ll never find that sort of love that is mutual in its rampant passion, altogether sensual in its togetherness and forever in the honeymoon, can’t-keep-our-hands-off-each-other phase. I know, I know. Real-life love isn’t always like that, people tell me, but why can’t we at least believe it’s out there?
I always assumed I’d too find this love someday. Like any younger girl, I’d sit on my bed and fantasize about how it would all play out when I was a “grown up.” My fantasy was always the same, my own private fairy tale. I’d meet my soul mate in a crowded, dimly lit room, he’d instantly fall in love with my awkwardness, I’d think his geeky glasses were the cutest thing ever and we’d walk out hand-in-hand at the end of the night. And we'd be laughing, of course, because we have so much in common.
It’s funny (
well, probably more like psychologically significant), but in this fantasy, I’m neither disabled nor able-bodied. It just naturally never entered into the picture. I just am. I’m just me.
But like all fantasies, reality never seemed to measure up. In reality, my disability tended to be in the picture. Quite a lot, actually. In high school, I remained virtually invisible to the opposite sex, which resulted in four years of silent tears and inner angst and frustration. Of course they saw me, just ‘never in that way’ like they saw all the other burgeoning women with their long legs and fresh-face, scar-free skin. In college, things remained pretty status quo; at least I had consistency in love with me.
But somewhere after I graduated from college in 2005, it all caught up with me. I no longer had my books and classes and, well, life to distract me anymore. And what I realized even more than the absence of books was the absence of that story-book romance. I saw it all around me: On a crowded city street, on a bench in a quiet park, at candlelit tables in restaurants. Madly-in-love couples kissed and held hands as if showing that their forever signaled my never.
A crooked nose can be attractive. A round belly can be sexy. A pair of big feet can be downright adorable. But a whole body full of scars and deformities? In our society, where physical beauty comes in all shapes and sizes, I simply didn't fit into any category.
Who would ever love me?
What man could ever want me?
Who would look at me and think I was any ounce of beautiful – a plucky red-haired 27-year-old who spent more times in hospitals than singles bars and had more scars than freckles.I eventually got tired of letting those questions have free reign in my mind, so I tried overlooking, maybe even denying, the fact that my disability had anything to do with my relationship (or lack thereof) with men.
But the truth was, it did. Or maybe more important, it did to me. In my attempts to deny my disability, I also pushed myself so inward that no one – not even the strongest man – could penetrate the wall I’d built around myself.
But finally, it began to sink in. I had followed other people’s notions of beauty for so long that I’d lost track of my own. I thought that if I could just walk, if I could just cover up those pesky scars, if I could just be blonde and blend into the background for awhile, I could be just another face in the crowd.
Maybe that's part of the reason I became a writer in the first place, not so much to escape my disability altogether, but to take a little breather every once in awhile. In my writing, I could be anyone I wanted to be. I could be the woman who gets the guy. I could be the woman who is chased instead of the one always doing the chasing. I could even be the girl who finds her Happily Ever After.
It was only in that moment when I realized that there is really no such thing as normal, that I could start to feel my insecurities melt away.
Who knows, maybe men were more turned off by my insecurities than my disability all along. I know I’ll never be a 5”7’ blonde model walking the runways of Paris, and that, yes, to some extent, my disability will always stand out. But I also know that’s okay. I’ve finally learned women can’t keep relying on others to guide them on all things beautiful; it’s up to every women to form her own category of beautiful, to find what it is that makes her stand in front of the background.
The more I grow, the more I love the category I’ve created for myself. I love how my red hair turns heads, how I’m not afraid to look people in the eyes when we’re talking, how I’ve discovered a newfound confidence as a freelance writer and how I no longer care if I’m the one who laughs the loudest. I feel more womanly than I’ve ever felt before. I feel confident and sexy. I finally feel like me. A strong woman can live with her disability but not live within it
It just happens to be that my disability is the first thing people see when they look at me. If they dug deeper, they'd see I'm more than the sum total of all my parts, deformity, scars and all. I'm a daughter. I'm a sister. I’m a best friend. I'm a writer and lover of great movies. I'm feisty and have known to be stubborn more than once. And of course, I am a woman.
And anyway, who says scars can’t be sexy?
[Photos via
Just Be Splendid]
Reese's Cake
Checker Board Cake
Sweet Candy
Cupcakes + mini cupcakes
Fudge Brownies
Coconut Bars
Peanut Butter Pie
Blueberry Crumb Cake
Hello, boys. Once again, I've combed the Melissa archives to bring you some additional classics. Feel free to take lessons from these lovely lads, and let me know what you think! xoxo
"In my life, there's been heartache and pain. I don't know if I can face it again." --Foreigner
If I had to eat one food for the rest of my life, it would undoubtedly be cheese. I find no shame whatsoever in admitting that. Cheddar. Mozzarella. American. 
There's something so pure and magical about those lazy, hazy days of summer. It makes me feel like a kid again. Some lazy things I love...
I know you dubbed this the summer of taking chances, and I wholeheartedly applaud you for that.
When everything came to that crucial crossroads? You got scared. I get that. This is all new to you, and in the words of Martin on one of your favorite Frasier episodes, "You're just learning how to date. It would have been nice if it had happened 20 years ago, but you play the cards you're dealt." 
So, as you're sitting there right now listening to Carrie Underwood's Unapologize on repeat - don't try to deny it (I'm you, remember...) - just know that you did the right thing when you look back on all this in a year or two or five years. You had no choice but to apologize on the outside, even though on the inside, you did want to snatch back that apology. Your head meant the apology even if you're heart didn't. And for right now, maybe it is best if you listen to your head for awhile. The last thing you want to do is make things worse, right? Don't worry...I already know the answer to that one.
When I first spotted this photo, I immediately thought: That woman and that photo is so unbelievably beautiful. Let's devote this new theme week to the glorious topic of food, shall we, friends? I feel no shame, guilt, remorse or embarrassment in admitting that I am deeply and utterly in love with food. Heck, as odd as it might sound, I suppose I sort of have a romance of sorts with food. It's always there. It brings me comfort. What's better than that? As I always say, "If you're looking for the type of girl who choose a sleek body over a cheese cake, you can just give me the cheese cake right now and continue on your merry search." 
Hello, friends, how was your week? What are you doing this weekend? I was outside for the majority of the day yesterday, and my gosh, I think I suffered a bit of heat stroke. So I'll be staying indoors this weekend, probably playing lots of rounds of Bananagrams and knocking back a few cans of the good old stuff - I'm referring to Barq's here, friends!
Petite green-hued amber ring, $33
Petite amber ring, $38
Red button ring, $35
Petite agate ring, $38
Lemon burst ring, $58
Dark cherry ring, $58
I'm not exactly sure what it is with me lately, but I'm in more of a confessional mood than ever before. I know what you're probably thinking, "If my wife gets any more honest, our life is going to end up as a cover story in US Weekly."
Ooops, where was I? Oh, yes, my confessional mood. Remember last week when I disclosed my addiction to a certain cake and cupcake topping? Well, there's more to the story, Sweetpea. Not that story exactly, but another story. Well, OK, I suppose I'll come right out and say it. 
Coke. Pepsi. Sprite. Sierra Mist. Mountain Dew. Grape. 
Do you find that odd? Cute? Charming? None of the above? Well, don't worry because we'll have a lifetime to discuss it. And speaking of pop, can I request that you make me a Barq's root beer float on our anniversary every year? How awesome would that be? I know. Completely romantic. Until we meet... xoxo
What do you think of these chalkboards, friends?
Or ones with frames could be neat too! xoxo
