Louise Bourgeois, Untitled, 1946-1947
When I was a teenager I would occasionally stand in front of the mirror and cry until my face was swollen because I thought I was so ugly. Isn’t that ridiculous? In retrospect it makes sense: I never trusted anyone else’s love because I didn’t trust my own. Maybe that’s part and parcel of girlhood—maybe everyone everywhere feels like this, I don’t know. There was some intangible shame I carried around with me, the fear of always not being good enough. It was in the way I scrutinized my body, blamed it for everything bad that happened to me. It was in the way I obsessed and then discarded my obsessions. It was in my eternal and unceasing paranoia.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to bookbear express to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.