How compassionate can you get?

It’s been years since I’ve worn makeup.  At first, the choice wasn’t really my own… I had to stop for the sake of my skin.  Then when my skin improved, it became about embracing my natural face, and sticking two fingers up to the patriarchal expectation that I should wear makeup because I’m a woman.  And let’s face it (no pun intended), it’s bloody lush not feeling the need to put makeup on.

But somewhere along the way, something weird happened.  I began to believe I shouldn’t wear makeup.  On the surface, I was standing by this belief I'd formed; that I embraced myself as a person who didn’t need to wear makeup, who didn’t wear makeup as an act of rebellion…activism even.  Whilst there was strength in that, my heart was simultaneously being tugged on.

To be clear, I still stand firmly by the fact that no matter who you are, you do not ever need to wear makeup.

Then came a wedding invite.  The planning of an outfit.  The questioning of makeup; yes or no?

It started with a lipstick - maybe I’ll wear that and nothing else.  So I researched and I bought.  I was so excited by the purchase that I told my therapist!

And of course, there was more to uncover!

You see, embracing my natural face, taking as stand for womankind, whilst both very valid and true, were also masking something going on beneath the surface… the tugging on my heart.

Believing I was already giving myself ‘enough’ compassion, I didn’t see the need to give myself the gift of self-expression, self-care and self-celebration through makeup.

Not wearing it meant that, if for whatever reason the skin on my face said no, I wouldn’t have to ‘lose’ that privilege again.  Protection 101.

Not showing myself the compassion of saying, you know what, you deserve to treat yourself in this way, you deserve this extra level of love and care, you deserve quite literally, the cherry on top of the already delicious cake, you deserve compassion beyond not trash talking yourself and accepting yourself as you are, I believed kept me strong enough, firm enough, to be ready to spring into action if I needed to, at any given moment.

My therapist referred to it as ‘the threat zone’.  That place of fight or flight that I’ve been trained to operate from for the duration of my chronic illness.  The place that feels me that any at of compassion greater than my basic needs will make me weak, soft, malleable, squishy, and therefore more susceptible to hurt and damage.

And whilst it’s totally understandable to have been in that place, it doesn’t serve me.  It exhausts me.  It makes me hard and brittle.

So, how compassionate can you get?  How extra can you get?