All she wanted was to be like the others. The others who looked nice and bright, at whom she stared and felt nothing was wrong with them.
Those were the people who wouldn’t understand what she saw when she looked into the mirror.
What she saw when He looked at her and looked away like she was merely a dead mosquito. No sorry make that, a dead soppy whale.
She dug her nails into her hair and pleaded them to stay anything but wild and out of place. She tucked her stomach in to the measure of having to hold her breath. She pinched her nose shut at the sight of food, not allowing herself to even endure the aroma. She constantly compared herself to the others. She forgot to live.
I’ve been this girl. In fact I think I’m still her.
I don’t really have a nice body and I hate going to the girl’s washroom, because the full length mirrors there scream out to me that there’s something wrong. Not to forget the girls with the perfect waist and to-die curves that slither past me, while I clap incessantly at my belly fat like a retarded seal. (Sorry, no, Seals are cute, I take that back.)
And let’s not talk about how sentimental I get about my hair. Even with partial permanent straightening that most teens beg their parents for, I still find myself smoothing down every last twig of this crow’s nest on my skull and craving to be absolutely purrrrfect.
Why am I sharing these intricate details with you?
In reality nothing matters.
We ALL are Insecure.
I have friends who are model-like thin and yet are not confident to walk down the canteen. A friend who constantly works out because he thinks he’s fat.
Then there’s her, with her gangling, curly, pretty hair (which I adore) and she’ll never admit that it’s angelic.
I could go on and tell you how everyone I know hates some part of them and finds flaws with smallest of things like their toe nails.
But I won’t.
Because I’m here to tell you my story.
I’m the girl whose thighs touch each other. Who takes up a new fitness regime every week. And who vows never to eat another packet of chips (Okay, here I’m just lying)
I’m the girl who accepts that others can be fat and they can have stupid pimples and that they look cute and hot and adorable and sexy, nevertheless.
But when it comes to myself? No, that time it’s not acceptable. Every speck has to be in place. I will not tolerate looking like a potato bag.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve been working out. Running, sit ups, push ups, cycling, awkward position exercises – been there, doing that.
In the beginning the sole mission was to, well, get a flat tummy. But now, over time, I’ve realized, people really don’t care about your insecurities cause they’re busy worrying about theirs. BUT moreover, they don’t care because some of us are really way beyond the point of judgement. YES.
I exercise now, because it’s healthy too. I eat salads and fruits, because surprisingly they’re fresh and tasty. And no, I still do not compromise on my Mc. Donald’s burger. It’s a must with every episode of Castle.
So if you’re trying to get thin or look good for some else, you rather don’t at all.
I know there’s someone you want to impress, to have them turn their heads while you walk pass them or to prove (covertly) that you can be another size zero too. But then again, there’s ALWAYS going to be a person who’s better than you. Who has a better body, face or intestine that you.
But are they ever going to be YOU?
Pfft, nah, I don’t think so.
It’s easy to love another person. To be a sister, brother, lover, to encourage a person to be who they truly are.
But I think real love is the love we have for ourselves. Because only we know our flaws and weakness, our setbacks and limitations.
Before loving another person, it’s imperative to love yourself. For everything. For the stupid dry lips and bushy eyebrows, for the sweaty palms and 32 waist-ed jeans, even for the hairy legs and the dandruff in your hair. I mean, if you can’t learn to love yourself fully, how the heck do you expect others to?
I’m not THE perfect person, and I don’t think that’s what I’m intending. I’m trying to be Me, and I think that’s perfect in itself.
“I could have been like all the others. But is that what I’m supposed to do?”