Insecurities – 14th of January, 2002

I walk around saying I’m totally happy with myself, but the list of flaws I can deduce from my reflection in the mirror is somehow endless.

Truth is, I don’t know. I’m happy with myself but I’m not. It’s somewhere in-between. It’s a position I’m unable to define or make clearer.

Look at me. I have thick, ugly thighs. I sometimes wish the fat in my legs was some sort of stuffing I could take out whenever I wanted. My hair is weak and practically ruined, I’m pale as hell, my eyes are always red and exhausted, my figure is anything but lean, my acne is eating my face up, and my teeth are tied up by some ugly contraption people call braces.

I’m scared…scared the world would burst out laughing at me as soon as I step out of the house. I’m ashamed of walking next to my friends. They’re all so good-looking. So beautiful. Look at how they walk so well in heels, showing off their clear skin, feeling as fabulous as Sherri Hill models, and flipping their silky hair.

Of course, Mum says I’m the prettiest girl in the world, but who is she fooling?

Mum, the mirror doesn’t lie. I am the definition of ugly. No one wants to look at or talk to me. I’m so repulsive I’m surprised you haven’t “accidentally” locked the car and “accidentally” forgotten me in it.

But, Mum, how can this be? You’re such a beautiful woman whereas I’m a horrifying creature. I’m like Frankenstein. Maybe worse than Frankenstein.

I want to lose weight, but I can’t because I was born with fragile bones and breathing problems, so I can’t exercise much.

I want to take care of my skin and hair, but we can no longer afford acne medication and fancy hair products after Dad passed away.

It’s not your fault, Mum. We never asked to live that way.

I just wish I can start genuinely loving myself. Problem is, I’m extremely shy, pathetically awkward and really insecure. I’m 17 and I haven’t accomplished a single thing worth talking about because I’m shy and awkward. I spent my last two years in high school wearing baggy band shirts and baggy jeans, hoping they would hide all my layers of fat. I felt people laughing at me, whispering “look at that ugly shirt” to each other, and making faces behind my back.

I’ll never be anything, Mum. And all I can say is that I’m truly sorry. I want to apologize for turning into a disappointment.


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