This Is The Kind Of Girl I Am

I am the one who smiles when I get a reply from you, because I’m used to being ignored for so long that I’m half-surprised when you reply.

I am the one who gets four slices of cake for herself and gobbles them up on her birthday, because it’s already dinner and she no longer expects anyone to celebrate.

I am the one who gives too easily. Like freebies in a fair, expecting nothing in return. But no one at a fair notices the freebies when their hands are too full with the things their coupons have bought them.

I am the one who will always hold that bit of hope for you. Because you’ve been nice and we’ve been close. And I can’t forget it. I won’t. You showed me the beautiful side of you and I’ll always long to see it again, trying my very best to bring it out again, no matter how harsh you are to me.

I am the typical average wallflower. The one who tries so hard to be different from everyone else, hoping that she’ll be noticed one day. That she’ll be treated differently and her feelings not dismissed casually. But after all this while, she realizes, even though she talks about cars, games and beer, she is no different from all the other girls. She too, likes to gossip, dress up, and shop online for hours on end, and she too, has the ability to fall for her best friend – the bad boy who will never love you back.

I became the one, whose best friend left because she became too negative, too sad, too self-aware all the time and that he could only hang out with happy, positive, cheerful and beautiful people. The one who got pushed into another’s arms because his were all too full.

I’m the one who can’t be loved because she can hardly love herself. See, when people put you down for long enough, you start to believe it. After all, it’s easier to believe the bad things when you’ve hardly seen the good. I am the one who will need twice the love and attention anyone else gets because I don’t get it from myself.

I was the one who was called a myriad of names in school, none of which were her actual ones, got led to believe that she was worthless, and was led to believe that her thighs were like trunks, her face like a balloon and that waking up was the worst thing she could do for the world. It was me who lost 35 pounds on my tiny frame because I was so unhappy, and finally, I got to a point where I thought people wouldn’t call me fat or disregard my feelings because she was “big enough” to handle it.

But they said no. That it wasn’t enough. That she wasn’t truly happy. They made her eat and watched her grow.

And now she can’t look herself in the mirror. She can’t smile when she takes photos because it makes her cheeks even puffier. She can’t tie her hair because it exposes how wide her face has become.
And they tell her, now you’re happy.

So what are her cries if no one has heard them and her tears have dried? Are they worries when everyone dismisses them and on afterthought they seem petty? Are they nightmares when she wakes up panting and screaming but can hardly remember what for? And if she has healed and the scars have gone, has she bled before?

I am now that one who fights suicidal thoughts, overcomes binging urges and triumphed what could have been anorexia. I am the kind of girl who survives. Who is stronger than she thinks, better than they believed and smarter than she seems. I am enough.