It wasn’t until only very recently, when I fell in love and that person loved me back, that I started to see myself for what I really was, what I am. Not just a beautiful human being, but one capable of writing. And that made me all the more beautiful to myself, because suddenly I also gained a purpose.
I am a girl of 23, yet ever since I was about 16 I’ve felt like I was stuck inside the mind of a seedy old man — some weirdo who likes to stare at girls, a hopeless romantic who invents pretty little personalities for pretty girls and creates stories to their name, as hopeless romantics usually do. Especially pretty, thin, waif-like blonde girls wearing silk and velvet dresses, just looking so damn effortless and very unlike me with my awkward freckles, brown hair and hazel eyes. They just always seemed to be on another level entirely. I won’t go into detail about their spindly arms and knees, small ears and soft voices. Or the way really beautiful eyes can pierce the soul, eyes so clear they serve as a mirror to every girl ever to be born into the universe – except me.
I’m sure you’ve felt envy before.
Why do I find other girls so interesting? I’m not sure. One possible reason could be that, while we do share a rather similar anatomy – toes, two breasts topped with cherry like nipples, and of course the same genitals, I have always felt like an outsider to my own gender. Like I am lacking something important, even more so than good looks. Maybe it’s the awkward way I talk or look in photographs. Or how I still can’t braid my own hair. Or the way another girl’s effortless wink or batting of lashes seems to capture everyone’s attention, while mine would surely act as the comic relief if it were a scene in a movie… the clown, the dope. The girl everyone laughs at to feel better about themselves.
Since I was a teenager, my obsession with the female body had nothing to do with its overt sexualisation, although I did find girls naturally curvy or thin a lot sexier than those who try too hard by getting breast implants or over the top surgery. What’s healthy about having silicon jammed into your sensitive skin? What’s attractive about signing off your dignity and carving out the initials of the devils name into your skin using a doctor’s scalpel covered in your own blood? How much are you willing to pay for such beauty?
Because of insecurity.
Insecurity is a result of anxiety and I don’t believe there has ever been a time in history for us to feel more anxious than now. Existentialism, cynicism, bitterness, ignorance and just the whole feeling of futility, is rampant. To combat it, the only way out is love. And if there is one thing that love teaches us, that has taught me, is that you are someone worthy of it.
Temptation and the want to fulfil our sexual impulses makes fools of all of us at some point, but especially the ones who fail to see the pleasure in that which is simply natural, beautiful, bathed in a pure light. That which is raw is truly beautiful, it cannot be bought, stuck on, sucked out, or tucked in. Every time you betray yourself by comparing yourself to those fake things, you are picking up where they left off.
So here is a note to my insecurities that still catch me off guard from time to time, a note to the anxiety which threatens to make a fool of me and unpack all that I have fought to build within and for myself:
There is no way in hell I am going to continue listening to your lies. You are a miserable piece of shit, and are not my soul. You are merely a misstep and a product of a world so inconsistent with my dreams. But you do not own me, the world is forever changing and if we become the people of our dreams we will eventually see the results within our own realities.
I have seen the truth. I hope you will to. Take note next time your insecurities try to make a fool of you, and be sure to tell them to fuck right off.