Chapter Text
For most of my life, I’ve been considered “beautiful”. In primary school, girls would blush and become nervous around me, which I assume is because of this supposed beauty. They would stare at me from across the classroom and leave small letters in my cubby.
My mother would always remind me that when I was a baby, strangers would tell her that I was adorable. They coddled me and joked about stealing it for themselves. But then my mother would just ask me why I had become so ugly. I used to bring her attention from everyone, and now I have become useless. I no longer gave her the sense of pride she so craved from others. My father had never discouraged her horrible words. He always stood to the side, working himself to death after years of never stopping.
I don’t understand how my mother and I could see my looks as terrible, but others saw them as desirable. One side of the story was telling the truth, and I can only assume it was mine. Who knows my own face better than myself? I am aware of every imperfection, every blemish on my skin.
And why would my mother lie to me about my looks? She has nothing to gain from my sorrow, but those around me will always have something to get from complimenting me. If they tell me I’m handsome, perhaps I’ll do something for them. That's at least what I think.
But the concept of beauty is so odd. The standards are ingrained into our heads from an early age. We are told that skinny is better than fat. Smaller is key except for the few exceptions. And if we happen to not fit these rules, then it’s something to be fixed. After all, it’s our fault for still looking this way.
When you are considered beautiful, everyone around you treats you better. They suck up to you and put you on a pedestal. The prettiest are seen as gods among men. But the ugliest are shunned. They are doomed to be alone forever, and why should we feel sorry? They choose to stay that way, they choose not to fix their face and body. It’s not our fault they choose not to get more desirable features. They wanted it this way.
Everything must conform to the standards of others' eyes. Simply loving yourself is not enough to make people love you back. No one will take you seriously unless you are pretty, until you are too pretty. The perfect face is that tedious line between ugly and sexy. The perfect body is the inbetween of fat and bone thin. We cannot be too skinny, for that is odd, but having a normal body is fat. Muscles are good until they’re too big. The face is too wide until the cheekbones protrude horribly from your face.
Why must we slave away becoming our perfect self, when it will never be enough. Why should I care about beauty, when it will never be enough. When as soon as you achieve the goal, it’s been moved across the field and you’re further than ever before.
I’ve become too tired to even care about my appearance anymore. My hair has become overgrown and messy. The dark bags under my eyes taint my face from what it used to be. The fresh wounds and old scars on my arms and neck linger from years of self inflicted pain. I hide them from the world to make myself more palatable for those around me. I can only imagine the shame they will be brought upon me by others if I dare to not cover them.
Perhaps I will become better in the future, or maybe I’ll just get worse. I suppose I will not know at this moment, but I can be sure of one thing. I am not beautiful right now.