I stood in front of the mirror for what felt like the millionth time that morning. Everything looked the same and felt the same - not good enough. I tried to blame it on my haircut, but deep down I knew the real problem. I used to be such a happy person.
I had myself truly convinced that being thin would solve all of my problems. I figured I could be a failure and ignore everything else as long as I could look in the mirror and like what I saw. You have such a pretty features; too bad about the rest of you. The only reason I had kept my hair so long for years was so that I could hide behind it. When you have a nice face and nice hair, people tend to ignore the fact that you're overweight. Anyone can look at you from the neck up and pretend the rest of you doesn't exist. I cut my hair because I thought I would be forcing myself to find some confidence from within, but once again, I failed miserably. Being comfortable with who you are on the inside doesn't count for anything if you can't find the confidence to be you around somebody other than yourself. So there I stood, performing my daily routine.
I didn't really need make up; I never have. Rosy, red cheeks, not a pimple in sight. You have such nice skin; too bad about the rest of you. I even took the time to admire my bottom lip, a bit bigger than the top but not too big... just right. Lying to myself, I thought out loud that any guy would be lucky to kiss those lips. Then my eyes moved upwards and landed on my eyebrows. No amount of tweezing in the world would ever give me the shape I wanted, same as my eyelashes would never be as long as I wanted them to be. You've got to work what you've got, I thought to myself. Except I never worked it. Ever.
I looked at my make-up free complexion for a moment longer. I still didn't need the make up, but I knew I'd hide comfortably behind it, sick of second guessing myself without it. I hated the feeling that anywhere I went, everyone was staring at me, judging me. They were all staring at my horrible haircut and boy bangs, and each time, I couldn't help but feel a little content in thinking that I made those people happy to be themselves for that minute they spent staring at me. I reached for my eyeliner, twisting the bottom until the black war paint peeked out of the top.
Not bad, I thought to myself once I had finished applying what was probably way too much. You have such gorgeous brown eyes; too bad about the rest of you. The eyeliner was pushing it, so I knew I definitely didn't need the mascara. I figured I should compensate for the rest of myself though... I really wanted all eyes on my face and nothing else, but I had to set a distraction. I didn't want anyone getting too close of a look at my eyes or they might see too far behind them. My biggest fear.
I wasn't new to mascara, but I still had no idea what I was doing with the little brush to my eyelashes. It took me my usual two tries to get the volume I wanted, without it looking like I was a five year old playing with my mother's make up. Finally, I stared at my eyes, indifferent to what I saw. Was it me? No. Did I want to be me right then? I still wasn't sure.
I saved the foundation and powder for last, hoping I could convince myself that I at least didn't need that. I thought of my number one excuse - my cheeks are too pink and make me look sickly without any cover-up. It sounded ridiculous to me too, so I told myself it would help moisturize my skin and decided that was a good enough reason. I pumped the beige paste on to one finger and began rubbing it on to my cheeks. I began rubbing too hard and reminded myself that I couldn't reach the inside; I couldn't rub out any of those blemishes.
Since I was a child, I had a horrible addiction to chapstick. One hour without it, my lips would dry, crack, and burn, and chapped lips aren't kissable lips. I knew I had to wear something on them, but what? My mind immediately went to the red lipstick lying discarded on top of my dresser. I don't know why I bothered, but I picked it up and traced my mouth. I liked the way it looked, but I felt like I stood out too much, and that was the last thing I wanted. I washed it off and applied some cheap mint chapstick.
I had hoped that once I was comfortable with the way my face looked, my hair wouldn't matter so much. Wrong again, I stared at the dark mop on my head. I'd like it perfectly if it was all one long length, I thought. But you still wouldn't like the rest of you. I felt like wearing my bangs down was the me thing to do, so of course, I pinned them back off my face, trying hard not to look like a little kid. I didn't want to look at the chunky, choppy layers anymore either, so back they went to. I stepped back to admire my work and realized it still wasn't satisfactory. I gave each side of the bun on top of my head a loose tug so that my hair wasn't pulled back so tight. My face looked too fat when it was pulled back tight.
I dropped my towel to the floor and approached the outfit I had picked out the night before - fitted skinny jeans with a plain tank top... the kind of outfit that receives praise on Top Model. I knew I was kidding myself, but I got dressed. I stared at the way my hips hung over my pants like a muffin top. Gross. My gut hung over my jeans like it felt my pain and wanted to escape too. I'd like to say I could blame it on my jeans being too tight, but they weren't; I was just fat. I realized that skinny jeans weren't made for fat girls and accepted defeat, moving on to examine my upper half. I looked at the way my arm fat gathered by my tank top straps. Too bad about the rest of you.
Frustrated, I stripped down to my underwear, which were also not fitting properly, due to being low rise. I grabbed the loosest pair of jeans I owned and switched the tank top for a baggy sweater. I figured that at least if I went for food, I could do my usual binge and not feel like everyone was staring at my expanding stomach. My secret weapon: the baggy sweater.
I was finished at that point. It was as good as it was going to get, and I was sick of caring. I took a step back and gave myself a good, long check over. I hated what I saw, but I wasn't thinking of myself. I was thinking of everyone else and the opinions that shouldn't matter.
But they did.
Most people start small and end big, but my life was going in the complete opposite direction. I had started with so much potential, so much passion, but it was fading away as I became more and more unsure of myself. Everyone had their interests, their strong points, and almost everyone knew what they wanted to make of themselves. What do you want to be when you grow up? Happy, I would always respond. I didn't care about the end result as long as I got there by staying true to myself. But here I was, still standing in front of the mirror, loathing what I saw, half because I wasn't doing anything with myself and half because I was mad at myself for the first reason.
I reminded myself that we don't have anything in this life if we don't have ourselves. Boldly, I ripped off the sweater I was wearing, not caring that my hair was getting messed up as my head got stuck in the hood. I put on the nicest shirt I could find and grabbed the skinny jeans off the floor, thinking that they had to fit for a reason. I let my hair down and took a moment to admire the nice wave it had achieved during the twenty minutes it had spent in a bun. I rubbed my face until the foundation was in my hands, and I rubbed it on the towel on my floor. I knew how to get the eye make up off; I was pro at that. I began to cry until the black ran from my eyes and my face was left in the same state as when I had gotten out of the shower. I looked beautiful, I felt beautiful, I was beautiful. But I couldn't bring myself to go out looking like that.
Maybe next time, I thought.
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