Today was painful.
Talks with different people throughout the day, and each talk consisting of the solid notion from girls that they’re always not good enough.
“Not good enough”
We’re never good enough.
It’s so painful to hear people talk about wanting to get plastic surgery, and knowing that you can relate to the feeling, because you hate your face, your body, your being as much. Or that even if you don’t now, you remember what it was like to feel that way, acutely.
Age 6. Barbie dolls.
: Big boobs, tiny waist, long legs, blonde hair, blue eyes, the plastic smile.
Age 8. Extreme Makeover
: Tummy Tucks, Liposuction, Face-Lifts, Breast enhancements
It’s always better to look younger, to have the right proportions
The husbands always look happier after the wives have had their make-overs.
Guess they were never good enough before.
Age 10. MTV. Unknown Show
: “That blonde girl with the blue eyes, she’s so gorgeous”
Looking in the mirror staring at myself,
Guess I was born the wrong race.
You’ll get scolded for leaving your clothes on the floor.
;for shaking your legs.
;for not being present, serving drinks when guests are around.
Guess you can’t be like your brother.
You fucking hate life. You’re suicidal.
No one cares. Because even your best friend feels the same.
You’ve been socialised that girls can’t show aggression. They can’t present themselves in unlady-like ways. It’s unbecoming.
You learn not to run as fast for the ball, to exert yourself in ways that might seem stupid.
You like sports less and less.
You smile less and less.
Your eyes are dull.
Your teacher asks you why you seem less cheerful than the girl who sat in her class several years ago when you entered the school.
Inside, you’re crying, holding back tears.
You can’t tell her or express what the years and beatings of life have done to you.
You keep quiet. – The way you’ve been taught you’re supposed to.
You’ve gotten so tired of having cried yourself to sleep every night throughout secondary school. You tell yourself that this will be different. This chapter of your life, a new school, a new place; it’ll be different.
You still hate how you look.
You’re still not funny enough,
not demure enough,
not chio enough.
Never meant to be.
You try your best to live not hating yourself.
Your life is so busy.
You don’t have time to eat, or breathe, let alone think.
Until you’re out of things to do,
and you’re left alone.
Your own thoughts scare you.
You’re still trying to be you.
penned. 8th December 2015. 12.12am.