Wannabee beauty

So today I felt something I thought I didn’t have anymore… Respect for myself. It was this weird feeling of being good enough, at least for the moment, of being… On my own side. Okay with being me and looking after myself. It was really strange. I vaguely remember feeling like this way back when I was around 12/13 maybe 15 or 16 years old. I used to think that everything was going to be okay as long as I was me… Coz I might me small, and not that pretty, shy, silent and not that witty, with mouse brown hair and a stomach that isn’t close to flat, but… I still was good enough to at least have my back. I don’t know the exact moment when I lost this, but it must’ve been somewhere between sleeping around, letting men touch me wherever, whenever they wanted and dropping a few handful of pills down the hatch. I used to purposefully pull out and break my hair because it was too pretty, too perfect, when I was a complete, broken, mess inside… All I wanted was for the people around me to see me cry. I wanted to show them my scars, force them to touch them and while they did I would yell at them, scream at the top of my lungs – look at what YOU did to me! Look at what you’ve done to me! Look at what you’re doing. Stop it. Stop it. Why can’t you just love me? But I never did. Instead I carried my pretty that wasn’t pretty enough face around and acted the dutiful daughter. I would comfort my mom, look after my brother, make sure my dad didn’t get hurt and didn’t hurt anyone else when he was blackout drunk… And I… Just kept going. Because that is what dutiful wannabee beautiful daughters do.

Today I touched the stretchmarks on my thighs. I looked at the red welts on my very white skin and I felt nothing but compassion… For myself… For what I’ve been through. . For what I couldn’t be and shouldn’t have been… For the days that I forced myself to cope and the days to come where I’ll still be the slightly weird, sweet, ridiculous strongest person in the room… And it felt good. Damn good.

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