Here’s the second chapter of my story. For and explanation of this project here’s the link:
I hope you guys like this 🙂
I’ve always felt like my body wasn’t a proper representation of myself. In some ways, it reflected my neglect and work ethic, as well as how well I managed to replace a candy bar with a banana. In the morning, I’d often try to take in my swollen and sunken eyes and ragged lips. My waist had shrunk from diet changes and stress and I still couldn’t manage to grasp exactly how this body was mine.
Of course, physically, it embodied the love of my mom and dad, while showing what I’d done with that love. It represented features that presented my ethnicity and past lineage. Still, I couldn’t see myself.
I wanted a picture of what I thought I looked like. I wanted my dark eyes to exude the lust I pent up within me. I wanted scars, bruises, and fresh wounds to show how broken and battered my head felt. My hair wasn’t desheveled like my confusion. Only matted by a silk head wrap. My eyes and nose didn’t run from past frustration, they were clear and untouched by any bodily secretions. It made me angry because I felt like my body was lying to everyone. Because I couldn’t see what I was and people couldn’t see what I was, I felt even more disgusted with myself.
How am I supposed to see what other people see if I can’t even get a glimpse of what I think I should look like? Positive comments on my appearance can’t even help me because I spend too much time playing ‘where’s waldo?’ with my facial features to understand the origin of the comment. Where does ‘pretty’ describe me? Where do I fit in to ‘beautiful’? How can I reflect anything outward that is ‘gorgeous’ when I look like a half made monster on the inside? Explain that to me.
The statement isn’t rhetorical and it’s not meant to elicit more comments on my body to boost my self confidence. It’s an honest confusion and outcry that comes from a real place. So, explain it. Explain why that is.