I have tried to write this essay twice, but neither of them were quite able to capture the hatred I hold in my heart for myself, nor what it feels like to deal with that on a day to day basis. It feels like nothing about me is right. Every time I look in the mirror, it’s never to tell myself I look nice or give myself a little pep talk about how I’m “that bitch” and I look good. It’s always “what do I have to fix now” or “okay we can fix this...if I just had this or could do that I’d look much better.” It’s never me just looking to take in and appreciate what I see. In every picture I take, my eyes always draw to my long lanky arms and fingers. In every video I’m in, I’m horrified by my awkward stance and the slouch in my walk. My long neck and toes, the mysterious white bumps on my knees, my brick-shaped core. I sometimes wish to be someone else, not even because I don’t want to be me, but because I’m hungry to see what it is that’s got other people hooked. That spark that they see in me, as if I’m a life-changing fireworks show you wouldn’t miss for the world and never want to forget, nor could you if you wanted to.
The compliments I receive are disappointing, empty.
How can these compliments possibly make me feel any different if I don’t believe a single one? But I take them anyway, with a smile and a “thank you.” Being a bitch to myself doesn’t mean I have to be a bitch to anyone else. It’s not their fault. It’s nobody’s fault, really, that I feel this way. I know that. Here I am, admitting that I know that.
So why do I blame other people? Why do I blame society for the way I feel? They did nothing wrong. They’re the ones telling me that everything I think about myself isn’t true. That I’m a pretty girl, there’s nothing wrong with me. They’ll even get mad sometimes, become frustrated. “What more could you possibly want,” they spit out, as if I chose to think this of myself. As if I’m asking to feel this way. It doesn’t work like that, I try to tell them. It’s not that simple. I didn’t choose this, and I don’t think anyone ever would, to be quite honest. It’d be pretty sick if anyone did; it’s not cute or trendy or fun. It’s weakening, mentally draining, and even leads me to short periods of deep depression. But nobody thinks about that. Nobody considers that. Everyone just thinks I’m annoying for complaining and being unappreciative of what I’ve been born with.
I look to other people for help, for guidance on what to do. But it doesn’t work. It never works. And I never expect it to. I guess there’s a little hope that someday someone will say something that will just make everything snap into place. I’m the one tearing myself down. Nobody but me. I think I try to blame society and other people because it’s easier that way. People don’t ever want to admit that they themselves are what’s toxic in their life. And even when they have, what comes next? Nobody can help me but me. No matter what I’m told I always find some evil way to twist it against me. “That’s not true,” “they don’t mean that,” “they’re lying to you.” I realized – nobody does this to me but me. So why do I make other people try to fix it? Why do I go around seeking help in hopes that they say something that snaps things into place if they’re not the ones doing the damage?
That’s when I had to face the facts. I spent so much time trying to list different toxins in my life, but the biggest one is me. I am my poison and my antidote.
Now what?
My Poison and My Antidote
Leah Coles