Off her dear diary.

Disclaimer: Doesn’t have any link whatsoever with the writer’s real life.

***** It’s a part of my diary, it’s a part of the girl’s diary who lives next door, it’s definitely there in the school’s head girl’s diary and it surely is a part of your English teacher’s diary as well. *****

00:00

23-10-2000

So, it happened.

As much as I remember, he likes dainty girls, all guys do. I am short (for a woman) and big. I don’t remember how much I weigh because I never believed in those numbers, love was always weaved in the soul beneath the flesh and the bone-frame. Maybe, it’d be over 180 pounds or a 200, I never cared as I carry it well. I do not have a pretty face, though I would not call it ugly. It is also not particularly interesting but it’s presentable. The kind of spark you’d proudly introduce among your batch fellows or your neighbors to be called as yours. He told me that even though I have a good personality a beautiful mind and a bright attitude, I am not physically attractive enough for him to ever be with me. Mainly, I am too fat, my hips are too big and my face is just not attractive. I have felt the same way about my appearance for a long time; and while I am doing everything I can to lose weight, it’s working as well but the void that his existence bored inside my bones is eating me from within. I have been starving myself this week, and I have gotten to the point where I just don’t feel hungry anymore at all. Not because I want to trim down for a guy but my esteem got a blow. That and if I do eat, no matter what it is, I feel incredibly guilty and start to cry. I feel ashamed that I am so overweight, even though I am proportionate, and I feel like I am just insufficient when compared to other women in my age group.

I feel like I am obsessed over my appearance, but it is because I am sick of seeing the man I love hooking up with all of these beautiful women while I just sit and wait and cry. I have no respect for myself, and my self-hatred has caused me to be hateful towards other fat or ugly people.

It burns my soul. I have a sound career, a good and cheerful attire, golden personality and start dusted approach but the nerves are cut deep down when the realization of being dumped for not being attractive and petite hits the chords. I agree, we all believe in the eye-appeal. It’s not selfish to want to look good and hot and sexy as the world puts it in but who announced the right of breaking the hearts because the figure wasn’t according to the measurement?

Being dumped for someone else is a double punch: not only do you feel abandoned but also replaced. It’s a biological imperative to guard your mate – and now he or she is with someone else and you’re stuck with the harrowing, awful, alone feeling of knowing that the person you love is loving another. What cuts deeper is the person you loved deems you not to be charming enough or in the right physique.

I know, I’ll come out of it. Of course, I came out of the net when I was overshadowed between the bunch of my class mates for being the most unappealing one among them. I struggled with it when they preferred my fair skinned sister over me. I made the way out of it when my acne spotted body was made fun of. Of course, I will survive another scar and I will be okay. But my soul is put on fire, it’s burning to ashes.

We all have that little voice inside of us that feeds us thoughts about how we are lacking and not good enough.  This voice has become an expertly skilled detective, that is always looking for clues to prove its case. I’ll get thin and toned but I will not get happy. My inside has developed insecurities, a whole lot of them. I drool over the pictures of girls in shorts flaunting their beauty, I do feel insecure from that senior, attractive girl in my dorm because every guy fascinates about her and I do find myself sighing for that perfectly measuring figure but in all this race, I forgot to live and breath and now my flesh and blood is rotten. My conscious is guilty of the fact that it has grown fonder of the looks and appearances only. I failed.

How will I ever make up for the moments I spent hiding the love handles and double chin? How will I ever stop regretting over the moments I wasted being so conscious about the flat tummy and lean legs, I almost forgot to celebrate my birthday and my graduation and the first salary milestone with a hearty smile? How will I ever face the same mirror, the one in which I spent hours hating my body and appearance and looks and hands and legs and all of that I am made of? How am I going to stand on the same counter with confidence, the one where I spent every ounce of a second loathing the skin color I was carrying and the size of my thighs and the measurements of my chest after knowing the dress on that stand in the corner isn’t going to fit in? I have been at a loss for answers.

I am not blaming the guy who left, neither am I blaming the batch mates who criticized my looks, nor do I keep the beauty of the lady of the evening in my college’s welcome party accountable for my deprived inside but I am lost in search of the one who should be guilty as charged.

The spots on my inside are so darkly stained. One reminds me of my broken heart, another reminds me of my crushed esteem. Some bleed because of the fat jokes and others shout the miseries of the dark skin. Nothing is there to remind me of myself.

When he acts like he can live without me – I don’t want to believe him. I don’t know whether it was for my set standards of non-materialistic parameters or my nature of the soul above the looks but I have grown used to wasting my time or dignity pining over someone that was never worthy of me, or capable of having a mutually satisfying relationship with anyone.

Within weeks of me kicking my very last Narcissist to the curb, he had hooked up with someone else.  After about six weeks the relationship was over and she was a wreck. While it was validating to know that my assumptions about him were correct, it didn’t make me feel any better. But the fact that it was not only for him, it was for every Tom, Dick and Harry who I met, it was for every girl and guy friend I got a chance to talk to – every damn person was in love with the superficial coat – with the skin color and waist size, the thigh gap and thin legs and perfect smile and chest and all that I ignored and never pay heed to in all these years of my living.

Every bonding is hard enough, trying to force a relationship out of someone, who is intimately impaired, is foolhardy. You’d have better odds playing the lottery.

The number of jeans I turned down because they didn’t fit me or the number of times I envied the “you’re gorgeous” comments beneath other “beautiful” girls pictures or the number of sneaky gazes I put on that girl’s clear as milk skin in the restaurant because every guy was turning his head back just to catch her one glimpse do not disturb me at all. But the count of the number of self-doubt filled breathes are killing me. It’s so high. It almost seems unreal, all this uncalled and unknown burden I have put myself through.

I am not supporting the statement that being fat is okay, my mind is far away than the materialistic norms but hey… what if I was a little more smooth, silky skinned? My guilt surged a new wave of melancholy.

The image of smaller jeans, the seductive arc of slender hips, the contentment of a loving partner irrespective of looks and appearance, lingers and whispers. The thoughts creep up from time to time, despite my best efforts to keep them at bay, despite my good, full life.

How will I ever erase these scars off my spirit? I will get in shape, I will get a loving companion and I will get a pretty skin and I will get all those things I have dreamed for and desired, whether at the beach or in the welcome party or just at the pane of my balcony’s window staring at the girls having a good laugh in the cafe down the hill, but how will I ever get my self back?

How do I love myself in a world that tells me I am not someone to love, over and over again? How can I decolonize my desire so I will never again look at a skinny boy who will never see me as the goddess I am? How do I appreciate and empower, encourage and embrace my self in a closely knitted intimacy which only believes in the superficial spark and glitter and the shimmer of appeal?

But at the end of the day I know. Regardless of if I see myself as ugly (I don’t), ugly is how I move through the world. Ugly is how I am viewed by strangers, coworkers, potential employers, potential lovers, community members, family members, my peers, doctors, professors, service industry workers, et cetera, and this perception in turn effects my experience in the world, to varying degrees depending on my relationship to the person. I am still working through what it means to be ugly and be beautiful.

I know all the self-love sites. I have bookmarked a gazillion of posts about embracing the self as it is and I daily, religiously go through the inspirational posts on instagram so just don’t chant the motivation here – it’s too raw inside.

I am not crying, I am so strong – come’on! Even my mother was amazed to knit this much strength and a rock stone sort of courage in her womb. Really.

The concept of dreaming a perfect body because that’s the only way I’ll be accepted is rushing in my blood. This one dream made me forget all my other dreams, the dreams which were pure and genuine and based on reality. The dreams which were related to my inside and my soul, the dreams of my happiness and my satisfaction and dreaming about all these lost dreams, I caught myself sinking into those old thoughts again: If I could just lose a little weight, if my skin could get a little fairer and if my waist could be the same as that of the model in the magazine.

A little something died inside me.”

***** The room heard a crispy sound of a page being torn off the diary and kept in that secret closet where no one can get it.**********

I know this page is present in your diary too, throwing up all your doubts – just don’t hide it. I don’t believe in proof-reading so I’ll let it stay, maybe someday when I will skim through my diary once again, I’ll hide it too.

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7 thoughts on “Off her dear diary.

  1. That’s just so perfectly and beautifully written and it’s almost scary and shameful how at some level we all can relate to that. Kudos, Hira! For giving words to the insecurities we all hide from ourselves even.

  2. I am not crying, I am so strong – come’on! Even my mother was amazed to knit this much strength and a rock stone sort of courage in her womb. Really.

    The concept of dreaming a perfect body because that’s the only way I’ll be accepted is rushing in my blood. This one dream made me forget all my other dreams, the dreams which were pure and genuine and based on reality. The dreams which were related to my inside and my soul, the dreams of my happiness and my satisfaction and dreaming about all these lost dreams, I caught myself sinking into those old thoughts again: If I could just lose a little weight, if my skin could get a little fairer and if my waist could be the same as that of the model in the magazine.

    A little something died inside me.”

  3. This world is too husan parast tbh. Whats inside matters none infront of the outside beauty. Girls suffer this more often than men. Like in this post. I appreciate your idea of representing the inner beauty of such girls.

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