I should be working, but I have to let this out while the emotions are fresh. And when I say emotions, I mean loneliness and hatred, hatred for myself. I am not going to crosspost this on Facebook, but I did on Twitter. Twitter had been a home for people like me.
By the way, I have never gone to a psychiatrist, so I am not diagnosed. One, because I’d rather save my money for eating and traveling than confirming my condition. Two, because I doubt that medicines will work on me.
Then you ask, Why not try? But there is no try, as Yoda once said. Again, we go back to reason no. 1.
So you see, I was always compared with someone when I was younger.
I disliked my brown skin as people would tease me “nognog.” I could even remember wearing a jacket every day when I was in elementary to hide my hairy skin and huge arms, and my elementary classmates could attest to this.
I hated my big thighs, legs, and lower abdomen. My classmates in high school would tease me because of them, and I’d just smile, afraid to be labeled “asar-talo” if I argue. I would prefer large clothes for my loose fats so I wouldn’t have to mind my flabs and huge thighs.
My bangs were to “lessen” my exposed blemishes, and I would make sure that my hair covers almost half of my face. I would wear makeup all the time. If I would, I’d wear makeup as I sleep, but somehow, I have successfully reserved my bare face at night to myself.
I had bulimia when I was in college. I felt fat all the time, and I would vomit everything I eat. I have somehow overcome that; well, I was quite “forced” after running away from home and someone paid for my meals (I tried so hard not to vomit). I would still vomit at times. I could not resist it. But my metabolism had gone weaker, I guess, that even when I vomit today, my weight still remains.
The only thing I loved about myself was my eyes. Truth be told, I kind of loved being envied about them. It’s the first thing people notice . . . maybe until they realize I have way more imperfections and decided, “Nah, I don’t want to be affiliated with you.”
If you have been reading my tweets maybe months ago, I was looking for a skin-care routine. I bought products, changed my makeup, but to no avail. I tried a new diet but ended up in the hospital after fainting twice or thrice in a month.
I look at the mirror, and I just want to rip my face off, squeeze every part of me until they shrink. Every time I wake up. Every night.
If I could, I would burn it.
I would find myself crying every night.
It’s tiring. Really.
It’s not about being enough for someone. My battle is me against myself—it’s already about me being enough for myself.
I tried going to the office without makeup to prove to myself that I can give zero fucks at what people think, but I ended up regretting, wanting my solace, wanting to go back to bed and shrink. I have been around with people often, trying to prove that I cared less and less about my physical appearance, but at the end of the day, I go back to my bed, crying and regretting why I even chose to show up.
I remember last summer when I said that I would be taking a picture of myself without makeup and wearing a bathing suit and put a caption “I am enough.” But guess what, as soon as I saw it, I deleted it. I did not even think twice.
Still, I have been battling with this for how many years now. And it’s still the same. I’ve been thinking that “it’ll pass soon” as I would get busy and forget about them. Focus on the important things, I would usually say. But with just a nanosecond of doing nothing, I stop and wonder why I have never liked myself.
Why have I never liked myself?