I’ve spent my entire life trying to convince people that I don’t care, that I’m some unique individual who doesn’t follow the crowd and has no desire to do so in any way. Along with that, I’ve managed to convince people that I am extremely self assured, confident and maybe even arrogant because of it. Today I realized what a complete fake I am, even more so. You know, it’s true what they say, the people who claim to be real usually ends up being the most fake.
In my previous post, there was a little line about my “friend” slash “sister” being chosen for a pageant of some kind and her needing a new dress. I might have underplayed my frustration regarding that a bit.
The moment I heard she was being considered for being Miss Champagne or whatever the accurate name for it is, I was immediately negative about it without any validation. As the possibility became reality, I immediately withdrew from it. I was negative, standoffish. I constantly made comments about her wasting money on buying a dress that she doesn’t need, a dress that she would never wear again and how unfair that is that her parents will have to pay for it. What pissed me off the most was that she wasn’t contesting it, she was an all too wiling participant in the whole thing because she is so obsessed with image and how she comes across.
As time went buy and the day grew closer, she had to look for a dress. She asked me to go with her to pick a dress, I instantly refused. Yet she still chose to send me pictures of every dress on the first day, all of which I so graciously criticized. She didn’t show me again after that. Then she asked me whether she should have her hair up or down, angered by the fact that she spent so much time thinking about this bullshit I told her not to ask me, and that she was trying way too hard.
She didn’t talk to me about it again, I was relieved, the topic really brought out the worst of me. Miss and Mister Champagne were supposed to attend the big sports game against a rival school, and the week before the game, spirit building took place. Obviously my friends and I were the type of people who never participated in this kind of junk, when we were supposed to wear our school colors, which were green and yellow, we would wear black and gray, when we were supposed to dress silly, we would dress in sneakers and jeans. We had no spirit, the closest we came to having spirit was green icing on our cupcakes the day before the game.
She kept sending me pictures of her dressed as a hobo or a primary school child, showing me how they were supposed to dress up for the spirit week and it just angered me more. Why the hell would she have “spirit”? It annoyed me that I even associated with someone like that, I didn’t understand. Once again, I suppose it was about her image.
The big game was this morning, when she informed me she was at the salon getting her hair done. I mean really? You sit in a fucking car waving at acne ridden adolescents who came to watch two teams fighting over a ball and you waste money trying to look pretty for that? Holy fuck no.
And Saturdays were our day, I have not spent a Saturday in town without her since October of last year. And obviously I was already irritated as hell with her because of the whole Miss Champagne thing and various other reasons that I had mentioned in the previous post so I was honestly not very keen on seeing or spending time with her. I thought maybe venting about it would make me feel better but honestly it just made the feeling more intense.
She spent the entire day at school in her little princess outfit, then came home, then changed, and went back to school for fuck knows what reason. By the time she came home it was nearly four, and because it is winter here, the sun sets quite early. Normally I would leave her house between four and four-thirty. By that time I was unbelievably irritated, and couldn’t believe she had the audacity to tell me to come to her house for ten minutes, see her, which I REALLY didn’t want to do, and then leave again.
Though I was torn up about it, I had decided to break the tradition and tell her that it just wasn’t worth the trip. I felt like it was the end of an era for us, and it would only be downhill from here.
Two hours later, I get a message from her asking to bring her food because she was home alone. I knew it was a trick to get me to her house, but I also couldn’t say no because this child has spent a huge amount of money buying food for me in the past year.
Still annoyed, my intention was to give her the food and leave. She had other plans. We basically sat in silence while she ate, she would sometimes look at me and laugh, and I would keep a straight face and stare, maybe browse through my phone. I saw a hint of glitter glimmering on her eyelid, and though she was dressed in her usual sweatpants and ponytail, I felt the resentment towards her only imagining what she had looked like. I saw the dress hanging in her room, or rather, gown. Red, long, the sparkling pins on her desk indicating the updo she probably had. I was disgusted.
I just didn’t even feel like speaking to her, I didn’t want to touch her, and I most certainly did not want to share her food. Despite everything, this child knows me well, and can pick up on the sudden animosity.
As she continued to attempt stuffing her fries in my mouth, I snatched the fork out of her hand and held it back to her. She slid down her leather chair in protest eventually ending up on the ground. She turned to her side, away from me. I didn’t feel like playing so I remained in my chair, scrolling through my phone once again. Shooting my a glare, she moves towards the wall.
I knew she was crying, but for a while I just sat there, unable to move. I knew it was my fault, I knew I was the one in the wrong as she had technically done nothing wrong, but I would not and could not apologize. I couldn’t find the words, and even if I did, I didn’t want to say it out loud. Not everything that was going on in my head.
I eventually swallowed my pride a bit and took her hand, and held her to my chest as I always did when she cried. No matter how angry I was, seeing her in tears always calmed me down. I wasn’t as angry anymore, but she was. She cried for a while, then violently jerked away and stood up. I followed her like a lost puppy. Please note that throughout this entire evening we had hardly spoken a single word.
She moved to her chair, where I sat on her bed, eventually sliding down to the floor. She cried, I just sat there and asked myself, “Why?”
Why was I really so angry at her? I tried to justify it. She was conforming, she was trying to please people. She who claims to hate everyone in her grade and the concept of sports is now the beauty queen of the conformist teens. She claims to not care about dresses and hair and looking nice and she goes through all of this effort, getting her hair and her brows done, spending days trying to find the perfect dress, but I guess I knew that wasn’t the real reason, not the whole reason at least.
In my group of friends, we were five people. All a bit strange, all a bit special, not intimidating to me at all. In my group we had a chubby one, one with big ears, two with bad skin, and then there was me. I’ll admit I was a bit intimidated by my best friend at the time, despite her bad skin. Out of everyone, we had the most similar body type to mine and in the eleventh grade she had started to lose weight rapidly, she had gotten a boyfriend and started to wear makeup, become more fashionable. I didn’t like it, and I was always mentally competing with her, but not so much that it really hindered our friendship.
But this girl, this child has no idea how absolutely intimidated I am by her, not even intimidated, but so jealous that I could hardly function. She has near perfect skin, hardly any acne at all, and for me this is a serious problem. I had gotten through high school with a beautiful skin that I had gotten compliments on many times before, until September of my final year. A panic attack during exams had gotten me on anti depressants, which turned out to be the worst thing for me. Not only did I become completely apathetic, but it caused my skin to break out so badly that even though I don’t take them anymore, my skin is still extremely damaged.
She has thick, long dark hair compared to my frail, damaged hair with roots showing to the point where I am ashamed to leave the house that never looks the way I want it to. And of course, her body. She is tiny. Tiny to the point where she buys the smallest pairs of jeans. Never have I heard her complain about something being too small, it’s always too big. What bothers me the most is that she eats like a trucker, and eats junk food so often, doesn’t exercise, and still looks the way she does. This is not a safe thing for me to be around.
And the thing I am most ashamed of is the fact that I am jealous of her being chosen to be Miss Champagne. I hated the fact that she got to go from dress shop to dress shop, trying on dresses and finding one that makes her look beautiful. For my senior prom, I had only visited one shop and only tried on a handful of dresses. It was a rainy day, my mood was horrendous and my figure even more so. My legs were too short and my hips were too wide, I felt and looked awful in everything. In her skinny little body, every dress suited her, and if it didn’t fit, it was too big. She didn’t have to hate herself and stare at the mirror with disgust while she pulled the dress over her humungous hips.
She got to have her makeup done and her hair, and she got to look into the mirror and feel beautiful. People would see her and think that she was beautiful, which she is, at least to me. And in five months she gets to do it again for her senior prom.
I often think back to my senior prom and regret it, wishing I could redo it. I feel like it was probably the only time in my life that I would get the chance to feel beautiful and I blew it. My cheeks were too chubby, my hips were too wide, my stomach too big. My dress didn’t fit right, it would have looked so much better on someone skinnier. I had expected that I would be beautiful for my senior prom, all I ever really wanted was to feel beautiful in my own skin, but not even then, not even on my “special night” did I truly feel beautiful.
And it all just comes down to me. I had taken everything out on her because of something she really has no control over. And how do you tell something that this is the reason you’ve been acting like a dick?
And as I sat there, watching her cry, I thought to myself, I really and honestly had no idea who I am. I am a terrible person, that I know. I have extremely low self esteem, that I know. I point out every single flaw in my body, and to make myself feel better I point out every single flaw in everyone else as well. I resort to making inappropriate jokes because being genuine and showing emotion makes me uncomfortable. I constantly think that becoming skinny will make me happier, but I know that even if I did, I would still think my skin is ugly, my nose is weird, my forehead is too big, my cheeks would still be chubby and my hips would be too wide. I don’t even feel like I am a person, I’m basically a bunch of negative feelings mashed with a giant asshole who hates people I love because they’re happy, simply for the reason that I am not happy. I am the douche that wishes obesity and ugliness on everyone to feel better about myself. I really don’t even deserve her.
But that’s another thing I realized. I remember someone telling me, “You don’t love me, you love the idea of me.” Maybe I spent so much time thinking about her that the idea of her became so real, the idea that I had grown to despise. Being with her wasn’t nearly as awful as talking to her over the phone.
I mean, here I am, I have this tiny little person who loves me so much despite of who I am. This person who only wants to help me and I push her further away. I don’t think I will ever be able to tell her what I have said here, it’s just something else I need to learn.
How do you wake up one day and just know who you are? Does something dramatic happen, or do you just grow into it over time? Do you suddenly wake up and be okay with what and who you are? Do you have the power to stop being an asshole, even though you really don’t want to be an asshole? And how do you wake up, look at yourself in the mirror and go, “I am beautiful.”, without the makeup and the hair and the dress? How?
For now the skies have cleared a bit, I left her house not wanting to murder her because no matter how mad we are at each other, no matter how long the glare at each other, someone eventually laughs. And that, my friends, is love.