“Low self-esteem is like driving through life with your hand-break on” – Maxwell Maltz
It is a balmy September evening and Casablanca is playing on the television. I see the sadness in Ingrid Bergman’s eyes, and I am reminded of my own melancholy, my own insecurities. I have hated myself since I was seven years old, drowning in my own perceived beastliness. This belief was reinforced by the bullying I suffered for my entire schooling life.
Goofy Ugly Betty Repulsive Unlovable These words are hot pokers with which I have been stuck with, invisible burns that only I can see. I have always believed that every other girl I see is far prettier than I, I am a weed in a field of poppies. Joining the dots, I recognise a gap for where an explanation should be as to why I feel this way. There has never been an explanation for these feelings of self-deprecation and fierce hatred.
In college, our assigned play that we had to read was A Streetcar Named Desire and I always felt attached to Blanche. She is terrified of revealing her true age that she perceives will deem her unattractive to those around her that she retreats into the darkness. In recent years, I have come to the realisation that I too am afraid of aging. I am twenty-three years old which is incredibly young in the eyes of many but for me, time seems to be running out. I am racing to beat the aging clock.
In a weird way, I feel that my teenage years were not what I had desired. Teenage girls are often viewed as being at the prime of their beauty but that has never been true for myself. I am on the heavier side and I tend to pass people by in the blink of an eye. I can fall down a well and nobody would notice, nor would they want to help. It is for this reason that I have attempted to transform myself by way of make up and perfume. I figured that a beautiful aroma would at the very least turn a few heads. If it is the bare minimum attention that I can attain, then I believe that it is a worthy investment.
I know how this must sound to most of you, so silly and infantile but this has plagued me for years. My daily outfit consists of oversized shirts or jumpers with leggings, I rarely dress up. I do not feel comfortable in other clothes, I prefer to shroud myself in an excess of material. In my family, I am not viewed as the bombshell, I am known as the bright one.
When I was a child, I used to comfort myself by telling myself that I may not be pretty but at least I had my brain. From time to time, I still say that to myself. When I go out, if there are mirrors, I must look away until I pass them. To see my reflection would be seeing my true form and I am not ready for that experience. I do not think I will ever be ready for that. Trying to compliment me is akin to bouncing a ball off a wall. Sweet sentiments cannot penetrate this exterior, fermented by years of terrible ones. When I was sixteen and just about to leave school, I created a persona for myself. I was new to wearing makeup and I began the caterpillar process. Unfortunately, I am still stuck in my cocoon with no sign of a butterfly. My persona is confident, sultry, everything my true self is not. I still carry it with me today and I utilise it on my bad days.
There is a moment that sticks in my mind which is evidence of my persona failing me. It was two in the morning and a group of us were in a nightclub. The club fog hugged my friends who were getting heaps of attention from men whereas I was stood in the corner checking the time. Nobody wanted to know me or even acknowledge me.
I am writing this essay in hopes that I can connect with some of you who feel just like me. My self esteem has been in a period of drought for twenty-three years. I cannot believe that one would feel as low about themselves as I but given the sheer volume of people in this world, there is a distinct possibility. I can only dream of what loving yourself is like.
Every day, I open social media and I see all these girls who look like models. They get a sea of compliments from men and I cannot help but feel envious and devastated. I do not look like that and I will never look like that. I do not get this kind of attention and I never have. I remember looking at the popular girls in school and being fascinated as to how they became those girls, the girls we all wanted to be. Most of them were blonde and they were slim which is what the men always seem to enjoy.
One boy in science class confronted me and told me how repulsive I was, he even went so far as to say he hated me. I was distraught as I could not believe that I was so ugly to someone that it made them hate me. I have spent a lot of nights lay awake going over these insecurities and crying about them. Despite my writing career taking off slowly, I still feel a breeze in my heart that is so powerful that it makes my ribcage tap against my chest. Today is a good day but tomorrow may be a bad one and that is how unreliable my self esteem is. She is fraught with fragility and a bad temperament but that does not come close to what happens when I am left alone with my thoughts. Silence breeds my perturbed nature so I soothe that with a lullaby of smoke and mirrors.
AUTHOR BIO:
Courtenay S. Gray is twenty three years old and she is the associate editor for Thorn Literary Magazine. She has been in publications such as Trick Zine. You can find her on Twitter: @courtenaywrites