What if I could show you everything? Would you leave then? Would you hate me? Would you see me the way I’ve always seen myself? The way I’ve been taught to see me. Would you see me as an alien too? I used to believe it, there were so many clues and theories that I had as to why I never fit in—even before I realized that how I grew up wasn’t normal.
Childhood is never as care-free and fun as everyone says it is—that much I know. I don’t know anyone who had an easy, amazing childhood. Being a kid is hard.
But I struggle to not envy those who had a trauma-less upbringing—Envy in a curious way more so than a resentful one; Envy in a way that makes me grateful that that even exists for some, and awe that some beautiful people are simply beautiful simply because they are.
Am I only beautiful because of what’s been taken from me? Because of what’s been done to me? I am a diamond that I never asked to be. But once you get a closer look, you’ll see the bang-up job and trade me.
I’ve been traded a thousand times. It’s ok. It’s honestly the only thing I fully understand about life, and the only thing I always expect.
I was raised under the guise of “a beauty destined to be worthless”–my certificate of authenticity, and they say to just not believe him. “It’s clear he’s wrong. It’s easy,” but when you have spent 18 years watching your own soul get carved out of you, with your hands tied, and your mouth sealed—not that you’d know what to say if you tried—it’s a war lost.
A war I’m still losing. Beauty has never made sense to me.
No one besides survivors seems to understand that being told we’re strong is more of an unfortunate circumstance than a compliment. No one besides us understands that we are this hard for a reason. Hard to break, but once broken—once our rough edges are revealed—we are deemed as worthless as we were told we’d be.
A Different State of Mind 