I Feel Unpretty | Teen Ink

I Feel Unpretty

January 15, 2012
By WintersRevenge PLATINUM, Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida
WintersRevenge PLATINUM, Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida
29 articles 1 photo 25 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Yay! I love being purple!" ~Patrick Star, Spongebob Squarepants

I hate mirrors. They are so evil, vindictive, cruel… but so truthful. And that’s what I hate most about them. But if given the chance, I would stare into one all day.
I’m not vain… Well, I guess that depends on what your definition of “vain” is. If you mean “devoid of substance or meaning,” then yes, I am vain. But if you mean vain as in “excessively proud, especially of personal appearance,” then no. I am not vain in that sense. But I am empty. I have given my all and now there is nothing left inside. I am just a large cardboard box that has been decorated heavily in wrapping paper and bows, but when you tear all that away and open the box, all you will find is disappointment. When I think about that, it really is a perfect metaphor for my life. On the outside, I promise a cheerful, obnoxious, loud, crazy, excited person full of smiles. Looks can be deceiving.
I know I’m not the only one who feels so exhausted with life. Actually, I should be grateful. I have a loving family, a nice house, the best friends anyone could ask for. So many people would kill for the life I have. But I don’t want it. I constantly fight with my parents and siblings, I spend all of my time stuck away in one room of my house, and I don’t make an effort to hang out with my friends anymore. I am throwing away everything in my life. My grades aren’t up to par. I should have all A’s and B’s, but instead I have two C’s. According to my PSAT scores, I’m a smart kid, but my grades don’t reflect that. If I don’t pull them up, I won’t be able to get into a good college. But I don’t care. Not anymore.
I hate who I am, who I’ve become. I haven’t become a “bad kid,” I haven’t cut myself, I haven’t vandalized anything, I haven’t worn heavy black eyeliner and black lipstick as a sign of rebellion, and I haven’t begun drinking and smoking and dating guys ten years my senior. But I am no better than that. I have lost all hope in myself and my future. Things I used to love to do have become chores. People I used to hang out with are now annoying. And there’s not even a set reason why. I’ve just given up on myself.
So every day I lock the door to my bathroom, sit up on the counter, and stare at myself in the mirror. That’s all I do on weekends. I’m searching. Searching for something worthwhile, something worth fighting for, even if it be the colour of my eyes, or the whiteness of my teeth, or the evenness of my eyebrows. Just something that I can be happy with. But when I look in the mirror, all I see are the flaws. I see the acne, the muffin top, the crookedness of my bottom teeth, the size of my nose. And when I see nothing on the outside, I look inside. But then I see the anger, the rudeness, the obnoxiousness, the maliciousness. And I wonder, who would like this person?
And then, I do the stupidest thing that anyone could do.
I slap myself.
I slam my bare palm into my cheek and let the sting paralyze my entire face. I let the red rush to the site of impact and let it linger.
And then I do it again.
And again.
And again.
I slap myself straight across my face countless times, each time the pain lessening. I do it until my hands and arms tire and my face numbs.
I slap myself because I hate myself.
But I also do it because I think that if I do it enough, one day I’ll slap the pretty into me.
And when that doesn’t work, I curl up into a ball and cry. This makes me even uglier.
But at least when I stop crying, I will have made an improvement in the way I look.

But I cannot make who I am inside look pretty.

The author's comments:
There was no way for me to write thsi piece perfectly. Every time I would type I line I would quickly delete it because it just wasn't right. There is no way to portray how I feel through words. And that really frustrates me. So here is half of how I really feel.

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