Young Writers Society

A/N: So, just something I wrote in the heat of the moment. Hidden behind this screen, and these words, I'm going to truthfully say that I sometimes just takes hits on myself so bad that I don't even know what to do. I just plague my mind with so many bad things about myself that it's all I can do [u]not to think about it. I'm sure, though, I'm not the only one who needs to rant every once in a while.

I didn't spell check, or read it over. I don't want to. I just felt like posting, for whatever reason. Dare to read if you like.

I'm not really looking for comments, 'cause I'm not looking to keep this really, but if you have something to say, go right ahead.



I’m fifteen; barely even seen the world. Barely even lived. I’m still gawky beyond belief, and hoping that I’ll grow into myself – my chins, my disproportionate butt, and my body itself. I can’t help but think that it’s too big for my tiny little head – the same head that’s so lost in fantastic stories and tales the world over.

I like that world, the fake one. I often times wished I lived there. A place where everything about me could be what I’d consider “perfect”. A place where I could look in the glass and be content with myself, not have to nitpick and think “God, I wish ....” A place where I was without flaw, and could look as gorgeous and composed as all the other girls, without having to try too hard. A place where, no matter what angle or lighting the camera snapped, I looked as good as I think of myself.

Even in fantasy, when thinking not of some dreamy heroine, or romantic knight in shining armour, but rather thinking of myself, she is not me. She looks like me – but is a more perfect definition. Something about her seems more perfected. She smiles, she laughs without hesitation. Her skin glows without the random blemishes and red spots. She carries herself with composure, and looks good in whatever she puts on –
But who am I kidding? – I’m only fifteen. Someone would probably tell me that I don’t even know what love is. Which, in all actuality, is true.

I’ve never experienced love – well, not in a family sense. In fact, I’ve only touched God’s love once, where I felt him totally inside of me. Now I’m just drifting through the world, waiting for the day when I’ll be able to surface through his divine holiness, and be able to feel his warmth touch my heart again, an overwhelming joy that brought me to quivering tears.

But the love I’m talking about is the love of perfection. The kind only the pretty girls experience. The kind only the storybook heroines experience. You know – the heroines who claim to be nothing more than a chip-off-the-ol’-block. Yet, somehow, they’re just perfect enough to – not only – save an entire nation from collapse, or something of the sort, but also capture the mysterious, handsome stranger’s heart.

The love that I imagine is something precious in itself. A love that goes unblemished and unwavering; a love where any single person, no matter how opposed to love they may be, can look at those two people and see how much they love one another; A love where it is undeniably beautiful, and the people in it are too.

A love where the good-looking fellow falls for the girl who claims herself “average” maybe even “ugly” – yet, to society’s standards, her curves are just perfect, and she’s skinny enough to pull off any look. She’s not my type – the one with a rather defined “S” shape to her body, and lacking in the upper proportions – with which her bottom half redeems herself. Yes, nothing like me who cannot seem to find barely an outfit that makes her feel confident, gorgeous, and fabulous.

It is in this love that the handsome fellow looks at this humble girl, and cares for her unwaveringly. This handsome fellow also loves her for all her imperfections (as she has none) and loves everything about her, telling her she doesn’t need to change. Telling her she’s beautiful. Because she is.


Have I been so brainwashed that suddenly society has blindsided me, caught me off guard? Shown me that nothing is as I’ve imagined it? That I’m never – ever – going to measure up to their standards, and be able to wake up every morning, look in the mirror, and see that I’m beautiful. Or, maybe not even such a flattering word – maybe even I’d be content with just “pretty”. It’s still a title put to and recognizing my looks. Has society shown me all these rarities, these beautiful, sumptuous women that put us all to shame, colour us green with envy, just to tantalize me, make me think that’s there’s potential there for me?

And then people tell me that models and actresses and never as pretty as they look – it’s the makeup.
But, without a canvas to work on – a canvas that’s already beautiful – they could never look as glowing and handsome as they do. They’re beautiful no matter what.

Diving back to love, though, the hot topic on my mind, I still wonder if God will grant me that boy: the handsome one, the one who cares for me so unconditionally, and tells me I’m beautiful. Look past my millions of flaws – my chin, my butt, my frizzy hair and awkward way or speaking, my curled shoulders and slouching posture that I can never seem to adjust, the way my stomach seems to stick out like that “S” shape when I stand straight, though I’m told I’m “just right” in size, the cellulite that apparently “even woman” has, my bland, boring looks, my plump – not even lusciously full – lips, and my childishness, the way I can never seem to grow into myself, and the way that I’ll always and forever wish that I could be someone different.

I wouldn’t even land such a guy. I hear guys like girls who are confident. I’m not confident. I take hits to my self-esteem so easy as of late. And I think it’ll get better. No, what if it doesn’t? The scariest prospect is the fact that there may not be a light at the end of the tunnel, and that I may be stuck with insecurities all my life, hiding this terrible worry from everyone by putting on a brave face. Not to mention guiding people, and telling them better, though I myself take little to none of my own advice.

Though, what would I know about guys? I’ve never even had a boyfriend – or a crush, that one crush where you almost date, but things fall flat. Never held a boys hand, or even got a kiss. The closest I ever got to that with a boy was dancing in gym class – and even then, he wasn’t interested, despite my fruitless attempts to look “pretty” – the pretty that I wasn’t.

He’d had his sights set on another pretty girl – the sweet girl, the one with the flawless personality, and the envious connection with God. And she’s was effortlessly pretty, and beautiful, and cute. I wasn’t – and will never be – any of that.

I think, though, “I’m only fifteen”. Yeah, “only fifteen”. Still plenty of time for finding love, right?
What if I’m wrong? What if I never experience that harmless puppy love, the stuff of high school? What if I remained untouched completely, for years after school? What if by the time I got myself into that game, I never got that puppy love? I was just thrust into the dating game, and forced into territories I wasn’t comfortable in. Forced over boundaries that now, as a fifteen-year-old – naive and innocent as can be – I’d told myself could wait until marriage, when he committed himself to me.

Love seems like such a gamble, but I still thirst for it.

But why?

I know it’s never going to be as perfect as I envision it. I know that I’m never going to find someone who’ll make me totally comfortable, and tell me I’m beautiful, tell me that I have nothing to feel shy about, because I’m absolutely and totally flawless.

I feel a pang, just thinking about it now. It’s not true. It’s never going to be true. No matter how many times someone tries to assure me, tries to tell me that I really am gorgeous, I know they’re just being kind. I’m not. I’m not ever going to be. At first it felt like a compliment. Then, the mirror – the silvery looking-glass that once told me I looked pretty – said otherwise. It was finished with lying.

The words were nothing but words any longer.

Just like my dream is a dream, not a hope any longer. I want so bad to hold onto it. Is this growing up? Or is just this my poor self-esteem speaking?

No, if this is growing up, then I want nothing with it. I don’t want to lose hope. I don’t want to lose my dreams. I don’t want to know the ugly truths of the world, no matter how much I may seem like a down-to-earth, mature teenager.

I’m not. It’s just a facade – like the mirror puts on when I look into it.

It lets me think that maybe, just maybe, I’m beautiful.

And then I get to see the ugly truth for myself. I have but to blink.

To be completely honest with you, reading this was really hard for me. Not because it's bad, because it isn't bad, but because it's too true. When I was fifteen I had horrible, horrible self-esteem problems. I wanted to be one of the "pretty" girls more than anything. Escaping into my fantasy, my writing, was the only way I could actually feel happy. Everything you said was so completely the story of me. And sometimes I still slip into that mindset,

I just plague my mind with so many bad things about myself that it's all I can do not to think about it

I couldn't have said it better myself. It's just impossible not to be hard on yourself and to be crushed beneath all of the things that you wish could be better.

You are not alone, you are not alone at all. Everything you said brought me back to last year and how horribly I hated myself. I wish I could give you advice on how to get out of that feeling but it's all so much easier said than done. I had to stop comparing myself to others, even now that's really hard for me. But I would just think, who cares if she's prettier because I'm me and that's not going to change.

But you are not alone.

My heart just melted. I want to hug you sooo much right now. This was touching, beautiful. I read every syllable of it, every word, didn't skim at all. It was amazing, just from reading this I might propose to you right now.

Aw, thanks guys! It's so nice to read that I'm not alone/ people actually care to read what I write!

What can I say? Even boys succumb to the "I'm not pretty enough" bug.