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I spent my entire life standing in front of the mirror trying to determine whether or not I was good enough yet, whether or not I had to lose a few more kilos in order to fit into the category of women society sees perfect. I spent hours standing on a scale that just wouldn't show me the number my heart so desired, and countless more trying to straighten my hair to perfection. There was nothing about me that society deemed perfect. My full body, my voluminous hair, my short nails, they all clashed with what I thought was beauty, which was what society told us was beautiful. It was an equation of sorts; a size zero body, plus long straight hair, plus long glamorous nails equals beautiful. Right?
I spent hours too ashamed to go swimming, and too scared to let my hair down, I spent countless hours worrying about what people would think about me if I stopped dieting, or if I stopped straightening my hair, or if I stopped worrying about being so fucking perfect all the time. And then it hit me; no ones perfect. No one. Least of all the people who claim to hold the essence of beauty between their fingers.
Between hearing how my curves were unattractive, how my full stomach was ugly and between seeing how none of the beautiful women we all admired had huge curly ringlets framing their faces, my self esteem hit an all time low. On the outside I was smiling, and laughing, and goofing off, but was dead on the inside. I had a hard time focusing on school, and an even harder time trying to motivate myself to do anything. I lost the will. I lost the will to try, I lost the will to move forward and I lost the will to be me.
All over Hollywood were gorgeous statuesque women who had long, golden silky hair, and the fact that I was a short, chubby, curly haired girl started to chip away at my confidence. Looking back, I remember feeling especially low after watching Gossip Girl. These shows, they're so unrealistic, it hurts. They thrust rich, gorgeous people with seemingly perfect lives in our faces and expect us to believe we're beautiful too, but we don't. Because we don't look like them. We don't look like the women who spend hours getting their makeup done before filming or the men who are picked because of their washboard abs and stunning features. We don't look like them. No one does, not even they do. They're made up, they're poked and prodded, they're photoshopped. These people, they're not ugly, but they're not as beautiful and gorgeous, and stunning as they'd have us believe. I would watch in awe as these actresses would trapeze on screen with their perfect blonde hair, and wonder why I wasn't as blessed as they were, why I had to have brown curls and she golden tresses. Why wasn't I born with straight hair? Why didn't I have colored eyes, and beautiful genetics? Why was my nose small and round as opposed to theirs, which you'd think were sculpted to perfection.
That's when the craze to become more beautiful started. I would put my hair through rigorous chemical treatments to get it to sit straight, I would dye it over and over again, hoping to look as beautiful as society says I should be. I would over pluck my bushy eyebrows in hopes of growing more sculpted ones in their place. I tried everything. I tried cutting my long, flowing locks so that I could have a sophisticated bob that would rival that of any Hollywood actress, but of course, my round, chubby face wouldn't let me have that either.
I tried diet pills, I tried starving myself. At one point about eight years ago, I made myself throw up. It was stupid, and I instantly regretted it. I hated myself and the fact that it had come to this, standing in an Abo El Sid bathroom, throwing up so that I could enjoy a meal without having to carry the weight of it my entire life. The truth of the matter is, I will carry the weight of that night around my entire life. I hated myself, and I hated society for making me purge myself so that I could feel beautiful. At that point, I didn't feel beautiful, I felt far from it. Hot, and sweaty, with the smell of puke in the background, I picked myself up and went home to nurse my broken soul. It was then that I was sure that there was no hope for me, that I was hopeless, and that there was no way I could ever live up to society expectations.
I fell apart more than once. I remember more than one occasion where I had to nurse myself back from the heavy darkness that enveloped me when I would convince myself I'm not good enough. It was crippling, and each time was more difficult than the one before. I found myself going to this horrible place where everything and nothing existed. Everything I hated about myself would haunt me, make me go stark crazy, and everything I loved about myself just disappeared. I spent so much time engulfed in a spiral of self hate and despair, unable to love myself, unable to accept myself, unable to show myself kindness and affection.
I remember once dieting so intensely, living exclusively off of water and soup, that I passed out at Khan El Khalili. I was rushed to the emergency room, and I'll never forget the look of astonishment the doctor gave me. It was like his eyes were asking me if being skinny was worth spending the day in the ER, with an IV drip latched onto my arm. To me, he just didn't understand the amount of pressure society puts on girls to look perfect. I came to resent myself.
Up until a few years ago, we didn't have the body positive rhetoric we do today. Don't get me wrong, society's perception of beauty is as skewed as ever, but a body positive movement is slowly but surely on the rise. The point is, I didn't have the every body is a beach body rhetoric or the natural hair is beautiful rhetoric to help me embrace and love myself. I found myself hating the curls, the curves, the plainness, and there was nothing that could change that.
So fast forward to a few years ago, when I started losing weight and feeling better about myself. I started liking the person I was on the inside because of how I looked on the outside, and if that isn't messed up, I don't know what is. I still wasn't as skinny as I wanted to be, of course, because I wanted to be like the skinny models and pretty actresses, and that wasn't realistic. They look beautiful in their own right, everyone does, but when they're photoshopped to the point where it's all skin and bones, then no matter what you do and how much you deprive yourself, you'll never look like them. I didn't know that back then.
When I started losing weight, my collar bones started jutting out, and I was so proud. I would strategically pose for pictures so that my collar bones could pop, thus reinforcing the idea that I'm socially acceptable now because my bones stick out. I'm just beginning to realize just how sad that is, the fact that I felt pride and an intense amount of self respect just for getting my collar bones to jut out a little.
I still hated my curves and hips, I hated my curly hair, I hated my weirdly shaped eyes, and I hated my belly. The list just doesn't end, does it? You'll always focus on the tiny details that mess with your perception of beauty. At that point, I was straightening my hair two, three times a week. I actually don't remember a time during my life when my hair was at a healthy stage, and I don't remember a time during my life when my hair was really, truly curly. I see the pictures, and I acknowledge the signs that underneath my pin straight hair lies a head of unruly curls, but I can't remember. I tried just about every chemical form of straightening and got to a point where my hair was holding itself together by a thread.
I still have a head of hair that is damaged beyond repair. I could never bring myself to stop straightening it, lest someone see me with *gasp* imperfect hair and mistake me for a savage.
The hate I felt for my purely natural form ran bone deep and left me breathless. But, over time, I began the process of loving and accepting my naturally beautiful locks. I drench my hair in coconut oil in the hopes of one day restoring it to its formal glory, but I know that the years and years I spent showering it with hate will undoubtedly leave their mark.
Up until a short while ago, I still poked and prodded my belly, trying to imagine myself with a more flattering figure, and I still wanted to look beautiful enough to be accepted by society. It's something I sometimes still struggle with on a daily basis. I don't like that I depend on my physical form to feel loved and validated, to feel successful and accomplished, but at the end of every day I ask myself when I'm going to start accepting myself for who I am.
A few months ago, I came across Iskra Lawrence's Instagram account. I loved her page and the feelings of empowerment it gave me. I felt like I could look beautiful but still be the person that I truly am, someone who loves to eat and indulge. I started reinforcing the idea that I love curves in my mind.
During a summer trip last July, one of my best friends in the world commented on my figure. She said something to the effect that she thought my body was beautiful, albeit a tad flawed. I started realizing that the rest of the world doesn't look at my body the way I do. My beautiful best friend, whose body couldn't look more different than mine, made me realize that sometimes curves and voluptuousness are beautiful. She also made me realize that it doesn't matter if you're stick thin or if you're big and curvy, you're the only one who sees the flaws.
So, today, I still have issues with the way my stomach looks when I sit down, and the rolls I have on my belly. I still have issues with my arms and my thighs, but I love them. I know that I have a long way to go to give myself the amount of love I actually deserve, but I'm getting there. I already know that I need to work hard to still look like myself, but in the healthiest possible frame. I know that with time and effort, I can start to accept my body, my hair, my nails, and everything in between.
If you feel the way I did, please please please know that you are beautiful. You might not measure up to what society thinks is beautiful, but honestly? Fuck society and how it makes us feel. You shouldn't believe yourself to be inferior or less appealing because of the pages of a magazine. You are beautiful, and I know it's sometimes hard to believe. I know that you might read these words and think to yourself that you want to believe them but can't, but I need you to know that at some point during your life, you will start the journey towards loving yourself and I hope that journey is as smooth and easy as ever. I hope you shower yourself with love and understand your self worth.