journal entry #3

i keep hoping that with time, everything will feel a bit smaller. yet, the truth seems to grow louder... my childhood happened, no matter how much i try to dismiss it as just "unimportant"

i don’t know if anyone does this, but before i fully wake up, my mind’s already racing. sometimes it’s about dreams, other times it’s memories from so long ago they shouldn’t still sting. there’s always something i’m reflecting on or coming to a realization about. this morning, it was the quiet ache of how my childhood taught me to pick myself apart, imperfection by imperfection. how that voice of hers echoes within me even after her death, sharp and authoritative, slipping into the corners of my early adulthood like a looming shadow i never invited but somehow learned to co-exist with. but am i really living, or am i just hiding, always hiding. from what i’m not entirely sure… maybe it’s a thousand small fears morphed together. i thought about it more this morning snd realized i’ve been avoiding going outside, not only because of the heat or people, but because of how i feel in my own skin . my pictures are just moments of bravery, don’t let them deceive you. it takes everything in me to feel even a little bit presentable the fact that i take any pictures at all now feels like a tiny miracle because for so long i wouldn't let myself be seen. and if i’m being honest mist days i feel like a catfish, like a person in the photos is wearing a mask that i can’t keep up with. i don’t really know what or who i look like. i never have. my self-image feels indefinitely skewed.

in all my nineteen years, i’ve never truly felt pretty. i remember when me and my current roommate were the best of friends back in elementary and middle school. she was like this little sunbeam, glowing without even trying. i used to be so envious of her beautiful hair, the way she was effortlessly pretty, the way her style just made her… her. she seemed to float in this world of admiration, compliments followed her like butterflies, and both boys and girls noticed her in ways i never felt seen. i remember trying to do my hair like hers, hoping maybe i could borrow just a little bit of that light. if i do this, maybe then i’ll feel a little better. if i try that maybe it’ll make everything shift. maybe… maybe? now, looking back, i just want to reach into time and hold younger me so close. she was trying so hard to feel worthy. sure, i got the occasional compliment from family, though almost never from my grandmother (if not the opposite), but they never felt real. they felt more like soft apologies, like little offerings of pity dressed up in praise. and even then, they never really touched the part of me that needed them most. this isn’t about compliments, i don’t want those.

when someone calls me pretty or i get the smallest ounce of attention, my mind floods with every part of me i wish i could erase. i never know how to take a compliment, especially under my photos. i don’t think people notice how lost i get in those moments, how quiet and shy i get, not out of modesty (maybe a little) but confusion, i just don’t know what to say. there is this one quote by sylvia plath that captures this feeling perfectly.

i compare myself to everything, to everyone. that’s the root, i think. it’s why i always feel like i’m falling short no matter how much i try or how much i do. part of it comes from trying to appease everyone, especially my grandmother. she used to tell me i was a reflection of her, like i was some kind of humanized mirror, wherever i went, whatever i wore, however i spoke, it all had to be perfect or else her image would crack. if i looked the wrong way, acted too much like myself, it was almost like tainting her name.

when i’m getting ready, especially for class, it turns into this tiny storm of clothes and frustration. i dig through a gazillion outfit choices because somehow nothing ever feels quite right. and more often than not, i end up late. sometimes so late i don’t go at all. i let anxiety and self-criticism win, yet again. when i write, i toss out idea after idea because something in me whispers it’s not good enough. it’s never good enough. i stopped making art for the longest time because of that same voice. my lines weren’t perfect, my colors, weren’t right. and so i walked away from something i truly enjoyed. i hate perfection. i hate that it was planted in me so young, like some a quiet curse meant to bloom, deepening its roots as i grew. i hate that despite knowing it’s a lie, i still chase it like it’s the only thing that will make me worthy. nothing is perfect. perfection doesn’t exist. perfection doesn’t exist, but why does it still course through my veins?

i think little elise would be deeply saddened that i have not changed, maybe even worsened. i’m really sorry. maybe one day i’ll feel how i should about myself.