Month: May 2014

Dear Taylor Swift, Here Are 22 Things That 22 Actually Feels Like

1. Not being able to pay your grocery bill because you bought that extra handle of Fireball.

2. A dizzying lack of sleep.

3. Drinking day-old coffee because you’re too lazy to make a fresh pot.

4. Digging in all your coat pockets for enough quarters to do a load of laundry.

5. Rapidly approaching unemployment.

6. Choosing Netflix over a frat party and feeling really good about your decision.

7. Realizing that you have no more birthdays to look forward to.

8. Having more respect for your crockpot than your roommates.

9. Panicking about how soon you have to pay for your own health insurance.

10. Wondering whether it’s acceptable to get your news from both Buzzfeed and the New York Times.

11. Calling your mom to ask how to use the toaster oven as an oven.

12. Screwing up your taxes.

13. Forgetting what it means to have to wear something other than men’s boxer shorts.

14. Trying to figure out at what point it is no longer okay for your mom to be your emergency contact.

15. Losing all respect for pretty much anyone under the age of 21.

16. One giant, horrible, disorienting hangover.

17. Actually waking up when your alarm goes off.

18. A slightly terrifying readiness to become a contributing member of society.

19. Finally starting to become friends with the siblings you once wanted to strangle.

20. Learning how much shit you thought was free you actually have to pay for.

21. Complaining about back and neck pain.

22. Okay, maybe I do feel happy, free, confused, and lonely at the same time. Damn it Taylor Swift. Looks like you got something right.

I Don’t Hide My Insecurities, I Hide Behind Them

“I don’t know,” I say with a frown as I angle my body sideways in the mirror. “Does it really look okay?”

“It looks fine,” my best friend replies, rolling her eyes. “You look good.”

I smooth the ruched fabric over my protruding hipbones. They are the part of my appearance I will never accept, no matter how long I spend trying to convince myself that they’re normal. I spin one way, then the other, watching as my shape goes from backyard stick to lopsided pear. But nobody wants to hear my complaining, so I just sigh and move away from the mirror.

“You don’t dress like you hate your body,” a friend remarked once as we ride the el to our downtown destination. I didn’t know how to respond to that. I didn’t even know what that meant. I felt like I should be offended, but I wasn’t sure why.

I’m bothered by a lot of things about myself, not just my hips. I’m bothered by how quickly I clam up in social situations and how easily I blush when I’m embarrassed. I hate that I have to work twice as hard as the people around me to do something as simple as eating breakfast in the morning, because my brain refuses to process things the way that it should. I hate that I take everything personally and spend maddening hours feeling guilty for things that aren’t my fault.

And I’m open about all that, I really am. I write posts like these that present my inner turmoil for the world to see. I crack jokes about my social ineptitude and never fail to cry loudly when the situation demands it. And I guess when I put it like that, it sounds kind of admirable.

It’s not.

I’ve been known to drunkenly disclose my eating disorder when I’m scared someone is getting too close. I tend to use my awkwardness and social anxiety as an excuse to avoid putting myself out there. And I guess, yeah, I don’t dress like I hate my body, because I don’t want to feel like I’m lying. I emphasize the parts I hate the most for no good reason other than the fact that I want to drive people away. Truth be told, that’s the one thing I know I’m pretty damn good at.

Some people hide their insecurities, faking self-confidence until they start to really believe in themselves. Some people actually embrace the parts of themselves they don’t love, because they know it makes them beautiful and unique and human.

Not me. I hide behind them, using them as a crutch, constantly making excuses to wallow in self-pity. I dwell on my insecurities until they’re all I see, and I make myself believe that I don’t deserve good things because of them. I’d rather force people to leave right away instead of waiting until I’m attached and the loss actually hurts.

I hide because I can. Because drowning in self-pity and self-loathing is the lifestyle I’m accustomed to, and because it’s easy, and because that way I’m the only one who’s allowed to hurt me or hate me. I hide because that’s what I do.

I take one last look in the mirror on my way out the door, turning away when I feel the tears brewing in my eyes. Someday maybe I’ll be really, truly brave. Just not tonight.