What I hate about myself.

Oof.

We couldn’t have eased into this process with something easy like ‘tell me a little about yourself’ or ‘what’s your favorite color?’.  (Hi, my name is Olivia.  I’m weird.  My favorite color is pink because it’s undeniably feminine.) No, no.  We’re going straight for the kill.  Who is this ‘we’ I keep referring to?  I’m not really sure.  Anyway.  On to the goods.

I was an awkward child.  I probably shouldn’t be so surprised that I turned out to be an awkward adult.  But all the same, I was an awkward child.  This awkwardness was perfectly captured in a photo of me before one of my dance recitals when I was about five years old.  I was wearing a sparkling green leotard, and to complete the winning ensemble, my panties were sticking out of my leotard and red lipstick was smeared across my teeth.  (Have I ever mentioned my sheer hatred for the word ‘panties’?)  To this day I still cringe at the thought of that photo and all of the awkward years that were to follow.

Years later I made my way through middle school.  One afternoon I received a note from a close childhood friend with another friend’s name scrawled on the outside.  I tried to give back the note that wasn’t meant for my eyes, but my friend insisted it was for me.  I opened the note and cautiously read its contents that were addressed to someone else.  “I’m so glad I have a friend like you who isn’t a high watered geek like Olivia. ” It took me a moment to realize what happened.  These girls, my supposed friends and allies in life, intentionally schemed about ways to hurt me.  Now it just seems petty and an inevitable part of being a preteen girl.  But at the time it was crushing and became the beginning of a harsh trend of self-doubt.

Now at age twenty-four I can easily be consumed by that same self-doubt I was introduced to as a child.  I can be insecure but will do everything to not let you see it.  Why?  Because my mind screams that insecurity can only be interpreted as unattractive.  I question myself too often and worry about what people think too much. I don’t let myself be emotionally available to other people because the risks are too high.  Every time I get hurt, another piece of me shuts down and is no longer available for outside viewing.  “Never again,” I whisper to myself.  “Never again will I make myself available for someone else to hurt.” Now you don’t see me. Instead you see a very filtered version of me playing it safe.  And this makes me sad.  You’re missing the very essence of who I am because I’m too insecure to let you see the real me.

So what do I hate about myself?  I hate that I still feel like the little girl with red lipstick smeared on her teeth and panties sticking out of her leotard.

posted by Olivia Singleton
Filed under: 30 Days of Truth