Wednesday, March 1

23. And here’s to more picking up myself all the way out, to more nights I thought I couldn’t make it through, to more mornings I thought I’ll never see again, to more inner fights within myself and to more days my heart stopped gasping for more air. Another log diary of reminder I thought I should write down for my future-self read whenever I think of seeing another beautiful, bright light at another side of the world.

Do you remember the first time you were called annoying? How your breath stopped short in your chest. The way the light drained from your eyes, though you knew your cheeks were ablaze. The way your throat tightened as you tried to form an argument that got lost on your tongue. Your eyes never left the floor that day. You were 13. You’re 23 now, and I still see the light fade from your eyes when you talk about your interests for “too long,” Apologies littering every other sentence. Words trailing off a cliff you haven’t jumped from in 7 years. 

I could listen to you forever, though I know speaking for more than 3 uninterrupted minutes makes you anxious.  All I want you to know is that you deserve to be heard for 3 minutes, for 10 minutes, for 2 hours, forever. All I want you to know you deserve all the finest things in this world, it’s all yours. I could listen to you all night ranting silently inside your head about how no one can handle  your grace, your beauty, your wisdom, your heart; mostly because they can’t handle their own. Because after all, all you have is yourself.

If you are reading this again in the next five years, well I hope you do, remember this feeling of snuggling in your warm bed in this cold night. Remember you have your own people with you. Remember the pain and the sweetness you have felt that made you who you are today. You are this way because of the beautiful world you built your own and not for anyone else. Your curves today are from the rough edges you have been through and it’s still made you beautiful ― although it is far out of what people perceive to be beautiful. Because one day, on that one fine day, there will be a person who look at you like you are the art itself.

I am ashamed of my waist. I am ashamed at how my ribs don’t fan out above it, I am ashamed at the softness of the flesh that swallows, the hands that touch it. I am ashamed of the sexiness of it. The way it moves so freely, so unlike me. I am ashamed that sometimes it’s a 28 and sometimes a 30 and no, his hands cannot wrap around it. And no, I do not look like I will break in half unless he holds me together. I am ashamed of my waist. I am ashamed of my thighs and the layer of fat on my god-damn-ass, I am ashamed of the fact that I do not look airbrushed.

I am ashamed of how I look, but more importantly ― I am ashamed of hating my body, of seeing my thighs and thinking fat ― instead of strength, of thinking fat ― is a dirty word, of thinking fat ― makes me less worthy. I am ashamed because I still struggle with shame every day. I am ashamed because self-love isn’t a battle you win, it is a war you fight your entire life. Loving yourself is a revolution, but, so is admitting that there are days when you don’t, when you still see your body and feel repulsion and not love,  disdain and not trust.

I am ashamed of how my brain works aggressively late at night. I am ashamed of how I can construct complex sentences out from a minute. I am ashamed of the endless nights I thought of shutting myself out. I am ashamed of hanging my feet out of the balcony on rainy days because of the darkness calls for me. I am ashamed of opening up to people around me to let them peek through this hardness of bitter soul. I am ashamed of waking up the next day, kissed by the morning light peeking through the curtains. I am ashamed of wanting to have someone with me. I am ashamed of knowing that deep down, I still have people I love when all I do is hating my reflection in the mirror.

Practice self-love, but don’t hate yourself on days when you fail, because see, this is just another thing you’re meant to excel at effortlessly, another way to make the society feel better about the harm they’ve inflicted on you just because you’re a girl. So love yourself. But not because you should, because it’s a revolution, or a task, or a way to prove your feminism, love yourself because you’re defying the world just by being, you’re breaking the rules by existing. You get to struggle ― this is a lifelong battle and you don’t have to always be so god-damn loving and so fucking lovable.

Happy 23rd birthday, you little bitch with sparks of sunshine.