I am on the brink of tears. Alone in the dressing room, with myself and this “one-of-a-kind dress that will make you feel beautiful.” It is a mini black dress, fit-and-flare, enough to cover things and accentuate and tighten the waist. They had pink, black, and white. I always choose black because it contrasts with the white walls, making me look thinner. Choosing white is a death sentence.
I grunt, trying to zip the dress. Two minutes and a drip of sweat later, I finally get the dress on. I slowly twirl myself around in front of the mirror, never peeling my eyes from my three focal points: thighs, waist face.
Does it cover my fat thighs? Does it make me look thin? Does it cover my ugly face?
No – the millionth dress that fucking lies. I unzip the dress, put it on the hanger, get changed, and tell myself I am ready to go. My head hurts.
I walk out of the changing room, and my mom questions why the dress is on the hanger. I tell her it’s too small and I’m ready to go. Mom insists I try other dresses, but nothing she says will change my mind. I leave the store saying nothing. I buy a black coffee – zero sugar – for the drive home so I can sip on something instead of talking.
She told me I was beautiful the moment I entered the world – when she first held me in my arms. She said my smile is beautiful, she gets lost in my eyes, and that she’s met nobody more beautiful. I trusted her, but I can’t any longer; she keeps feeding me with these lies.
For as long as I can remember, my favorite pastime was shopping for clothes. I love the eccentric color palette, the smell of new clothes, and the endless ideas that pop into my mind for tomorrow’s outfit. I enjoy the feeling of touching the different fabrics – of knowing that once I swipe my card, the clothing is mine, only mine.
However, the one thing I love so much also hurts me so much. How can it not? You expect the dress to look like the photo, to fit you as you dreamed. But when you open your eyes, you realize you will never be beautiful. You rendered an ideal version of yourself, but no matter what you do, you will never fucking get there.
Trust me; I’ve tried. Carbs are out of the picture; I eat once a day, drink water, and exercise. Yet, I still look the same. The scale looks different, but the way I see myself and my ugliest features never change.
My mom has tried talking to me. Pays for a therapist. Takes me shopping. Loves me. Yet, I can’t and won’t change. It will take more than conversations to change me, and it won’t happen right away. Ask everyone else.
After the ten longest minutes of my life pass, I hear the familiar screeching sound of our garage opening. My mom parks the car and, before turning off the car, turns to me and tells me I look beautiful. I look down at my bland coffee, take a sip, and thank her. From the look she gave me, I knew she knew I didn’t believe her. She told me to cheer up because she had made my favorite meal – extra cheesy Mac and Cheese. She leaves the car, and I panic. I cannot be left alone with my thoughts.
As I wash my hands before dinner that mom prepared, I look at myself in the mirror. I see my blue eyes surrounded by a red, puffy background. I looked an inch down and saw a red nose that was irritated by tissues. I see a quivering mouth.
Who is this? What happened to the girl that others see? The one who smiles, jokes, and laughs all the time? Who is this, and why is she hurting me so much?
I wash my face with cold water, smile, and walk to the dinner table. I am ready to take on the most challenging part of my day – faking a smile to the people I love the most.