More often than I should, I wake up in the morning and hate what I see in the mirror. I look ugly. I have an uneven complexion. Red splotches on my skin here and there. My hair is thin. My teeth are crooked. I’m flat chested. I’m short. I have no hips. My ass isn’t big enough, my stomach isn’t flat enough. And I have bags under my eyes.
More often than not, I go to sleep at night crying. Feeling like a failure. Feeling like a fool. Feeling like life is so unfair. Feeling like I didn’t do enough, yet did all I could. Feeling defeated. Weak. Useless. Underestimated. Misunderstood. Tired. Bitter. Confused, and ultimately lost.
More often than I’d like to admit, I feel lonely. Like no man will ever like me. Like no man will ever love me (again). Like no man will ever want to take me on a date. Or care to put a smile on my face. Or share their dreams with me. Or want to meet my friends. Or hold me at night, and want to be there in the morning.
These are the feelings, although real and profound, I keep neatly tucked away behind happy hours and Sunday Fundays. Because no one wants to hear that noise. Not even I. Especially when there are so many beautiful sounds in the world. Like the laughter I create that makes me feel beautiful. The silence of critics when I prove them wrong. Or the loud, obnoxious banter of a room full of my friends who I know will never leave me for someone prettier, with bigger boobs and more money.
And even more than often, this is all it takes for me to know that life is beautiful and everything will be OK.