Beauty

It was finally happening. I was going to be a sixth grader. My stomach was twisted into knots, my heart pitter pattering against my chest to an unknown tempo. For the first time in my life, I was allowed to shave my legs, and I did so with pride and excitement. I had my outfit picked out for the following day and my mind raced as I laid down to sleep.
    I awoke the next morning to jittery movements as I got myself ready for the first day of the rest of my life. I was allowed to wear lipstick, and I smacked it on with exuberance. I parted my long hair down the middle and pulled on my Birkenstocks and shorts, my green tee shirt and a smile. As I slipped on my Jansport backpack I knew: this was going to be the best day I’d ever had.
    Feeling nauseous but anticipating a whole new world, I hopped out of my mom’s van and waved goodbye, feeling the breeze against my pale chubby cheeks as I started to walk towards an entirely different school, a brand new life. My smooth legs rubbed up against each other and for the first time in my life I felt like a woman. As I heard a warning bell ring I took a deep breath and hustled to class.
    Our assigned seats were given to us and we took our desks, gleaming wood that reflected the shadows of those around us. Role call started as my homeroom teacher looked at all of us to try to get to know us. My name was called.
“Mallory Heath?” I flung my hand in the air.
    “Here!” I blustered, overly excited. I heard a snicker behind me. I heard someone murmur the name Mallory Calorie. And I felt my eyes well up with tears. As my heart dropped into my stomach, my legs no longer felt smooth and sexy, but dimpled and fat. My cheeks burned as red as my lipstick as I pretended I didn’t hear what had been said.
What was supposed to be the best day of my new found life turned out to be one of the worst, and middle school turned out to be a slew of memories that I would much rather block out than remember.
    Children are creative and cruel. The rumors and names we all call each other get twisted around our insecurities until they are screaming in our faces. I vowed that day that I wouldn’t always be ugly. I vowed that day that I would work hard to make other people think I was pretty, that I would make other people see that I was a good person. I made myself believe that unless I looked good, I wasn’t worth loving. My insecurities began to take control over me, and the relentless teasing from Aprende Middle School did not help ease my over analytical mind.
    I struggled through 8th grade promotion and found myself flung into high school, where suddenly boys wanted girls, but I never felt like they wanted me. I stopped eating and I dyed my hair blonde, and after a few pounds of my weight, my sanity, my pride melted away I was suddenly in the eyesight of boys. Boys that could see the trapped scared chubby brunette behind the eyes of the skinny blue eyed blonde.
    I started dating a boy who seemed to be as broken as I was. But through the on going months the façade dropped, and though he was broken, it was not in the way I was. I found out he had been cheating on me after we had been together for two months. I found out a week after he had told me, (yes me) that he loved me. It put an ache in my heart that drove a wedge through my imperfections, that strengthened my insecurities. And instead of breaking up with him, I ended up believing this was the type of treatment I deserved. When I looked in the mirror, I still saw that shy and timid little brunette, who just wanted to be loved. Months turned into years, and pain turned into fear. I told him once I was going to leave him. He pulled a knife on himself. I told him to take me home once and he fishtailed the car until we almost slammed into a row of mailboxes. I told him to love me, and he told me he was the only one that ever would.
    Eventually, when my love, my heart, my mind, had given out, I limped away from our relationship. And that little brunette girl inside of me curled up around my heart and cried. She wailed for years, afraid that he was right, that no one would ever or could ever love her. The blonde started giving her body away to anyone who wanted it, for a month, for a week, for an hour. All she wanted was to feel pretty, to live up to the vow she had promised herself, and instead all she did was strip away the brunettes innocence.
Somewhere along the way people had started telling me I was pretty, but I knew they were lying. I knew they were trying to soothe the two girls inside of me. To reassure me that I hadn’t failed.
    And then I met him. I met Frank. I was drowning, and he pulled me out of the water. He took the brunettes hands from over her eyes and placed them on his heart. And he was good to her, and he showed me that I was worthy of loving. And what we had was sweet, and tender. Joyful and innocent. And I started to learn to love myself. I started to see myself slowly, carefully, the way other people did. I dyed my hair back to brown.
    And then one day he turned away from me, away from us. Slowly he started to become someone I didn’t recognize. He started disappearing at night and coming home drunk, with nothing to offer me but excuses.
    This time, I didn’t break. Instead, I remembered everything I had worked for. I took a deep breath. I closed my eyes, and I could feel the blonde girl who resided in me. All she wanted was redemption. In that moment I realized, I no longer needed to regret my mistakes because they had allowed me to grow. I looked at myself for the first time and realized I deserved better. I made us move out of our little apartment, and I made myself choose the better road. And now we are over, and for the first time I don’t need a boy to tell me I’m beautiful.
    For the first time, I can hug the chubby brunette inside of me and tell her that the vows she made were the wrong ones. I can stroke her cheek and tell her that she is beautiful just the way she is. I can tell her that the vow she should have made all those years ago, was that she needed to feel beautiful for herself.
    Finally being able to tell myself that I was beautiful was a war. I did not win every battle, and I certainly have a fair amount of scars that reside inside me, but it is a victory I am constantly thankful for. Being able to accept and love myself exactly the way I am is a fight I am glad I fought. And that is who I was, and this is who I am. I am strong, and confident, and although the little brunette girl inside of me still gets scared at times, I hold her hand and we keep moving forward.