Have you ever looked at someone and wondered what it would be like living in their shoes? Not having to check your appearance every time the slightest bit of wind brushes against your face, not having to experience the shattering insecurity every time you see yourself in a photo, or not having to put so much effort to get that “effortlessly” pretty look? That’s what went through my mind every time I looked at my sister.
The golden-child, award-winning sister. The pretty sister “who will have no trouble finding a husband”, as my grandmother said. I wasn’t jealous of my sister, I didn’t want to be her; I just wanted to be treated like her. For years I longed to wake up and instantly be prettier, in my own way unlike my sister. I held onto that hope that someday, one day, I would wake up and people would start treating me the same as they did my sister: that my too-honest cousins wouldn’t laugh at my face every time they see me at our yearly family trip and make unfunny jokes that ruthlessly jab at my insecurities, that my aunties wouldn’t stare at my face too long when I greet them and say a supposedly “caring”comment about my weight, or my acne, or my outfit. They didn’t do that to my sister,sowhy did they do it to me?
This year, it was going to change though. I was prepared for the family trip, as prepared as I could ever be: I had lost a little weight and cared more for my skin. I did slimming exercises for my face and updated my wardrobe to more “trendy'' clothes that were circulating around the internet . Even if I did not feel different, I looked different…didn’t I? Last year, I wanted nothing more than my face to be skinnier. Now, it was but I haven’t felt a single ounce of accomplishment at all? Why was that?
I made my way along the creaky wooden floor of my family’s beach house, where our extended family gathers every summer. Absently tracing my fingers against the wall, I envisioned what my relatives face’s would be like, finally seeing me pretty. I took a deep breath, and rapped my knuckles on the polished wood; instantly the loud chatter inside came to a halt.
“Come in,” my grandfather said in his loud, booming voice.
I stumbled inside. My heart was thumping . I couldn’t wait to be called pretty like my sister. How should I react? So many emotions were swirling inside my head when I realized that no one had said anything yet. No one had said anything? So I lifted my head and was met with my relatives’ expectant gazes, waiting for me to greet them so they could get on with their conversation. They didn’t even notice how you changed , a malicious voice inside my head barked, all that time you spent on exercises to slim down your face and all that makeup you bought just for them to call you pretty…, such a waste.
I buried my growing disappointment as I approached my grandfather and grandmother in a particularly “graceful”way – or what I thought was graceful until one of my aunties pointed it out.
“Alliah dear, why are you walking that way? Walk properly to greet your elders.”
At that moment, I desperately wanted to return to my room and stay there for the whole day.
“Good afternoon, grandfather. Good afternoon, grandmother,” I said in the most unfaltering voice I could muster. Just as I was about to back away and return to the peaceful depths of my room, my grandmother shot out a hand to stop me and pointed to my forehead.
“Why do you have so much acne?” she asked , I felt her beady eyes dissecting every part of my face; I’ve never felt more insecure.
Time seemed to play out one tenth of its speed. My stomach dropped. Moisture rushed to my eyes as I tried to blink it away. They say your family is supposed to be where you feel the most comfortable. They are supposed to love you for who you are, yet I don’t feel like my family has ever accomplished that.
And there it was, the laughter that followed after every “caring” comment my relatives had made; breaking the trance I was in. It took everything in me not to burst into tears. It took everything in me to get up on my legs and exit the confines of my grandparent’s room calmly. It took everything in me to walk past my sister and act like I didn’t get hurt yet again by the people that complimented her the most…
As I walked back to my room, I couldn’t help but think back to the memories me and my sister shared throughout our childhood. We used to share forbidden secrets and make promises we couldn’t keep in our world of flying monkeys and talking dolls. We used to be very close. And now, we barely know anything about each other.
That night, I cried. I cried for the past version of me, who had so much hope that one day, someone was going to love her as much as they did my sister. I cried because I was hurt, so hurt by the comments made about my appearance. For years I thought I mastered how to deal with hurt: just ignore it. Yet this feeling of hurt was too painful to ignore, it was as if someone punched me in the gut, laughed at my face, then called their friends to laugh at my face even more.
However, mostly, I cried because I knew I wasn’t going to be the same with my family again, that everytime I would feel happy with them in the future, I’d think of this moment; I’d remember it all too well. Because I’d know all my efforts to make myself pretty in the past will go to waste, because I wouldn’t try to force myself to be something I’m not, because I’d know that my past self will be screaming at me to try it one last time, that maybe my family would be the ones who change.
But that’s the thing about unrealistic expectations isn’t it? You make scenarios of what might happen. Youthink about it so muchthat they intoxicate your brain and gaslight you to think that it will happen– you just have to wait a little longer. I can’t wait anymore. I don’t want to wait anymore.
I’ve come to the realization that, all along I’ve not been trying to be me, just another try-hard version of my sister. I know I’m not perfect–as hard as that was to admit. But being perfect is tiring. Today, I might still be upset that I can’t be as perfect as my sister. It’s an undeniable truth. But one day, maybe I’ll come around; maybe I’ll find myself again. For now, I’ll just be gathering bits and pieces of myself along the way, until it fits into a bigger puzzle of what makes me, me.