The Friendly Neighbourhood Fruitcake

I don’t want to resent my sister. I don’t want to be jealous of her. But sometimes I can’t help it. I know I’m not pretty. I know I don’t have her slim figured or her outgoing extroverted attitude that makes her seem so charming. I know that beauty isn’t everything and I’ve been telling myself all my life that I don’t care whether people find me pretty or not. I’ve always been the smart one. That was my thing. The thing that categorised me. My sister has always been the pretty one. The beautiful one. And she is. I’m not blind. She’s really really pretty, beautiful even, now that she’s growing to be a young woman. I think that’s why her and our mother always got along better. They had this feminine bond, the clothes and the Make-up and everything fundamental to girlhood.

When I was little I always felt like I couldn’t be feminine, like I was watching from the outside. I grew up thinking being female was to be boring, it was to be fragile. I wanted pretty to be an afterthought, only something they noticed after they called me smart and independent. I was always rough and loud and spoke my mind like the boys. I refused to wear pink because the colour evoked a deep hatred in me and I dressed in big and baggy clothes.

One day I began to enjoy jewellery and painting my nails. Somewhere along the way my voice became softer, if only by a fraction. I learned it was not me becoming weak. To be stereotypically feminine can also mean to be strong. I learned not to compensate my desire to be seen as a fighter by assuming I had to erase my femininity.

Sometimes I remember me as a little girl and I wish I could grab her by the shoulders and tell her that you can be both pretty without that being all you are. If only to spare us all the heartache and self doubt.

I’ve been trying to be more feminine even though sometimes I don’t really know how. I wear dresses that I think look pretty and try not to feel self conscious when I wear them in public. People always do a double take because they are not used to this version of me. They know me as rough around the edges, they know me to have a sharp tongue. They don’t think of me as a girl. Feminine is not the first word that pops into their head when they think of me. And that used to be ok. I used to not care about that. But I am a girl, I am a woman and I want to behave like one without feeling like everyone will judge me for it. I want to feel beautiful in dresses and for people to call me pretty, to be complimented for a nice outfit and to not be made fun of when I wear makeup that looks silly when I’m still learning how to use it properly.

My sister makes it look so easy. She could wear a potato sack and still be called beautiful. For her beauty comes like breathing. Automatically and self naturally.

I don’t want to resent my sister. I don’t want to be jealous of her anymore. But when people see her and tell her how pretty she looks, how much she’s grown into the beautiful young woman she is now and then they tell me I haven’t change, that I look like I’ve always looked, it makes me feel like no matter how hard I try people will always see me as they’ve always seen me. That I will always be overlooked as long as I’m with her. I’m me and she’s her and she’s always been and always will be the pretty one and it makes me wonder if I just wasn’t made to be pretty at all.

And I hate it because I love my sister. I really do and I hate that I feel jealous whenever she get’s complimented, that I feel uncomfortable when we’re outside together, that I resent her even though I don’t want to.

Gonna start with The song of Achilles cause of the pretty gayyyys. I’ve been told to keep my tissues close because it’s supposed to make me cry. Well, how bad can it be? I’m already dead inside.