the scumbag diaries

Twenty

I am twenty years old today.

I smoked at two a.m. today.

I threw up at three a.m. today.

I woke up smelling like an ash tray today.

I am so sad today.

beautiful 

Last night it really hit me.

I am not beautiful.

I am not beautiful and I am learning to be okay with that. But it is so so hard. It is so hard to know there is nothing I can do that will change my actual appearance.

I can work out, which I am trying to start. I can eat cleaner, which I am trying to start. I can do a lot of things. But it will not change the fact that I am not beautiful.

I want to be more. I want to not care. I want to know that I am not beautiful and accept that. I want to love myself for every flaw that I see. Every mark and sag. Every misplaced hair and crooked tooth.

But right now I can’t.

I keep watching Saoirse Ronan in Little Women delivering her “I’m so sick of it” monologue. Every word she says reminds me of myself. But in different ways. In that, at this point in my life, I’m one of those people that believes all a woman, me, is fit for is love and beauty. I don’t want to believe that. I want to be more than that.

I know that I want to be more than that.

“But I’m so lonely.”

That’s the scary part.

Because even if I could get over the “I’m not beautiful” thing. I’d still end up lonely.

And the thing is. People will say, “Looks aren’t everything.”

They definitely aren’t. But they are something.

It’s how it all starts.

And I want to be content with being alone. I’m not even twenty years old yet. I have a whole life to live but I truly, truly cannot see how someone could love me.

And maybe that’s what it all comes down to. I have nothing to offer. And I want to believe that I am more than just a man’s next meal waiting to be devoured but oh my God, I can’t. Because that is what I’ve been taught for the last twenty years and I can’t unlearn it. Or at least, I haven’t yet. And it hurts.

I am not beautiful.

I don’t know what to do about it. Because beauty is how you become something. Anything.

I am not beautiful: physically, mentally, vocally.

Nothing I do, nothing that I am is beautiful.

My face, my body.

The way I think.

What I say, how I speak.

Fuck. I am not beautiful.

The best thing about me is that I am submissive. That I am shy and timid.

But I don’t want to be.

I want to be loud and confident and not care about what others have to say about me. But I will never be that girl.

I will never be the first girl in the room. I will always be an after thought.

Something you wouldn’t even notice if it wasn’t there.

I want to be more than what I look like.

But at the rate I’m going. I don’t think I will. And that kills me.

I want to have ambition and hopes and dreams and hobbies.

I want to read because I want to. I want to paint for myself. I want to watch movies. I want to eat good food. I want to love my life and who I am.

And that is all so good.

But people always want what they can’t have. And I could have all of those things if I let myself.

But what I cannot have is love. Someone that loves me for me. Who looks at me and thinks I’m beautiful. And thinks that everything I do is magic. Who wants to spend the rest of his life with me. I want that.

But I don’t think I’ll ever get it.

People want what they cannot have.