I now enjoy wearing my dresses over my light wash jeans to school, even if it means judgment-filled stares in the hallway. For my entire seventeen years on earth, I have been living to avoid those judgment-filled stares, but my life flipped upside down last summer and I started living for myself.
It started off as a very normal summer: filled with sweat, mango popsicles, and boredom. Every day, every meal, every conversation, and every emotion was the same. I would sleep until one and awake in a sweaty fury, with a grumbling tummy and eyes oh so heavy. I would drag myself to the kitchen and munch on dry bran flakes mixed with stale Cheerios. It was like eating sandpaper, but it temporarily cured my hangry attitude. The rest of the day was spent worthlessly tanning, eating melting caramels, and listening to anything but music. My parents were gone for the summer and my nagging brother was shipped away at sleep-away camp, so it was just me and my pitiful identity.
In those weeks, I cried for myself more than anything, and tried revamping my personality and wardrobe in the most shallow ways. I tossed away my love for young Jessica Alba’s fashion taste and became a copycat of Hailey Bieber’s wardrobe. My isolation tactics were drowning me, so I thought I needed cruel advice to fix myself. Weeks went on in this depressive state, and I got used to putting up a glossy smile when running into peers. I mastered the art of small talk and somehow, through phone calls, I manipulated my parents into thinking that I was no longer their mediocre accident but their thriving daughter. It felt good to hide my summer activities, but things got more difficult when I stopped caring.
Slowly the summer tale I told began invoking aspects of sad truth. I felt uninspired to avoid judgment. For the first time, conversations with my parents became frighteningly truthful. Their proud voices dissipated and their embarrassment became strikingly more apparent. While shopping for a date night with myself, I ran into a school “friend” who enthusiastically told me about her picture-perfect summer. After what felt like hours of her rambling, she waited for me to bore her with the details of my picture-perfect summer. But to her surprise and mine, all that came out of my mouth was the truth: “This summer I was depressed and bored.” Just like I thought it would, her face smeared with confusion which quickly turned to judgment. But walking out of that store, I felt no shame.
By forcing myself not to rely on others for influence, I became dependent on my own call to action. Confidence is something that I am still lacking, but for a teenage girl, that is not so surprising. I would say I am only reflecting reality.
It started off as a very normal summer: filled with sweat, mango popsicles, and boredom. Every day, every meal, every conversation, and every emotion was the same. I would sleep until one and awake in a sweaty fury, with a grumbling tummy and eyes oh so heavy. I would drag myself to the kitchen and munch on dry bran flakes mixed with stale Cheerios. It was like eating sandpaper, but it temporarily cured my hangry attitude. The rest of the day was spent worthlessly tanning, eating melting caramels, and listening to anything but music. My parents were gone for the summer and my nagging brother was shipped away at sleep-away camp, so it was just me and my pitiful identity.
In those weeks, I cried for myself more than anything, and tried revamping my personality and wardrobe in the most shallow ways. I tossed away my love for young Jessica Alba’s fashion taste and became a copycat of Hailey Bieber’s wardrobe. My isolation tactics were drowning me, so I thought I needed cruel advice to fix myself. Weeks went on in this depressive state, and I got used to putting up a glossy smile when running into peers. I mastered the art of small talk and somehow, through phone calls, I manipulated my parents into thinking that I was no longer their mediocre accident but their thriving daughter. It felt good to hide my summer activities, but things got more difficult when I stopped caring.
Slowly the summer tale I told began invoking aspects of sad truth. I felt uninspired to avoid judgment. For the first time, conversations with my parents became frighteningly truthful. Their proud voices dissipated and their embarrassment became strikingly more apparent. While shopping for a date night with myself, I ran into a school “friend” who enthusiastically told me about her picture-perfect summer. After what felt like hours of her rambling, she waited for me to bore her with the details of my picture-perfect summer. But to her surprise and mine, all that came out of my mouth was the truth: “This summer I was depressed and bored.” Just like I thought it would, her face smeared with confusion which quickly turned to judgment. But walking out of that store, I felt no shame.
By forcing myself not to rely on others for influence, I became dependent on my own call to action. Confidence is something that I am still lacking, but for a teenage girl, that is not so surprising. I would say I am only reflecting reality.