ᴜɴᴅᴏɴᴇ | ᴅ.ᴍ

𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐘 - 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

I couldn't sleep as I moved to the other side of the bed. Tapping my fingers against the pillow as I drew lines on the outlines of it. Some nights I would pass out immediately and then there were nights when all I could do was stay up and rethink my entire life.

I hated myself for it sometimes. It felt like I was my biggest enemy. I overthink everything so precisely as if it was a test, and one wrong move and it's all over for me. Some decisions I've made out of spite — some at the moment because it felt right, and some because that's where my head led me to.

My mother has always told me that I wasn't capable of doing some things. I hated her for making me feel that way. Worthless? That's how I felt. I hated it. I hated feeling unhelpful, not worthy, and not attractive.

She told me a woman's power was in her beauty. If you weren't beautiful, you had no allure to what power tasted like. I've been given that lecture since I was twelve. Beauty, beauty, beauty. That's all it was about.

Freshly manicured nails, to the perfect blown-out hair. Red lipstick — I hated lipstick, I couldn't stand to put it on. I loved everything else about putting on makeup. From mascara to eyeliner, to a layer of gloss. But lipstick was something I stayed away from.

Not the point. Beauty is everything in my family. If you weren't beautiful, you didn't seem worthy to a man. But what about the attractiveness to their personality, to the sound of their laugh, the way they looked at you, their thoughts about you, and the way they would've done anything for you.

Being attractive is important. I'll say that. I like pretty faces — but they made it seem like it was the only important thing. I'm pretty happy with the way I look right now. I'm happy with it, but I know she'd find ways to fix the small errors.

Growing up I stared at the mirror often. I wanted to be perfect for her. So I was. I scored high in all my academic classes. When I was involved with Quidditch, I was an insanely good keeper, it was my favorite thing.

I wanted to be perfect for her, like a doll.

Until the realization hit that it would never be enough, no matter what I did. No matter how hard I tried, or hard I pushed myself. It just wasn't meeting her standards.

I think part of me was more upset at the fact that my siblings didn't even have to try to seem perfect in her eyes and yet she loved them endlessly. What could be wrong with me? What was something they had that I didn't? I felt unworthy of her love.

I wish that feeling upon no one. The feeling of not being enough for your parents no matter how hard you try. No matter what lengths you go to. No matter what you do for them, it's just not good enough.

It's like you're breaking yourself apart in every way. To prove to them you're all together when you aren't. You're picking yourself up and gluing yourself back together every day like a piece of shredded paper.

Take a plate, and now break it. Then apologize to it for breaking it. Did you realize that purposely breaking a plate and then apologizing wouldn't put it back together? That is how I felt.

I felt like a broken plate, but instead of her mending me — I was mending myself every day to stitch the pieces back in place and was hopelessly failing at it. Then I realized I was putting myself back together in the most hurtful ways ever.

You can't stitch a plate back together, can you?

Failure. I was so afraid of failure.

Especially in her eyes. It terrified me.

It terrified me so much that I began reading to calm everything inside me. Relating to the characters in the words written inside the book brought me peace.