I just downloaded Meghan Trainor’s album Thank you and I need to tell you that it has been the only item on my playlist for the last couple of days. I even wanted to make a review for it, but quite honestly, I cannot find my words yet. I was particularly intrigued by one song, which is called, just like my title I love me.
Apart from being extremely upbeat and with a really happy vibe to it, I also found it strange. It is a rather sensitive topic to touch, that of loving yourself. I mean, it usually is against the rules to actually love yourself. People believe when they look at someone that they must love themselves, I mean, you live with yourself all your life, who can love you better than you love yourself? If it were so simple…
I know for sure kids up to a certain age love themselves. You’ll never see a kid who always second guesses what he/she does. Kids play together without making big distinctions between each other. They don’t care if they are rich or poor, nor do they see racial, gender, personality distinctions between himself/herself or his/her friends. They are always doing things before thinking them through, without any knowledge of consequence. Then parents start comparing kids. Mine is smarter, mine is prettier, mine is skinnier. Start teaching kids to distinguish between who is their level and who is not, what people they should hang out with and whom they should ignore. This leads to kids discriminating between each other and young people living with certain tags: that person is weird, that person is fat, that person comes from the suburbs, that person is not rich enough, pretty enough etc. And then you start living under a tag. You are not smart enough because a certain teacher told you so, you are not pretty enough because the pretty girls don’t even notice you, and if they do, they torment you.
Somehow, you are not worthy of being, quite frankly, yourself.
If you are not a supermodel since ever, then you’ll never look at yourself as normal. I am familiar with this, as I’ve lived as the fat kid in the family most of my life and I’m only now learning how to love myself. I need realize who I am now and how what I look like when I’ve lost weight. I lost 32 kg in three or so years and every time I looked in the mirror or went out, I could not realize what I’ve actually done to myself. It is as if I wasn’t wired to see what I was actually in the mirror. I didn’t even feel a sort of surprise at seeing how far I’ve come. I’m down one size of jeans, it’s fine by me. That was me, a number on a price tag, a number in a competition of sorts with normality. I had to get to normal, I had to be first. But really, how can you have a hint of a six pack from working out extensively and a relatively balanced eating and not actually acknowledge what you’ve come to achieve? That gave me a whole meaning to I don’t know how I am, not just physically, but also emotionally.
Meanwhile, I gained a greater part of that weight back because I skipped working out. I always return to it sometimes, though. It relaxes me. But exercise in itself is ostracized in my mind. I remember all those times in which my mom urged to go, take another lap around the house or go take a walk or do some form of exercise, and not just sit there, playing, reading, whatever. I remember every time I was called fat, or plump or whatever they do to sweeten it. I remember the dread of going out with my bike and feeling like all eyes were on me and on my drooping body. And I realize, some scars are there and will always be there, but the good part is with a lot of work, I could let them go and finally, FINALLY, breathe.
I think everybody should come to this conclusion: comparisons will never bring any good to any of the parts involved in it.
It is scary for me to think now that I was unawares of myself for most of high school, a time in which I supposedly living the dream of being normal. That normal did not feel real. Damn, this normal does not feel real either. So, my guess is my real is somewhere in between. Forget tiny clothes and some sort of sick pride in being skinny as a wooden stick. I’ll never be that. And it’s not because I’m lazy, it’s because of freakin’ bone structure and DNA. I will never be tiny unless I chop some bones of. I will start jogging again soon, since it’s May and warm (and probably write something about it). Prior to that I did mat exercises in my dorm, but let’s just say it’s not pleasant from now on. I can do whatever I want, if I just will myself into doing something and be motivated enough to do it.
But how do you care for something you mostly have mixed feelings for? Can I heal myself if I don’t love myself? Can I surpass the mental obstacle that’s been building up for years? It never seems to go away, as much as I wish it did. As much as I wish I could see in the mirror what I truly am, not some fantasy, still can’t. I can’t find the slightest bit of energy to drop every misconception about me at once.
On another note, we, people in general, are hypocrites for supporting this modesty bullshit. When someone gives us a compliment, we cannot say I already knew I was pretty, I already knew I was smart, I already knew I am a bunch of beautiful things. No. You need to lower your gaze, smile timidly and say: Oh, really? I cannot believe you have noticed I’m not a complete moron. Damn, you cannot be happy that you made some progress into something new (for me, interpreting), because something is gonna dawn on you, someone is gonna make you wish you hadn’t rejoiced. This coming from people who discreetly shove their accomplishments in your face, covered in modesty. This goes to such an extent, you no longer notice progress. You no longer see what that extra walking is doing to your booty, how good your speaking has become, how you chose your words better and sent a stronger message, because supposedly, if you do, you’re not gonna work anymore, and settle. Perhaps, but to what end do I invest my whole will on something I cannot even see? To what end do I get better if to me, I’m nothing, never enough?
Several weeks ago and after a near-nervous breakdown in February, I decided to start doing something different: to start doing things for me. To nourish me. To cherish me. To love me. As I’ve probably never done before. I rejoice, I victory-dance, I dare admit to myself that if I’m still standing, there must be something good in me that I can give to the world. At the bottom of my heart, I wish I had done it sooner, but somehow, I feel for the first time that I can make up for lost time and bad damage control. nONo wonder this song rang a bell; it is perhaps the sound of my own self, finally waking up from an age of so many things who went wrong, but from which I always came out right.