Ramadan Journal '17 | Week Two

I swallow apologies like pills.

Sorry I'm not good enough.

Sorry I'm not pretty enough.

Sorry I'm not smart enough.

One. Two. Three. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

They catch in my throat, cutting off the air supply, my blood turning blue, flooding with insecurities, doubts and the inescapable knowledge that I am not enough.

I swallow apologies like pills.

Sorry I'm awkward.

Sorry I'm not funny or charismatic or desired company.

Sorry I take up too much space.

One. Two. Three. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

They remain lodged there, trapped in my windpipe, choking the air out of me as they smother the wisp of worth tethered to my existence.

Plump lips and luscious hair, sharply angled cheekbones, curves in just the right places...a chiseled jawline, beautiful eyes, fair skin; the conventional checklist for the perfect man or woman as defined by books, movies and social media. It's almost laughable, how low self-esteem drags us to feeling as worthy as a rag doll in a banged up warehouse, simply because we look in the mirror and every flaw is heightened, every blemish registers and grinds our confidence to a pulp, making us feel like we are way off base from society's expectations of what we should look like. Why is it so easy to be swept up by the unattainable, impossible notions of beauty presented to us by the mainstream media, to want to become some ethereal beauty - and desire a significant other who can only look like a model with not a flaw in sight. When did we start brushing off the finer qualities, dismissing the rare value of a soft heart and a gentle tongue. When did we become so materialistic, the eyes only seeking out wealth and status and flawless physical beauty, blind to blackened hearts and toxic character. When did we stop caring about our internal beauty.

It used to tear me apart, this idea that I'm not pretty enough. My insecurities are destructive beyond measure and sometimes, I wonder why I ever thought I'd grow out of them when they only seem to be intensifying with time. But it's almost like I've gotten used to them being there; they sit quietly at the back of mind, constantly humming in the background, their presence never tiring or failing to let me know that they're there. Where once I was hyper-aware that I will never be as pretty or beautiful as xyz, I am now hyper-aware that my soul is as blemished and scarred as the reflection that stares back at me in the mirror. Sometimes, I realise just how much I'm not pleased with the person I am...I question the worth of my character, the state of my internal mechanics that are whirring away to which the rest of the world is blind and my wish to change so much of my exterior appearance once upon a time was made obsolete by the desire to change myself. To purify my heart, soul and mind...to just become the best version of myself, a version worthy of the individuals who share my life - in both transitory passing and through permanent ties - not because of a pretty face but simply because of who I am.