Playing Pretty

“Maybe if I get dressed I will feel better,” I thought to myself.

“Maybe if I do my eyebrows I’ll like my face more,” another thought.

“Maybe if I straighten my hair I’ll look more pretty,” final thought.

Where did these thoughts come from? I’m sitting here drinking coffee (something I’m not supposed to have, but it seems to help) thinking about the past few days. It’s been rather painful. I want to feel good. I want to feel pretty. Currently, I am dressed as normal – make up and fixed hair. True confessions of a broken heart.

The one thing I cannot stand is being compared to other people. I am my own person. I will wear what I want to wear, and I will look up to who I want to look up to. Confrontation hasn’t been the easiest thing for me do ever in my life. I am having mixed emotions about my situation. Do I leave or do I stay put? Is it the change? Am I just having trouble readjusting? I’ve readjusted before, and it was not this hard. Plus, my mom didn’t tell me that she didn’t like me. More of a reason to leave. I feel awkward and unwelcomed in what is ‘home.’

I brought my backpack of clothes to work with me. My dad questioned, “what time are you going to be home?” in regards to the bag I was carrying. I didn’t lie. I simply didn’t know what time I was going to be home. Maybe I won’t go home tonight and maybe I will.

I was speaking with a friend today and the words, “you have to learn to stop letting her manipulate you like this” have never been so taken to heart as they have today. I am ripped in pieces.

I got out of the shower this afternoon and completely fell apart. I haven’t spoken to my mom in two days. Why did I even stay the night she said that? It’s fear. Fear of being blocked out for the rest of my life. Fear of losing contact with my baby brother. Fear of losing a precious friendship with my sister. Fear of the unknown.

Playing pretty only makes for comments at work. You’re supposed to be a pretty waitress. You’re supposed to play pretend. You’re suppose to fake it. Well guess what, I don’t give a damn about what is “expected” of me. I am shattered and quite frankly, I have the right to be real.

There is so much damage. I understand that I have done some unforgivable things. I guess this is how I’m paying for that. So, where do I run? I run to the safest place I know. My Bible. I began to write notes to myself on my mirror. Ones that I hope my mom will one day look at when she wants to see me and realize what she is putting me through.

Playing pretty may get good tips at a restaurant but often an empty heart and shattered soul.


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