Obviously, I believe in insecurities. I have to; it’s a nervous tick of mine. An unaccounted for, nervous tick of mine. It’s my detrimental remedy. It’s the doubt in my mind, the blood chasing through my veins, the tear trickling down my blemished cheek. It’s the reason I grow older.
There was once a time when I was oblivious to insecurities. That was before I read my sisters diary, before I knew how to be sneaky, before I wore makeup, before I was twelve. My sister was dating a boy, really the boy. The hotshot, if you will. He taught me how to be sneaky and she taught me how to wear makeup.
Sometimes my mom would send me on spying adventures. In other words, I was my more in the same, wooden, bedside table. But this time, I was home alone. There was no one to catch me invading her high school privacy. This time her diary was doodled with hearts and misshapen, im’s extra pair of eyes that made sure my sister and hotshot weren’t “too close” on the couch.
And sometimes I would go on my own adventures. My favorite was to take hotshot’s fuzzy plaid boxers out of his brand new, Chevrolet truck and hang them from our brand new, 10 ft basketball goal.
Eventually, boxer throwing and make-out catching got old. My sister was a source of excitement in my life, but I grew numb to the usual, everyday occurrences. So, I snooped.
I knew where her pink, $7.99 diary was. I had found it befombalanced Yin-Yangs. Typical.
I turned it to a random page in the middle. I figured that’s where I would find the juiciest stuff, like them holding hands. But when I looked down, I could see emotions bleeding off the page. I could hear all her crying. It was a gut-wrenching feeling. For the first time, I felt her insecurities. She was too fat, too lonely, too young, and too in love with hotshot to even love herself.
After I read her diary, I found myself in the bathroom, studying my face in the mirror. Tears began to roll down my face. I was ugly. I was never going to fall in love. I was never going to smoke my first cigarette with my hotshot boyfriend. I was stuck as an eleven year old.
I know I have more to be ashamed of because I let people see more of me. But since my diary reading days, my insecurities have carried me to the far reaches. I choose to be a free-spirited girl, not a perfectly put together seventeen year old. People pick me apart, but in exchange I breathe what is real. The way I see it, I have size ten canoes for feet and I have a shrill laugh, but at least I don’t fall as much and at least I’m still laughing.
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