My past insecurities have largely been my looks and my writing. The way I overcame them was learning how to get over myself. I also realized that no one else really cares about these things the way I do, nor will they ever. That realization is quite freeing.

I have ended my struggle with physical vanity by accepting that I look like my native ancestors, whom I have always admired. Why would I ever want to look like anyone else? The need to alter some perceived physical “flaw” seems silly, shallow, and somehow disrespectful.

As far as my writing goes… it is an expression of myself and how I view the world and others. Right or wrong, it is an extension of myself; I own it. I don’t write for the approval or acceptance of anyone. I bare my soul is an exercise in personal growth. There is a distinct discomfort that comes with sharing and I have come to welcome it.

Anytime I feel pride rear up, an internal warning light flickers on:

Get Over Yourself.

I feel insecure in how I exist overall. Like at some point, my puzzle pieces fit right but then one day I undid it, and I haven't been able to put it back together since. Every step feels like a decision, and like I've made the wrong one each time.

Ideally, I could have two left feet and go in every direction at once. I could stay and go at the same time. I could be myself and entirely not at the same time.

When I'm with my dog I feel right. When I'm in dance class I feel right.

I feel wrong when I'm at work. I should be working towards something impactful, and I don't.

I feel wrong when I'm with friends, not always but a lot. I don't feel like I'm there. I'm a vessel to listen and react. My personhood doesn't matter there.

I feel wrong at home because it isn't my home. I can't be.

Maybe, I'm not disorganized internally, maybe I am disconnected from me because there is little avenue for my personhood to come out and explore. I keep waiting for someone to ask me something to make me. Like an invitation? How strange.

Forgive the rambling. This was truly an internal exercise and I thank you for the space.

A man had himself some savings. He invested as he thought best in the given moment. He tied much emotion into those decisions and carried his doubts with him like a small fortune. He had been told to put away for those rainy days, and again to make his talents grow.

He met a lady on a street corner, a vendor of baubles. She was old and weary. She said, "if you have Time, you spend it," as he paused over her useless sparkling wares with their arbitrary price tags, reflecting neither material nor labor.

She gave him a substantial bauble because he gasped that it was his birthday, when he asked her if it was Monday or Tuesday, and what Time? and she answered it was Saturday the 23rst of September, the beginning of Fall.

He was so surprised that he dropped it, and the glass shattered beneath the cart. To his embarrassment, she sauntered out, with all the folds of her skirts and belly, right then, to take the shards into a metal dustpan.

"I'm so sorry," he stammered seeing that he was still clumsy at 70 as at 7.

She smiled with every enviable wrinkle holding up her kerchiefed forehead. Not a trace of annoyance passed.

"I will melt this glass into a new bauble, with new particles of sand. It will be the 156th incarnation. It is stronger and more beautiful every time."

He hesitated unsure of his impulse. The work tent was right next to the cart.

"You'd like to see it done?"

That was when he realized the heat that emanated from that back quarter, the workshop.

They stepped around the white painted wooden wagon, into the tarpaulin structure that was essentially a teepee allowing coverage from the elements and a hole in the roof top for smoke to rise out.

She set to the task of heating the glass in the fire and dipping it into the pipe, finally beginning to blow out a steady breath that stretched the liquid into a solidifying form, spherical as she exhaled, and then expertly cut it with a tool of metal.

The globe was already pleasant to the touch, and she lowered it into his waiting hands, warm to his callouses. He cradled the bauble like a newborn, in awe of the perfect imperfections of foreign particles not fully burnt out in the process. He shuddered involuntarily. It was even more beautiful than before.

It was a birthday to remember.

He thought he'd come back tomorrow. Buy something, properly, but when he came back confidently, at the same time, the wagon and the bauble woman had gone.

He gave the bauble and the story to his grandson saying,

"If you have Time, son, spend It."

Growing up in times like these its so easy to forget that you don't have to look like everyone. At the age of 4 and up my mother would make sure my hair was always slicked back with a bow and dressed as nice as her, it may not seem like a problem to many I mean who wouldn't want there kid looking nice, but she used to say how much of a mess I looked if I never dressed up I was 7 who could ever say that to a 7 year old especially when they are your own kid. Yet she would always compliment other kids even though they looked like me. From there it moved onto "you need to lose weight when I was your age, I was a size 6 in my teen years and was that size when I was 20 years old". She was always so quick to judge she never knew the damage she was causing. I was at the point where I wish I could cut off the disgusting fat that lays upon my body. I would tell people I wish I was skinny like her and I would think to myself how I wish I could see my ribs because at least then I wouldn't be told to lose weight by her and only her someone who I looked up too because I thought that she would love me then. Now that I am 17 I'm barely starting to love myself as a person because, no I am not overweight, and no just because I don't wear bows or slicked back hair doesn't mean I look a mess. Sometimes I struggle to love myself because who could ever love someone who has stretch marks, and cellulite. But then I think back to how I felt as a kid and think, I could love myself with every flaw and imperfection that I hold because those marks are what makes me who I am. I don't need to be skinny and I don't need to have a small waist, I am comfortable in the skin I wear and I love my being as a whole.

Insecurities I see most often in people are about their physical appearance. Although this was something I don't personally struggle with, one main insecurity I struggle with the most, and still to this day, are my skills in general. And if I wanted to elaborate on what type of skills, it would be about my writing skills.

Sometimes, I think my writing skills did a great job touching other people's heart. Sometimes, I felt confident, knowing that this was something I loved to do. I loved to write. Every day at about seven in the morning, I would sit down on my desk and open my computer to continue to write my book - a personal side project that was especially important to me. I would let the screen illuminate my face and just let my fingers glide through the keyboard. My average of 80 WPM made it even better for me to just watch my document go from empty to hundreds of pages within months. And my eyes would light up every time I created a gut-wrenching quote off the spot. I was proud of myself.

You see, that was the problem. The key word here: Was. I was proud.

And then I wake up, suddenly unable to type a sentence in my document. Suddenly, I doubt my own skills, convincing myself that this was a waste of time. This was all a waste of time. Why the hell am I wasting my time creating fictional characters that somehow had a better life than I do? And then at the moment, all I wanted to do was shut my computer and never open it again. It was all a waste of time. Suddenly, my creativity was wiped away. Suddenly, I didn't know how to put my thoughts into words. Suddenly, I was just... empty.

And then I asked myself, "How did I even get myself into the habit of writing and actually enjoying it?"

And the answer? I don't even know. Because my thoughts convinced myself that it all came from luck. Everyone was praising me because they wanted to be nice, not because I was actually good at writing. This won't get me into my future because this wasn't a real job, and I needed to do something that was worth my time.

I was a fraud. I was a fraud this whole time. This wasn't me at all. The real me wouldn't even get out of bed for the sake of writing. This was all an act. And back then, I couldn't trust anyone who gave compliments to me because this must secretly be a backhanded compliment and in reality, they actually hate what I'm doing.

I doubt my writing skills. A lot. I wasn't good enough. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I overworked myself to write, the problem was that I didn't try harder to feel happy for what I was doing. I wasn't proud of myself.

Key word: Wasn't. I wasn't proud of myself.

I eventually overcame that insecurity of mine, at least for a little bit. I started to believe what people say to me when they give compliments about my writing. I started to feel confident in my writing again. I started to think, Yeah. Maybe this wasn't a waste of time.

How could this be a waste of time if writing saved me from self-infliction?

I was self-inflicting myself for bringing myself down, knowing damn well that my thoughts were just telling me lies so I could feel miserable about myself.

Sometimes, I feel confident. And other times, I feel miserable.

But at the end of the day, writing still saved me.

I'm not the type of person who desperately needed someone to drop everything they have to save me when I was at my lowest. Because that isn't their job.

In the end, the only person who could truly save me - is myself.

I was insecure about my writing.

Maybe I still am. Maybe I'm not.

But in the end, no matter how much I wanted to quit,

I kept going.

I'm proud of myself.

No past tenses this time. No key words.

Because I know I am proud.

And I mean it this time.

8:53 P.M.

I was spent, somewhere between tomorrow and today, struggling to keep my wits about me. My mind was flirting with some finicky belief about destiny and all the things that weave me into it as the conversation rolled on into the bleak afternoon where I knew nothing would bloom from this more than a few tickled words at the back of my neck and disdainful glares at how pompous I probably was for not being aware of my place.

And I knew my place, I just didn't fucking care to cater to a bunch of unctuous, lily-livered, sanctimonious geese that prayed on my demise. Yet, here I was, making friendly with them where my husband believed that I was 'friends,' when I was trying to give them every sense of the reason to believe me to be boring and lackluster, even if they'd try to stir something nasty up about me post factum.

Women.

I ran my tongue along my teeth, shoving down the gully of sweat that was beginning to seep into my hands, brows, and chafe the underside of my breasts where bras lie and other discomforts, but we're not here to discuss the discomforts of my womanhood today.

"Donna said herself that she saw you walk outside, throwing the food bank food straight into the garbage when you got home," Clara remarked.

"I'm sure she did," I answered. "What she doesn't understand though, is that if she came to me and asked me why I had to toss it, she'd also know I had to go straight down to another food bank the following day for the milk, eggs, and cheese I had been given from another. All of them were rancid. I couldn't eat them and give them to the kids. They were rotten."

"Oh that's terrible."

"I know. I felt bad, but I also lost all that gas driving out to that food bank she told me about. They didn't mention that the milk might be curdled. Most of it wouldn't come out of the jug. I tried to pour my son a glass and it was all chunks."

Clara made a gagging noise at that, to which I had to refrain from smiling. Let that teach that sniveling witch, Donna, to stalk me out front my own home. She knew about when I came back, so I know she's stalking me now. The lady lived in the next town over. What business was it to her of my comings and goings and throwing rancid food bank items out within the hour of returning home with them? Honestly!

My attention redirected to Clara who was making pleasantries with me. Ones I couldn't tell if they were genuine or fake, and that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end and my arms prick with gooseflesh. I wasn't sure if I should be putting up my next façade, but the next words out of Clara's mouth hardly surprised me.

"You should put her out for that, you know? Tell the whole neighborhood. She's been shaming you behind your back, telling the neighbors not to help you. That'll you'll just waste anything given and beg for more."

"She said that?" I asked, feigning more shock. I mean, I was shocked, but not that shocked. I was more worried about the stalking, but I knew Clara loved to gossip from what I heard, but some of the sources that told me that had their... moments too. I wasn't sure if this was what women were supposed to be. It was scary, terrifying even. Stabbing each other in the back, talking shit, and then putting each other down to the neighbors. Fuck. I was really in for it if I said anything otherwise. The whole neighborhood would be in an uproar and I didn't want any part of that.

"She did. In fact, she went to Denise's party at her house-"

"House party?"

"Oops. I thought you knew."

"I didn't. I guess Denise doesn't like me too much."

"Well, her and Donna were talking about you a portion of the time. Talking about the whole thing with Donna helping you and the food bank."

"And Denise didn't say anything to me about that. Neither of them did." I couldn't help the disappointment oozing from my voice. It was hard to refrain and play dumb. My feelings were hurt and I'm sure Clara was delighting in seeing the disdain in my expression, but this felt no different than high school, only a little worse. We were adults and Denise and Donna were more than ten years my senior. Should I have even ever bother trusting a woman older than me if they were going to take me for a ride? Was this how my father felt with my mother before they subsequently separated? Fuck. I wasn't sure, but I was hating every moment of it.

"Really? Huh. Strange. I mean, Denise and Donna recently made up it seems."

"I'm glad they did," I said thickly. I turned the subject back to Clara's gossiping, to let her get it all out. I knew she wanted to and she was just baiting me with crumbs, hoping I'd eat it up. "What were they fighting about anyway?"

"Well, Donna gave Denise a gift and crashed her previous party."

"Crashed it? How? Like, was she not invited or something?"

"No. She wasn't apparently. She had planned a party that day at the same time for Denise, for Denise, and got quite livid when Denise didn't take to that and went along with her own party."

Nice. I couldn't help feeling sarcastically bitter about that. Like I was seeing a fucking pattern begin, but I kept my mouth moving so I didn't alert Clara to my wit. "And they've made up for it now?"

"I guess," Clara gleamed, smiling heartily. "It started a whole outpour of new party plans by Donna. She can't help herself, you know? Inserting herself in and making plans on others behalf."

"I suppose not. It sounds like they might have a fallout again, but I hope not. I'm glad they get along." I was exhausted trying to play along at this point and my eyes were turning away. My mind was fixing elsewhere, on how I might board the fucking windows up of my rental. How I might shutter the blinds and close out from anymore of these gossips and their... distaste for me. A shudder rocked through me as I glanced at my phone. "Oh, it's almost time for me to pick up my son."

"Oh, don't let me keep you then!"

"Right. Sorry, Clara. Anyway, if you want to... You're more than welcome to join me at the banquet up at Ruston Point. It's supposed to be a small gathering and I'm putting my acrylic painting up. If you can't go, no big deal."

"I'll try," Clara told me, smiling back at me widely, though the twinkle in her eye told me she wouldn't. I don't know, something told me she was talking as much shit about me as Denise and Donna. My stomach twisted. They all fucking hate me anyway, why drag me in? Why? For fucking entertainment? I smiled, waving to her as I went to my car and we exchanged a few minor pleasant words as I started it up. My throat was tightening up, my heart clenched, and I drove off, forcing back the tears.

"How fucking embarrassing. I'm a laughing stock and no one bothered to even ask me my side. God. I hate this town." I couldn't wait to move again, to place myself even further from them, because being under a microscope like this was suffocating and I refused to let my esteem be any more of a spectacle than it already was. I wasn't their entertainment, and I wasn't going to dance to any old rag time show for them any longer.

It's not like I'm head over heels in love with my body now. I just see it as itself. I see all the squishy bits and think how fluffy it all is. All soft and warm and jiggly. I think the dissociation helped. There was a period of time where I was sort of not here to a severe level. Course, I might be wrong about the term I use to call it but my definition is mine to place in the end. My body used to look so alien to me. I'd look in the mirror and my face and skin would warp. Not too hard, just gently, gently, little blurs of "that doesn't look like me" or "why does it look so different from yesterday". Still happens once in a while, not that it matters really. I've been fat for quite a bit of my life. For me, personally, it's a mix of genetics, a deeply adoring love of food and a lack of interest in exercise. And I dunno. After so many years of telling myself bullshit and hating myself for being the jiggly giantess I am... Why bother anymore? Why do things any way I think others prefer? The shit people have done to me in my life... My own family, sef. Why bother about their opinions at all? Don't get me wrong. I get those rushes of "your body's not good enough" once in a while. There was recently a week where my roommate, friend, father, mother and brother made different random comments about weight-related shit and it all kept drilling into me I suppose. "You're a hundred kg? No, you're not". "I'd never want a big tummy, that's embarrassing". "What's your weight, daughter?" while walking down the stairs to eat dinner. I tried the whole eating disorder thing. And luckily, it didn't stick, as disappointed as that little fourteen year old child was that she was incapable of losing weight the "quicker" ways. I've seen the steps it takes to get rid of fat. Eat so and so foods. Intermittent fasting. Cut so and so out of your diet. Excercise, excercise, excercise. In my opinion, some people who lose weight are happier for it. And some are miserable. Some people spend years cutting down and being careful and skipping pizza and icecream to match the standards of society today. Personally, I don't see a problem with my size in itself. Like Lizzo I can move around.. Well not as amazingly but yeah, I can carry myself like everyone else. Me having a soft, protuding tum is just... Normal. It's easy to feel like a weird outsider when you're fat but.. I'm not. There's millions of us. Myb billions, it doesn't matter either way. Different sizes and shapes and soft <3 beauty standards do what they've always done and tear people down. I simply chose to keep myself afloat. I lost like... 25 kg once. I went to university and was severely depressed for six months. People praised me. You look so good. See the problem? And I get it. I do. Sometimes the urge to be thin still comes. They want you to have a big chest, big hips and small stomach as a woman. At least that's the standard now... Once, it was thigh gaps. In some countries they still chase that, actually. Truth is... It's not real. Doesn't exist. It's never been about health. It's about appearance for most weight loss crazes. Society's obsessive streak of making everyone feel out of control. I don't subscribe to it. I don't even know what I just typed, it's all gone. I don't think I feel serious about anything anymore. I used to push myself so hard as a child to be my idea of "perfect" based on what I'd seen. Slim and brilliant and excessively polite. An extrovert with enough friends to be "normal". But I'm not that. Some people are. Cool. I'm not that. I'm me. I've got a big, soft tum that's... Nice, actually. Protruding, yes, but does nothing to me except cushion me and sit there, causing zero harm. Unlike when I tried to carve the word FAT into it with a compass as if that word is some sort of horrific insult that would stain my soul forever. Fat is just a thing that I am. A concept that exists. It's not even real, really. Some animals are fat by nature like... Fuck, I dunno... Seals? Hippos? Depending on ur definition of fat but yeah?? And some are... Simply not. Everything has its options in nature. And if it doesn't exist there, the mind is capable of imagining and creating whatever you wish. It would be boring and stupid if we all looked the same. Besides, I've found tons of fat people attractive, larger and smaller than me both and I'm just as human as they are. So...this was long. And I didn't want to paragraph anything because I wanted to let go of control and also let this shit be CHONKY. Like I said... I'm not serious rn, just wanna goof off.. If anyone reads this, vibes. If not... Can't blame ya either ;)

And scene. Bye boo~