Body dysmorphia
You outgrow the ugly duckling but its eyes refuse to leave your sockets, so you never believe the swan feathers are real.
I’m at Othership staring at the backside of an Asian girl with an ass too fat for her ethnicity. Kardashian-washed, it sticks out like a shelf. The fabric of her bathing suit sits perfectly still in her silicone valley because the cheeks don’t even move when she walks. I hate it. I think your procedures should only look as natural as what your parents could’ve given you. But whatever, it’s not my ass, I shouldn’t care. I hope she’s happier now than whatever she was before.
*flashback to 21-year-old me*
I’m lying on my back for what feels like forever, dissociating at the ceiling—not because it hurts, but because I’m terrified of feeling needles under my skin. Dr. S asks if I’m okay and I say, I’m fine, I’m just needle-phobic, and he goes, Don’t worry, we’re almost done (five times). I almost pass out from fear while he jabs my chin again and again like it’s nothing, wiping away the blood that’s oozing from the little holes. Then he hands me a mirror, and my trypophobia flares up when I see the tiny cherry-red spheres sitting on my epidermis, like the cluster eyes of a spider staring back at me (I’m also arachnophobic). I need Novocain for my imagination, not my flesh. His pretty assistant sits beside me, Bambi eyes watching me take 1mL of Juvederm like it’s euthanasia.
I do things like that because I want to be beautiful, by my own standards. Where does one draw the line for what’s invasive anyway? Russian manicures? Hair bleaching? Lash extensions?
Once an ugly duckling, always an ugly duckling…somewhere on the inside. Maybe you were a fat kid, had a weird walk, or just so plain-looking you might as well have been invisible. New appearances don’t get rid of the feeling of ugliness. You may outgrow the ugly duckling but the ugly duckling eyes refuse to leave your sockets, so you never believe your swan feathers are real. When will beauty stop feeling like a costume?
