Britney

1. I look in the mirror every day and feel my hatred swell more and more for what looks back. Every time this happens, I feel a pang of guilt: The way I see myself was something that constantly brought my mother grief, and I don’t want to betray her, but I can’t help it. The reasons for this lie on a spectrum: Some days, I just flat-out hate how I look, and avoid seeing myself at all costs. Other times, I am not enough of something. I curve in odd places; my breasts are too small; my nose is too big. Or, my hair is too long and my face is too feminine for anyone to think of me as anything but a girl, my clothes are too telling, or not loose enough. I don’t understand these polar opposites, or the inability to ever feel content as myself. Nothing makes much sense. As I grow, my dislike for myself becomes more complicated. 

2. I wish I could be more reckless, even for a day. That’s always been an issue of mine—the avid attention paid to routine and staying in my comfort zone. It is even harder now that there is nothing stable to fall back on. Freshman year wasn’t the best, but I am constantly envious of all of the privileges I had then: a mother to come home to, the ability to do certain things with an air of carelessness that I barely possess now. 

3. I understand nothing. I constantly am confused by what my life is, and what 2014 was, and why anything is happening, especially this. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. My guidance counselor calls my repetition of certain phrases and lines therapeutic. It feels like a release, but not a balm of any sort. 

4. I find it funny that all of this is happening, and yet I am simultaneously falling more and more in love with the girl I’ve mentioned countless times before. She is one of the very few solid reasons that I am happy to be alive, and I mention her every week, but that is because I can never fully stress how amazing she is and how strongly I feel about her in one entry. Even writing about her now makes me smile despite myself. Besides my mom, she is probably the only person that I have loved unconditionally. It’s so strange to think about, but in the best way possible. She reminds me of something that my mother wrote about me, when I was younger: “I love her more than anything else.” ♦