I always thought I was beautiful. Growing up, I don’t remember a single person telling me otherwise. Nobody made fun of my appearance. I wasn’t picked on because I was ugly. Seriously speaking, I don’t think I am. Maybe nobody cared to notice that I look awful, but no one really said anything wrong about me. Physically at least.
Sure, I was never the first choice when it comes to beauty contests. Scrap that! I wasn’t even an option. Boys seemed to be appalled by my mere presence. Girls just didn’t bother. I don’t like make-up; I don’t wear skimpy, sexy clothes; I’m not charming; I’m not exceptionally intelligent. I do not stand out.
I’m not the prettiest but I believe I am beautiful.
Is it weird that I feel like this? Can you call it over confidence? Maybe fantasizing? Hallucinating? And is it unlikely for a teenage girl to love herself and not be insecure?
Should I run to a psychologist just because I’m not relating to what kids my age are going through? I don’t think so.
Don’t get me wrong, other girls are attractive too. They really are! They’re gorgeous! I don’t think of myself highly than anyone else. Because really, I’m not.
I just like me more.
I think my hair falls perfectly unruly; my eyebrows are beautifully thick; my smile exposes my unique dentures; my lips are wonderfully colourless. I
like love that about me.
You see, I’m not beautiful like you. I’m beautiful like me.
I hope that’s OK.