variables consistently perfect

I feel kind of gross and preachy sometimes. Like I begin every one of these with “I couldn’t help but wonder..”

That being said, of course I’m gonna write another absolute. Aren’t I charming?

I have never been more sure–not about anything I’ve written–than I am about the following:

The things other people find beautiful about us are not the things we meticulously cultivate in ourselves. 

I’ve read and rewritten that line maybe 50 times this hour. For 49 of those rewrites, I used the word “usually.” That’s both super lame, and a cop-out. Because if I believe in this as strongly as I say, I might as well cut the disclaimers.

I needed it to sound right, though. Because this is my Everest, yeah? Other than perhaps being gratuitously dramatic, that is the most important, hardest-won thing I got for you. 

I am aware that I’m in my mid-(arguably early) twenties. I am aware that my clout is that of a newborn. But. I really am sure about this. 

I’m going to use “we.” Please take this as personally or as hypothetically as you wish. 

The things other people find beautiful about us are not the things we meticulously cultivate in ourselves. 

We want to be able to point to something, consistently, that makes us good enough. That makes us pretty or worthy or lovable or attractive or okay. It’s a lot about identity–but it’s more about being afraid. We are very afraid of not being in absolute control of how we’re being seen.

We want to see ourselves, first, before anybody else does. So we work really fucking hard to make sure that the parts of us we want seen, are without flaw. 

This was my body. This was being skinny–underweight–sick. For me this was being small. I ascribed meaning to my weight–this meaning was identity and safety both. 

I really believed that being thin was what was likeable and attractive about me, and so I worked excruciatingly hard to maintain it. I worked so fucking hard so that people would see that, and that only.

It’s silly and I get it and I really want to talk about it. It’s just that beauty is coming from some other place.

It feels sometimes like I’m doing an experiment: all other variables consistently perfect, what is likeable about me, if anything? And of course, all other factors aren’t perfect, all other variables are careful. 

If every single thing about me is meticulously crafted to fit the urgency I feel, I’m safe to be—safe to be. I don’t know. The rest? What even is that? If what’s left is the girl who is scared so she makes her body small, I don’t know if caution at the outset–as a control–is the right way to conduct this thing. 

What do you find beautiful about someone? Think about that, honestly. GIve it a good think. Because I’ve never said “a perfect looking X, a rippling Y.” 

I’d say, looking sideways at someone as they’re driving. Watching lights pass behind them. Watching them watch something else–the road, a book, my hand. I don’t know. 

I’ve written a lot about compliments–what they hold and what makes them good. Why some stick around. I’d amend what I’ve written in the past, because I was called beautiful in a way that I had nothing to do with. Not something I spend hours every day putting on or taking off. Not something I measure or make bigger or smaller. 

It was, “I love the way you stop using contractions when you’re speaking seriously about something.” 

This makes me cry, still. Because during the time I spent making sure what was being seen, was perfect, this small thing snuck through. And fuck all, it’s become so important to me.

Not because I need to hold really tightly to it, but because. Jesus Christ. Something I didn’t do on purpose is beautiful. 

It wasn’t my body. I was doing it right already.

Take care, you.

x.