We all belong to the ones born to fly; the only difference was that the larvae of my mother grew into a moth while the ones of others fluttered around as vibrant, colorful butterflies. It’s easy to say that we are all of the same species yet my experiences taught me differently, they make me darker and heavier than what I actually am. My reflection is my worst nightmare; my shape and color are my worst foes, and I bet that they are to every girl of my kind.
I can hardly believe the inner beauty paradigm. My life is more than anecdotal proof to the fact that men love women who are beautiful. The beautiful ones are bestowed with a lovely gift from heaven, in their world the sun always shines and nobody, but I, knows how it feels to be sought after and to be looked at with admiration. When I strut by the streets, either eyes fail to catch me or they look at me with a streak of sarcasm in them. There have been many times when people use my name when they describe despicable and “ugly”. And even in class, a few guys refuse to sit next to me or pair up with me during lab. (They remember me when they need my notes though!). So, from my life I have understood that ugliness is a social stigma like homosexuality, I have to either live with it or have a nip tuck job.
There was a time when I had a man by my side; he was so perfect that his hands wouldn’t reach each other when he encircled his arms around my waist. The last time I saw him, he looked into my eyes and told me,Â “You are beautiful.” My eyes grew watery and my hands pushed his chest away. The world had made me think something different. Either it would only take time for him to recover from his blindness or I didn’t want to be lied to.
This is my world and it is made of beautiful butterflies who cry over a messy hair day or a gain of a few kilograms. Each time I hear their qualms, I can’t stop myself from thinking that I could spend my entire life enumerating what should be changed in me. Our standards of beauty have made the butterflies go on a starvation (called diet) while we, the moths, gorge on depression. Some of those colorful ones derive satisfaction by looking down upon us, the less colorful ones.
Who is to blame? Is it God who created us with so much of disparity? Or is it the media that photoshops the common women to make them look wonderfully “normal”, or is it the parents who fail to teach their children manners, or is it the man who invented the mirror? But who actually bothers, when there are so many larger problems to care about? When all my pressure mounts up, I might just jump off a bridge and the world would call me a “depressed for nothing” creature.
But I do not want to do so; hence I write this epistle to all you beautiful ones. I guess, the next time you would think about me twice, if not before, at least after calling a moth “ugly” or cribbing about your little imperfections,”