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Insecurities

Writers_Writing

“Confidence is only a layer of protection built up by fragments of insecurities glued together by the horrors of what’s real in the mind.” – E.T.D Casterton

Does this make sense? Probably not. But does anything really make sense? Does the reason you make slurs without realisation of offence make sense? It is only when you ask these questions of yourself, that you think about your words.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never…”

No.

Words do hurt. I don’t care who says they don’t. They do. You may have the strongest and thickest skin that’s impenetrable, but there is always a hole that hasn't been stitched up. Always a weak point in your armour that a tiny word can fit through and stab you with a freshly sharpened knife; my blood starts to pour at your feet.

I hope it swallows you up.

The scars on my face are not so deeply entrenched that they pierce my personality.

They represent the battle I had to go through with myself. The time where my body screams out: “I’m challenging you.” Am I strong enough?

Strong enough to fight the ocean deep of ice-cold anxiety that is poured all over my naked body.

No one is there with a towel to keep me warm.

I must find it myself.

Until I do, I am left outside. In the cold and completely alone battling a fight I didn’t pick because they came after me.

It is not my fault.

Despite what you say:

“Dirty”

“Disgusting”

“Ugly”

You throw these words at me and then act surprised that I am offended. You say you can look past it, but I watch your eyes grow wide and wild when you look at me for the first time. You gulp and swallow your tongue, before faking an imperfect smile.

People need to learn:

“Don’t be the reason someone feels insecure. Be the reason someone feels seen, heard, and supported” – Cleo Wade

My acne is not what defines me. It is all those around that choose to identify me only by the disfigurement on my skin.

They are layered upon my face like an alien army ready to reap a new war. I am the Other to your Self, put here by definitions and categories that I didn’t have a say in creating.

But you picked me up with your cursor and dragged me to this category. A category that you would have placed in your trash folder on your computer.

But I don’t belong there.

I am on the rise to prove you wrong.

Prove my personality will always prevail when you talk of the skin on my bones. I understand that it is not perfect. But I am okay with that.

Too many people are so concerned with perfection. But what’s the point? It is so difficult not to want to be perfect—be that perfect partner, friend, and family member. But we are here to make mistakes, and if you don’t, how can you expect to grow? What downfall can you expect to pick yourself back up from if there isn’t one? The people around you will, and they will grow above you to be the person they were made to be; free.

“Freedom is a state of mind.”

Once we have accepted our own errors we are, in a sense, free. Void of the brain pressuring anxiety that we place on ourselves because we are trying to be perfect for you. But that’s not going to happen. I don’t have to be perfect for you, just like you don’t have to be perfect for me. There is no expectation of perfection; it is your imperfections that make me love you.

It is these imperfections that make you so perfect. A perfect imperfection; how ironic.

So, yes. I have scars deeply entrenched on my skin. But they do not pierce my personality. They do not affect the man I have and will continue to become. They are a part of me. They tell a story on the surface, yet have meanings dangling from the inside.

You will not define me by the scars upon my face.

I will not be placed into a category in which I don’t belong.

It is okay not to be perfect.

I am not perfect.

But I love that.

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