Teardrops

Teardrops

My first heartbreak took place at a secluded corner next to a loading bay.

It was not because of a boy. Nothing I have felt ever since could match up to the pure anger, desolation and raw pain that ravaged my soul on that fateful day. Not even when I was jilted by a boy I fancied, or when I received the horrid letter that went “…unsuccessful…”.

It was truth that tore me into tiny little pieces, one that still brings tears to my eyes.

They say you are your own greatest enemy. I can attest to that.

The most painful thing on earth isn’t childbirth or even death. It is the knowledge of oneself. It is the aftermath of decoloring one’s rose-tinted glasses. It is to be confronted with your greatest insecurities and beliefs, and have them proven correct right in front of your bullish face. It is then that you know that you have hit rock bottom.

ωω

I spent the last hour sipping English Breakfast Tea at Coffee Bean while attempting to converse with my friend on phone. Tea calms me, and eases my nerves. I rotate the thin stalk of rose between my fingers, while observing, in dismay, that it has turned yellow due to my attempt at perfuming it. This is my second and final shot. It has to be perfect.

ωω

In a girlish voice, she told me her name: Melody. I told her that her voice sounds absolutely melodious. She was from Choir after all. So was I. We made small talk as we waited next to the eerily empty loading bay, collector to collector. Talking eases nerves too, just like tea. In our hands, we clutch blue books: the programme. We fretted whether he would emerge. The alternative was too terrible to even think.

ωω

My hands are shaking. He is even more perfect in real life. Perfectly chiselled nose, long eye-lashes, a full mouth. He smells heavenly, the scent my love potion would take on if I had one. He smiles, showing perfect teeth. Perfect.

ωω

I ask for Melody’s help for taking a picture. As he leaves, I go to my camera roll. Yet, all I see is a blur. F***. Frantically, I call him back. The picture is shaky, I say. He’s in a rush, and I shake even more. I wonder if he noticed. I must look like a fool, an 18 year old acting like her 15-year-old self. Anyhow, he obliges. He’s in a rush. Melody takes another one for me.

ωω

Fortunately, my parents wanted to go for a spin in my mom’s car while waiting so I could still get a ride back home. How was it, they ask. My voice wobbles, and the brilliantly-lighted Singapore skyline swims in front of me. I shove my phone in front of their faces. Hunched, fat, four-eyed. Ugly.

ωω

Hunched, fat, four-eyed. Ugly.

ωω

Hunched, fat, four-eyed. Ugly.

ωω

(I can write that a million times and still have energy to write more)

ωω

A shrill cry pierces the air. Not a wail, but a sound of anger. Pain. The sound of my heart breaking into a billion pieces, irreparably damaged. Anger, rage then pain. Then rage again. I was so angry, angry at how I look, angry at my fats, angry at my myopia, so angry. Above all, I was so angry at myself for even thinking that I was at least average.

I was angry at being confronted by the truth, of having all my suspicions confirmed, of knowing how I has mislead myself to think that I was passably-constructed.

ωω

I have nothing. I have nothing in terms of looks. There is no quality there.

I will never be the woman a man desires. I will never turn a head. I will never get a job that is somewhat dependent on my looks. I will never be the protagonist of a love-at-first-sight story. I will never be the one. If it’s someone, if it’s someone who gets noticed at a simple retail job, if it’s someone who gets to be the recipient of a crush, if it’s someone who gets to date someone good-looking, it is not me.

It is not as if I never knew that as truth. I knew it, but I just didn’t have the courage to confront it, to come to terms with it, to admit it, officially, to myself. Can’t a girl hold out a little hope? Can’t a girl dream? Can’t a girl try ignore reality for a second?

To hell with those stories of someone for everyone. I don’t just want someone. I want someone I want. But what choice do we hideously-fashioned girls have? Sure, we can desire, we can dream, hope, fantasize even, but we will never be desired back.

I won’t ever be the one.

ωω

In the car, I rage and grieve, over all my unfulfilled dreams, over my disillusionment, over my inadequacy. I still find it difficult to describe these emotions in greater detail. It is too painful for me to write.

My parents remind me that I had better not let this incident affect my IB grades.

ωω

I scoff at that. Grades. Grades? That’s all I have. The only thing that I am decently ok at. (Forgive my colloquiality at this point as this post is morphing into a rant). Since I do not have the looks to achieve any fulfilment whatsoever, I better be good at something else. Like becoming intellectual. Knowledgeable. Something academic. If I don’t have some brains or achievement, then I truly have nothing.

Nobody is going to admire me, or like me, or give me opportunities for my looks. The only way of getting any darned bit of respect is becoming respectable through hard work and my work.

ωω

Soon after, I cut my calories. I did well. But it’s not f******** enough, is it? Still, time and again, I am reminded by my inadequacy, of how I will never be the one, of how it’s still not enough. It doesn’t matter that I enjoy reading the New York Times and the New Yorker. It doesn’t matter that I know how and why South America is split into portuguese-speaking and spanish-speaking regions. It doesn’t matter that I can speak a third language fairly well and carry out daily activities in France while on holiday. It doesn’t matter that I’ve got a witty tongue, or that I can code, or that I can read morse, or that I can play the piano, or that I read a lot, or that I know about patronymic naming or that I can name the capitals of the US states, or that I’ve got a good sense of direction.

I still lose out to people every day. I am still inadequate, not good enough to be liked, not good enough to even inch towards self-actualization.

ωω

I hate my life.

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