Beautiful.

There are at least three models at my school alone.
Three that I know of since I saw their photos and sat in awe barely whispering "beautiful" from the way the sun hit their high cheek bones and even higher hips that root their long legs shadowing beauty.

Belleza is beauty in Spanish. 

Belle is pretty girl in Italian.

Pretty girl is the last haunting line we receive from Addy in American Horror Story Season One.

American Horror Story? Please. That is beauty.

No matter how high my heels are or how short my dress is, I still struggle with the concept of beautiful. What does it mean to be beautiful? 

"You deserve someone who tells you you're beautiful everyday" he said to me

"Did anyone tell you you're beautiful?"

No. That morning when he asked me, no one had told me I was beautiful. But does someone really have to tell me I'm beautiful to believe it? Is it someone's validation that we're looking for or are we really avoiding looking at ourselves in the mirror?

Every morning when I wake up, I have to look at myself. My birthmarks, my scars, my excess body fat in places I can't seem to work out, and my memories. I'm stuck not just looking at myself but I'm stuck looking into myself. The impersonal second person approach to speaking with yourself is not the answer but it is a good way to start. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you tell yourself that it is beautiful, it is smart, and it is worth it. Then, I try my hardest not to cry and the statements I repeat to myself until I believe them.

I spent last night bullshitting with my manager. We talked about a lot of things, from what happens to fries when the girl across from you spills her drink into them, why we prefer cigarettes over vaporizers or visa verse, how we grew up, and what made us so difficult to figure out. 

"The reality is just too much for a second grader to conceptualize."

How come the idea of beauty falls under the same category as missing your father?

I understood why my mother cried when I was hurting myself. Something she bared the burden of making, developing, and carrying for almost a year wants nothing to do with itself. Something everyone told her is the greatest miracle no longer wants to be miraculous. Something that in her eyes is the most perfect example of everything she wanted, something that had the most perfect flaws simply could not look them over. And something that she unconditionally poured her love into declared that it had no love for its self. I can understand why suicide is so traumatizing. Because here comes the question of, if she went then why am I still here? It's like entering the ultimate twilight zone of confusion. You unconditionally get frustrated at someone who is so great in your eyes for simply not being able to open their own. And unconditionally, that very same entity gets more and more upset as you try and tell them they're worth every second of every minute their heart beats. 

I love my mother and the one thing I regret is telling her I regret her decision of having me. My mother has given me everything she could and I threw it all back at her face. Of course she got a little selfish and made he opinion known to me. 

"If you loved yourself as much as you loved someone else, you would both be better off."

And that's where every relationship starts. It's a commitment to yourself before anyone else. Until you understand what it's like to feel unconditional love and acceptance for your own skin, you will never know what makes you angry or why it bothers you so much. 

"Someone who understands how to communicate with you will be the one who treats you right."

"So you're telling me there's only one ideal candidate who understands me and they're my only hope?"

"Do you think that's true?"

"No."

"Then you can't speak in absolutes."

The absolute value of me is greatness. Whether it be my New York Fashion Week style to my extravagant work week to my inexplicable ability to still pass my classes to my periodic moments of weakness. From my scars to my captivating reflection, I like to believe that I am great.

"Do you love yourself?"

"No but I'm learning"

I have finally accepted the size of my legs. One of the hardest things I have faced was no longer seeming my legs as tree trunks. My size six went down to a size four and all of my pants seem to hang off of me but I have finally accepted myself as small. And how liberating! Each step no longer feels like an earthquake. This is why I wear heels. Because now, I like to make noise when I walk. I want everyone to stare at how beautiful my legs are.

"You're so lucky you are different. You are so much different than American Ana and you should be proud because of all the stories you can now tell."

At that moment, I was proud. I was proud of thinking cursive was Russian, proud of ordering for my grandmother no matter where we went, and proud of my mother for learning how to smile. His hand was on my upper thigh where I let the bad pour out of me. 

But he said nothing.

Whenever I can't stop myself from crying, I have a tendency to reach for sharp objects and remain horizontal on my bathroom floor. I wake up with regret the next morning because instead of hurting my brain, it hurts my body. Something someone said was a noble reason, because I know that once it heals, my problems will too. He ran his hand along the ridged skin.

But he said nothing.

I cried since someone could not understand me when I told them no and then again when I asked for help. I couldn't stop crying because I kept blaming the skin around my lips for not moving in the way someone else wanted it to move. I kept crying because I was so sick and tired of crying. Finally his words made sense. Why not love what I do? If so many people saw me as beautiful and saw my actions as beautiful, I realized no one could see my memories but me so no one could judge me for fabricating a positive outlook on something that society deems as negative. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. What makes me hate myself should simply make myself proud of remaining beautiful. You can't hate the vessel you were given to steer your course. No captain leaves their sinking ship. I want to be better and to start, I can't forget my past; instead, I can teach myself to remember what I've learned.

"It takes one to know one."

And all I wanted was to take off my shackles because finally I felt safe.

If his hands didn't hurt my raw, bloody skin,

I no longer had to hurt myself.

I'm not beautiful, I'm on my way.