Insecurities – Baydreamer Writes ~ Lauren Scott, Author

***Photo by Marcus Lenk on Pexels.com***

Clinking of pots and pans echoes throughout the house. I sit on my bed, leaning against the pine headboard while Mom’s busy in the kitchen getting dinner ready. Dad will walk through the door any minute sporting his huge smile, happy to see his family after a long day’s work. I miss my brother, Jack, who moved out last August for his first year in college. The house is quiet without him pushing my buttons. He was really good at teasing his younger sister! Now that he’s not here, my heart has a big hole in it, and the void triggers my negative head space. My back slides down the headboard, taking my mood with it. Suddenly, I can hear my grandma say, “You shouldn’t slouch, dear.” My mind drifts about life: everything I love and hate. I know hate is a strong word, but it’s the word that fits. I love my family; it’s me I have a problem with. When I first heard the Taylor Swift song, “The Outside” I felt as though she wrote the lyrics for me.

Dad recently accepted a job in this small town. He told Mom that it would benefit his banking career and would be a good change from the big city for all of us. She supported him, so I had to move. After all, I’m a minor. The bummer is that I’m a new student at the high school in the middle of my junior year. Not easy for a sixteen-year-old, but I forgive my parents. Maybe I’m more mature than other teenagers. Sometimes parents have their reasons for doing things and kids will never get it. Most of the time, mine are cool, so I try to understand their decision – even if this move has been awkward for me.

When I’m on campus, I feel like a weed in a garden of roses. Acne is so annoying, and my body is the bane of my existence. My parents thought I was cute when I was a chubby, little girl. But cute isn’t what I see staring at me in the mirror. My long, auburn hair, and blue eyes that change to green are the only things I like about myself. I need to lose a few pounds too. The current culture is no body-shaming, but kids do it anyway because some kids are jerks, boys and girls!

I’m just not a pretty girl on campus, and I don’t care if I’m pretty or not, but being judged makes me feel uncomfortable. I turn a corner in the hall and there’s another model-thin girl strolling past me. It’s not like they didn’t exist back home in the big city, and pretty girls come in all shapes and sizes. Thin doesn’t mean perfect and thin doesn’t always mean healthy.

So why do I feel unsure about myself? One thing I’m sure of is that I miss the bright lights and energy buzzing through the streets of the big city, horns honking, and people walking fast in every direction with someplace important they need to be. I had three girlfriends back home, and a couple of boys who weren’t crushes, but cool to hang out with. All the kids in my inner circle accepted each other for who they were. The same insecurities lived with me, but the friends I made were more accepting. We’ve stayed in touch through texts, emails, and talking on the phone, but I wonder if our friendships will eventually fade. It’s hard when you can’t see each other in person. On campus, the perfect kids stare and laugh behind my back. Are these assumptions in my head? No, I couldn’t make up the staring and laughing. I know the difference between reality and imagination.

I tap on the calendar in my cell phone…three months, two weeks, and four days have passed since the big move across the state. Funny how it feels like a year! My finger hovers above the Facebook app, and I know it’s the wrong move. Stay away, I warn myself, but I don’t listen. I scroll through photos of my friends hanging out with other friends; they seem to mock me. Why don’t I delete my account? I really hate social media, which alone puts me in a different circle than most teens. I’m not one of those girls who likes to share meals, clothes, and fingernail polish. It’s so stupid!

“Emma, you need to just be yourself,” Mom reminds me. She and Dad drill the point across to not worry about what others think. “Try to put yourself out there to make friends, Em,” Dad says. Sure. No problem…in a new high school and new town. Easier said than done. I wonder if they’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young.

I close out the Facebook app as quickly as I opened it. If you ask me about popularity, it’s never been important. But I need to find my own group of friends. I want to belong. I want to find my own corner on campus. A patch of grass where I can park myself and talk with other girls or boys who like the things I do…cats, dogs, hiking, reading, writing, and listening to music. Can my peers overlook what my mirror shows me? Are my insecurities confusing my perspective? Time plays an important role in life – more wisdom from my parents. So, after more time passes, I may like this town. I may like the school. I may fit in. It’s hard to imagine, but I don’t feel it’s impossible.

Mom’s voice travels up the stairs like a pop song melody, telling me that dinner’s on the table. I can smell her spaghetti sauce. She is the best cook! The Italian aroma lifts my spirits as my stomach growls. I slide off my bed and hit the stairs running. Dad got home twenty minutes earlier, giving him and Mom time to catch up before I join them. We sit down at our oak dining table and they ask about my highs and lows. It’s a good way for them to understand what I’m going through. I can talk to them about anything. They have an open door policy, but there’s one thing I haven’t shared…

After dinner, I offer to do the dishes, but mom gives me the night off. I take the stairs two at a time back to my room. I pull my cat journal out of my desk drawer and slide into my usual spot on the bed, pushing my pillow up against the headboard and scooting back into it. My thoughts wander on the lined pages. It’s amazing how time flies when I’m reading a great book or writing. The sun begins to set. Darkness slowly falls outside my window. The bright moon winks at me through my shutters, and it’s comforting. Tomorrow is Friday. One more day at school before the weekend. I can make it. Wow, I feel tired, but my thoughts won’t sleep.

I think about how we used to go to church as a family. It’s been a few years since my parents became frustrated with some people in the congregation. Disheartened enough that they decided to step away from organized religion. I still say prayers though. Does God listen? I don’t know, but I always feel better afterwards. I’m sure it helps just getting the words out. Telling the universe about what makes me happy and anxious. And I always say what I’m grateful for – Mom and Dad who love me and who try their best, and Jack who I miss so much. I know how lucky I am.

Tonight is different though. I close my eyes, and I pray for something that I’ve never talked about. I didn’t want Mom and Dad to worry about me or feel bad about moving. So, tonight I pray for a friend, someone to laugh with. Someone to calm the negative thoughts spinning inside my mind. Parents can only help to a certain point. A friend will ease the awkwardness of moving to a strange town in the middle of high school. A friend will make me feel accepted. Just one friend. Can you hear me, God? Am I asking for too much? It’s not like I’m asking for two.

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© Lauren Scott, Baydreamerwrites.com
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There it is, every morning, just waiting for Donna’s acknowledgement. Its gold, shiny appearance is appealing, hard to ignore. She steps on it with bated breath, knowing that what she sees will steer her mood to one side or the other. Only once in a while does the pendulum stay centered. Will she feel happy enough to click her heels in the air? Or will those numbers be the catalyst to a self-degrading approach for another day? It’s an obsession difficult to break like a bad relationship. And yet, she hasn’t been able to muster up the courage to snub its magnetic lure.

Donna still cringes when she looks at old photos of her as a young chubby girl. One memory focuses on her ten-year-old self in the hospital having her tonsils taken out. After the procedure, she rested in the recovery room where there were other children. One red-haired boy her same age wore a wicked grin while calling her “fatso.” His hurtful words caused her to crumble into the white sterile bed sheets. Maybe this bullying sparked her insecurities, along with those extra childhood pounds that dogged her footsteps into adulthood.

All Donna needs is a truck load of willpower to shed the weight. Sometimes, she’s there, and sometimes she’s not. It’s no easy feat to gain a strong grip on self-discipline, as though she’s trying to keep a slippery fish in her hands. She’s always been an emotional eater. She’ll find something to munch for any reason: when she’s happy or fighting back tears, when she’s in a celebratory mood, or in a nail-biting situation. Whatever the emotion, food tempts her like a dangling carrot to a rabbit. But she doesn’t crave carrots. She craves chips.

What’s even more challenging is maintaining the weight once she’s lost it. Those pounds seem to conjure up a foolproof system for finding their way back to her. It’s a never-ending cycle while she allows her weight to determine how likable she appears to others. She lets those digits control her self-esteem. When will she see in her reflection the beautiful, green-eyed woman that others see? Society itself doesn’t persuade her into feeling this low about her body image. She knows when her body is healthy and when she’s taken a detour. It’s simply time for her to make better choices.

Someday Donna will transform her thoughts into action to shed the pounds. Until then, her obsession with the scale has to end. She considers tossing it out the window! Her family often tells her how she gifts kindness to others, so when will she offer that same compassion to herself? She wishes for the moment when she can look in the mirror and say, “You look awesome!” and mean those words with every ounce of sincerity.

“Baby steps”, Donna says. “It’s just a number.”

Lauren Scott (c) Fiction
Photo: Google images