Living isn’t standard, it’s abnormal.
I discuss way too much about what Diane said on NPR and question the motives of fictional literary characters. I believe in God and Science. I am more well versed in the Scientific American than this Fall’s fashion trend. My peace of mind is combusting every inch of myself in fires people can barely put out. Passion is secondary to me, I am not bewitched by soft grazes of your lips against mine. I am your mirrored complexity shy of every element that you want in love. I do not wear enough slouchy hats, or look for myself in the stranger’s dizzying kisses, tantalizing my lips. I do not need you all the time and I find you good enough for everything, but in every way I am the wrong girl.
I love it.
They say the people that love you the most, hurt you the most. They ain’t never lie.
I love my crazy high school friends, they helped mold all this insanity that I am but sometimes I just sit and wonder why reminicisng is important. I was social pariah awkward in high school and wore XXL t-shirts with skater pants, thinking I was redefining tom-boy chic (chic, cause my hair was always in this girlie pony tail). So this has how things have been:
“Oh my gosh girlie! You have changed, you know you never even used to let me apply lipstick. You were such a boyish girl, but you got us girlie girls. Do you have a boyfriend?”
I looked at my friend, like boyfriend? My organic chemistry text-book is the closest thing to a boyfriend (they are both carbon-based right, well for the most part), so I dismissed her and was like “I am the friend” (after warding off the possibility that I could be gay, talk about stereotyping).
She then proceeded to tell me that I should be the girl, not the friend. Honestly, being the friend has perks, it does not combust into nothingness after several mistakes (‘Cause God knows I make a WHOLE LOT of mistakes).
She then asked me if I was stuck on X and if that was the reason why I did not have aforementioned boyfriend (clearly, she does not know American college boys where for the most part the only thing they want is the ill na na). You see, X and I were something people expected. I mean I did too, and he did have that weird confession thing where we admitted our like for each other. But it stopped there. So she thought that I had my heart broken by him. I did. A BIT AGO. He sort of went under the radar for a year (like MIA from the world) post confessional and trying to figure it out. I met other guys, granted I only saw friend zone or came up with silliest excuses to validate that I was only a friend. I don’t know, it just got me so mad that she thought that I would base so much of me on this one boy (who was amazing, like his soul was rare) but I am more than him. Besides, it is not like anyone really did understand what on too much because for the most part I am hush hush on the reality of my emotions (well, until I watch the most unrealistic love flicks). So here, this V is going to straighten it out:
It’s funny how everybody thought that you and I would become this one entity. That we would have that high school love that never really burnt out, and we would be talking about forever after. They really did not understand, and I do not think I did either, that it was never love. It was convenient, we were both misfits with hearts no one else could unravel, with thoughts no one else could understand in fear they might say the wrong thing. We were the same in their eyes. But who were we kidding? We were both very different. And I am not sure if I want to jeopardize a flurry of silly mistakes for you just yet.
Screaming is silence. It’s unknown and it hurts, not because you weren’t heard. But because you never knew you could feel.
I’ve tried to write my bodily post for way to long but when you detest yourself things like such make you crumble in fear. First writing this post I finished each point with a contradiction and with technical difficulties it still didn’t work. It was all apart of the master plan of life. How can you state things you don’t feel and put them up. I could hold false statements on this tumblr but as you can see we are raw as the title to our blog. This is real stuff. Real harsh. Real gruesome. Real disheartening. But oh Lord it’s real. There’s no stopping the authenticity of such a thing. So I’m postponing this post for another day when I speak either happy or horrible things about my body. Because today like every other day I wish I wasn’t me.
Once I overcome this hurdle I can be the best me.
The challenge this time around is to write eight facts of our body, to establish this admittance of who we are, to gain this acceptance we tend to refuse to let in. As trying as this is, this is a key to the dusty room of acceptance.
So here are eight facts about my body (er, this is going to be awkward)
1. I have this huge dark scar under my chin (that nobody can see) because of something stupid I did. So I was in my mother’s village visiting my grandmother and I saw my uncle shave, I thought to myself that’s awesome maybe I need one to. So I stupidly tip toed to the bathroom (thanks to Pink Panther’s stealth influences), closed the door and gave it a gander. Alas, blood everywhere. I still cannot believe I went up to my mother with a bloody chin saying, ‘Mummy, I tried to shave but there was no hair.’ (So Badass).
2. I have never shaved my legs. Because I don’t have any hair on my legs. Knowing how clumsy I am there would be more scars than hair on my legs if I had hair on my legs, fact one is evidence.
3. I have always been larger than average, with exception of when I was extremely sick as a child and had a much smaller frame. Its perhaps the hardest thing I have to endure, being constantly prompted by family members to give up certain things (such as classes and internships) so I can have an exercise regime despite the fact I walk everywhere including to work which is 5 miles away from the station. I would pencil it in but I am applying to medical school hence my busy schedule, in attempt to make my application competitive. It’s hard. I am in perfect health and rarely on my butt unless its to sleep or unwind from a crazy week. Accepting myself has been, by far, the hardest thing I have had to do. It’s painful being reminded (ALL THE TIME) you are lesser than they expect (who makes fucking comments that they wish I was sick again so I could be skinny). This is who I am, they have to accept that.
4. I am anemic because of a sob story. I switched to vegetarianism 4 years ago due to my passion for animals and because of the limited options available for vegetarians in Kenya, giving me leeway to starve myself. It was scary how I could go without eating for days and nobody would notice. It did nothing though, but destroy me.
5. I am double jointed in eight of my fingers (thumbs ain’t up for the creepy bending).
6. My second toes are larger than my first which means, in my culture anyway, that I will be the head of my house not my husband. DOWN WITH PATRIACHY.
7. I have strong calves, due to years of Tae Kwon Do training I never told anyone about (so, fear my kicks).
8. The reason why my eyesight went downhill when I was seven was because I read too much to the point the muscles in my eyes began to weaken (On average I would read five 400 paged books per week).
Those are facts about my body which are quite discomforting to admit but hey, this might make me a strong cookie.
I spent hours on a humid Saturday studying the wishes of people I did not know. It reminded me how friggin’ mortal we are.