Perfect Imperfection

To all those who said my behind was not round and full, and my waist was not narrow enough.To all those who mocked my small breasts, laughed whenever I passed. To all who said my skin tone was too dark and that I needed some body-lightening, that my weight was not normal. You said that I was an imperfect being. You made me drop my guard, and I felt inadequate. You made me feel unlovable, and I became vulnerable. So every night, I would stand before my mirror in agony, wishing my shape could be better and my breasts could be fuller. And whenever I saw the reflection of my behind in the mirror, I would think of going for liposuction. And when I couldn’t afford the surgery fees, my craving would become a cave. My humanity was drifting away, as suicidal thoughts dangled at the outskirts of my mind—perhaps the only escape haven from this tormentful world. Eighteen, I knew I was and had to battle this judgmental world. I recall that day at university; my mates considered I was subhuman because somehow my body features were not exactly how theirs were.

‘Sub-humans should not seek attention and should arrive on time when nobody will notice them.’ One said to my hearing, and everyone laughed.

‘You should consider making the gym your favourite place.’ The one whom I considered my closest friend told me. ‘People who are flat, as you put in efforts, but you are not, yet you arrive at the class just when everyone is seated.’

‘How could you assume I arrived in class late to gain attention?’ I was startled by her assumptions. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want her to know her words were breaking me up, yet I didn’t know my eyes began raining.

If my mates in school mocked me, I wouldn’t mind; if my most trusted friend followed suit, I wouldn’t mind but if my family mocks me, then I am truly subhuman. I was healthy, full of life and wanted happiness, yet my family treated me like I was not their daughter. I was the last to receive gifts but the first to do the dishes. Though they never dared to tell me I read it from the way my mother stared at me. It was a kind of look that made me feel invisible, as though I was merely a shadow in the background of their lives. Even as I tried to put on a brave face, keep up appearances and push through the days with a semblance of normalcy, the quiet sorrow of their indifference lingered. It was a burden I carried alone, hidden beneath my smile and veiled in my attempts to please. But I survived it. I survived the nightmares and horrors of body-shaming. And at that moment, when I truly found love with myself, that was when I found my perfect half. He took me on a timeless voyage and adored me like the queen of the oceans. We became perfect, and the world that once mocked me became imperfect. And so I asked him, “Why do you love me so passionately, even in my imperfections?”

And he said, “The beauty of a woman does not truly lie in her ass, in her breasts, in her shape, because if we grow old together, all these will sag, wrinkle, and fade. But her heart will never fade. Because true beauty lies in her soul, and the content of her soul is true, it can’t be faked, and can never be superficial.”