Am I Beautiful Now?

I was born with my mother’s face. It was not one of extravagant beauty, but to me it was perfect. Because to me, she was perfect. Besides, it was mine, and how could that be wrong? I believed that for a long time, while I was young and naive. But I grew up, and when I did, I found out just how wrong that was. My lips were too thin, and my eyebrows too thick. My cheeks were too round and my eyes too small. My hair was too frizzy and my nose too crooked. My body was too pudgy and my chest too flat. I had too many freckles and not enough curves. And it’s funny, because until they pointed these things out to me, I didn’t notice them. Whats funnier is that even when I did, I didn’t really care much one way or the other. After all, it was my mother’s face, and she was beautiful. By my standards she was the most beautiful women in this world. But they disagreed. Oh lord did they disagree. They mocked me and shamed me and isolated me and tortured me into submitting and admitting that their judgments were the truth. I was hideous, and fat and disgusting. I was not beautiful. I was not even average. I was nothing but flaws. Hundreds and hundreds of flaws sewn together into a hideous tapestry. Once I acknowledged their words, I became obsessed with them. Obsessed with the ideology of beauty. And obsessed with capturing it. I stopped wanting to be smart, or happy, or funny, or gifted in any form of art. I wanted only one thing. To be beautiful. I was fourteen when I began to purge after every meal, workout every day, and learn to apply makeup. I was fifteen when I discovered it was easier not to eat at all, and when I began to go running every morning no matter how many times I blacked out for minutes at a time, and when I started waking up at five in the morning so I could put on a face and straighten my hair before school. I was sixteen when I began to wear skimpy provocative clothes, smoke my mind numb, and give my body to anyone who would take it. I figured if I walked like them, talked like them, acted like them, I would become one of them. One of the beautiful. But then they began to call me names. Slut, whore, tramp. The same people who used my body for their own pleasure, went around announcing those things like it wasn’t them who encouraged me to be all those things. How could they not see that I did it all for them. How could they not see how hard I tried. But it was never hard enough, they were insatiable with their demands. And entirely impossible to please. They used to call me prude, now they call me skank. They used to call me ugly, now they call me fake. They used to call me nerd, not they call me dumb. They used to call me hopeless, so now I am entirely helpless. I am still not beautiful, but now I am broken as well. So I began to save up money because I saw only one way to change myself enough to please them. I would let them mold me a new face and a new body. I went under the knife a year later. It was long and agonizing, but I was determined. Finally, after a long wait, it is time. They remove the bandages and I look at myself long and hard in the mirror. My lips are full and my eyebrows thin and arched. My cheeks are gaunt and my eyes large. My hair is sleek and my nose straight and small. My body is mere skin and bones yet my chest is bulging. I have no more freckles, and hourglass curves. There is not a trace of my mother left in my face. And I am not smart, I am not happy, I am not funny, I am not gifted in any form of art. I gave it all away. I gave it all away for one reason and one reason only. So, look at me. Look what you did to me, look what you did to my mothers little girl and tell me, please tell me…AM I BEAUTIFUL NOW?