I almost do not blog because I believe it is a waste of my time. I did not know that I had readers. I did not know that someone would care to read (despite having had people coming to ask why there has been no new blog of late.) I don’t even know some of them personally.
I have been writing in private and not rambling here as if I was an overtly serious young woman. Writing in private has given me the liberty to edit, strike out, rewrite. A chance to improve the same work till it meets the standards I have set for it.
There may be no other blog in the next few months or more or even more. I am writing this one because I suddenly want to, and someone out there might feel good after reading this.
In the process of working on myself, improving on the subject that I am, I am constantly under my own observation and, honestly, I break at times, that is, when I cannot bend well enough.
My great observation is that I could never convince myself to quit. My stance only grows stronger with every passing storm. It will be pretentious to say that it is my own hard work. Truth is that it is a gift. Precisely a gift to stand up every time I have been kicked and laid to cry. (Noticed this first when I was 12, as far as i remember) I have never cried because I have been busy fighting. Isn’t this enough gumption?
The entire fight does not involve any pretentious activity. It does not involve seeking approval in any way.
Read this a few days ago:
It is better to be hated for who you are than to be loved for who you are not.
Nothing could have been more accurate.
Went through this recently:
Should I conceal my scars? I asked myself.
No. Never. Pat came the reply.
Here is the story behind it:
I was born to parents who discouraged the importance given to vanity. My father discouraged my mother from even getting her eyebrows shaped. When we were children, he discouraged us from painting our nails, powder-puffing our faces. His reaction to us tending to our bodies was, at times, frustrating, and, almost always annoying, to the extent that applying pressed powder to my face made me uncomfortable in my skin. Now that I look back, I see that he had been launching a kind of revolution against the artificiality of grooming.
As I grew up, my mother insisted upon never to put so much importance on outward appearance that it enslaves you, never to try to look appealing. I learned to love the beauty of the pores of skin, the boldness, not the shyness, of a small pink acne on the left cheek. This goes for entire body. Anything worn to meet the acceptable standards laid by nobody-knows-who makes me grit my teeth like I have been lied to.
I learnt that cure is for a disease not for nature.
I once wanted to gift my mother a Swedish body massage and her reason for not obliging was that she does not want to indulge in such a habit that makes others serve your body for money. I had once had a friend who believed that he did not think that he ‘deserved’ a massage from anyone. What a thought! Humility. These were the thoughts that dwelled in me like they were part of my body. I have lived with this rich idea of not giving a damn to the definitions of beauty others have. How, then, can I ever fall into this trap of seeking others’ approval for restoring my self-worth?
I have grown to believe that a single definition of beauty is dangerous. Yet again, my resolve to have my own definitions has stood the test of time.
I have spent my entire life living to set an example of being unapologetically me. Even if I have wanted something badly, I have, by nature, not given up to the blasphemous and undue demands of it. I have decided not to pay a price so huge that it questions my stance on the principles I have lived by.
I am sure this principle knows no method of bowing down.
To constantly try to look how I actually look and defy the definition of perfection (because perfection is a myth) is for me a fight against my own insecurities. A worthy fight. The belief in my beauty is so strong that it fails to move.
The answers to all questions remain the same.
Whatever price I pay in the pursuit of being unapologetically me, trust me, is never big enough.
All those things and people that cripple your self-confidence by helping you receive acceptance belong to the trash bin.
P.S. My views are personal. They have helped me survive the insanity of the world. Also, treating them as prescription won’t harm.
I do not, however, mean to demean those who subscribe to the fanaticism of (boring) conventional beauty.