Folks! It’s been a month and sis has some
boiling tea to spill.
Let’s start with some background stories.
First, we’ll go through my poetry presentation where I recited a poem titled ‘My
Best Friend’. Long story short, the poem is a recap of what I went through the
day my dad died (that got dark real quick), but does so in a twisted way in
which I misunderstood the concept of Death, which in reality did not happen.
I was a kid, I was also stupid but I was not a sociopath.
For the sake of reciting the poem in the
voice of a 6 years old and looking like one, I wore a pink hoodie and I had a
dinosaur pillow with me. Holy fuck, was that uncomfortable. I was
anxious the whole time because 1. It’s a bloody assignment to recite the poem
in front of 50+ students and 2. I had to put on an act to recite it. People
know me as this quiet kid (I assume) but that night I had to pretend to be this
cheery psychotic kid so it intensifies the fucked-upness of the poem. I’d like
to think that it worked.
Now, the second story. Two nights ago we
had Lance Starry Night and I had been looking forward to it so much. The reason
was that I went out of my way to buy an outfit for the dinner and my dear Lord,
I loved my dress and it’s rare for me to love an outfit that much. It is hands down
the most expensive and prettiest piece of clothing I ever owned. God, I couldn’t
wait to wear it because I thought maybe for this one night I could genuinely
feel pretty. Well, that went well, didn’t it?
I felt the same way I did when I did my
poetry recitation. I felt vulnerable, different, exposed and out of place. I
was uncomfortable in my own damn skin because nothing about me felt real at
that point. I was just a girl trying to feel pretty or be pretty or whatever
the fuck and I was overcompensating everything, trying too hard. (If someone got
offended or weirded out by what I did or said during the dinner, please know
that I am sorry. I wasn’t feeling like myself. And no, that’s not an excuse.)
Needless to say I went to bed feeling like
shit. I mean, for the record, the night was great, I did have fun and enjoy the
whole thing. (Thanks, Iman, if you’re reading this.) I had my friends with me and
people were great during the dinner. This was all happening in between things
and they were all in my head.
Okay, let’s get to the tea. I’m gonna try to
be as real as I can because if I don’t do it here, I can’t do it anywhere else.
(This is what ‘if i didnt have poetry, id have nothing’ meant to me.) Friends
around me know that I don’t like taking pictures of myself or if others take
pictures of me. Me agreeing to take pictures with people would mean I am in a
better mood than I usually do. Real talk, if I lost my phone and someone else found
it, that person would not know whom to return it to if they went through the pictures
in my gallery.
And I’ve said this to a handful of friends.
I never really mind about looks because it has very little value for me. It’s
not what matters and if I am to value myself based on something, looks will be
last on my list. I’d like to think I’m valued by how smart I am, that I am valuable
in that sense because at least it felt like my worth is written on paper (yes,
this is humble bragging).
For the longest time I managed to convince
myself that is why I don’t post pictures of myself on my Instagram. I convinced
myself that I don’t need to be validated by other people on something that has
little value in my own eyes. I tricked myself into believing I am oh-so fucking
pious that I hide my looks from the public. Fucking bullshit.
I didn’t hide myself because I thought I
didn’t need to be validated by other people. I did it because I was terrified
of the numbers and I was denying it, even overcompensating it.
I am only someone hiding behind fears and insecurities
masking themselves as confidence, as self-respect and ‘being woke’. I am none
of those. I can barely love myself. And that night somehow made me realize how small
and inferior I feel when I put myself in a situation when being pretty seems to
matter. I forced myself to feel pretty, to put value on looks because I thought
maybe for that one night I would like what is calculated. But in the end I felt
like shit.
Oh, here’s a poem I wrote about putting on
an act and pretending to be someone I am not;
He's only a character
A mere actor
Thinking that his lines matter.
He's trying to play the role
Trying to play the part
Thinking that it's for art
Thinking that he is art.
But when the curtains role
And the play starts
His facade falls apart.
He stumbles on his words
His lines scattered
Did they ever matter?
'Then why'd he become an actor?'
Well, he thought he can fool the
world
But the world's not him
It's not easily tricked.
And now, today, I know how hard it is to
love yourself, to know that you are worth it and to value yourself for who you
are. But the strongest love-language is effort, right? So I’ll keep on trying.
I promise myself that.
-Nik.
Nik Fateen. An introvert trying to find home in a foreign space.