January 5th, 2010

As I put on my jeans and tied my hair back into a sloppily beautiful bun of sorts, I was smacked right in the face with the bitter reality that this is actually happening. Why is it hitting me so hard five days in? Because of this: it’s the first day in the year I have gone out in public while the glorious sun was still shining. And I found out not too long ago, I finally get to go home! To my Tempe home, where my friends are, where my life lives. And thoughts came rushing through my head. I’m going home. I’m not going to wear makeup for one whole year. Not at my work place. Not at special events. Not even to see my best friends who I know admire my sense of style. This is actually happening. And I hesitated, with a faint image of my left hand grabbing some mascara to go as I ran out to the grocery store. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I made a promise to my self, and more importantly to God. I look at myself in the mirror with disgust. Scars and pigment of uneven shades, circles under my eyes, everything exposed, no more hiding. This is really happening.

I watched as my sister picked through my new and old blushes and shadows, the ones I so graciously told her she could have a couple days ago, obviously not understanding the emotional wreck I would be just a few days later. I watched as this happened. I watched as she picked up my green and pink tube of, yes, newly bought Blackest Black mascara and asked, “Is this new?” I replied without even looking. And I glance over to the mirror every now and then with a small hope of maybe I’ll look prettier this time. I don’t. I still have scars. I still have pigment in uneven shades, and of course, I still have circles under my eyes, which actually seem to look darker the more I look in the mirror. I’m being taunted by my own face.

But this is why I am doing this. I cannot get past the fact that my beauty comes from hiding, which it shouldn’t but that is what I believe. My beauty comes from these blushes and shadows and Blackest Black mascara and the way I do my hair and wear my clothes. This is how I think I am beautiful. This is how I think anyone else could think I am beautiful. I look at myself now and wonder Am i? Could I ever be? That’s what this year is about: figuring out if I actually can be beautiful without looking it (or what I think it means to be beautiful).

Five days down. Three hundred and sixty to go. Only time will tell. For now, I am still being taunted by my own face. I still look in the mirror with disgust, with a faint image of my left hand grabbing some mascara to go.