The Ugly Truth

My whole life I had been told I was ugly. Well, people didn't actually say it to my face but I knew they thought it. Or they said it subtly, in a way they thought was either hilarious or that they thought didn’t hurt my feelings as much as a straight out insult. Except it did.

The worst thing was that I knew people talked about me behind my back and pitied me.

One time in eight grade I was hanging out with a group of preppy girls at the mall. I don’t really know why I went. We had grown up together and my mom thought we were best friends or something and always suggested we hang out, both to me and the girls. And sometimes even to their mothers.

Anyways, they were trying on wonderful fitted clothes and beautiful short dresses, meanwhile I tried on something plain and stared at my reflection in the mirror. There was too much of me everywhere: my thighs, my waistline, my arms... And I couldn’t bear to step outside the cramped dressing room and stand next to those thin girls who looked exactly like models.

“Why don’t you try this on, Lindsay?” a blonde named Caroline asked me.

I stared at the hot pink fabric in her hand. It was a mini dress that sparkled so much it nearly left me blind.

“No way.”

“Oh, c’mon, Lindsay. It’ll be fun.”

And so I reluctantly did it. For some reason every time those girls told me, or ordered me, to do something I caved in. I couldn’t every deny them. Truthfully, they scared the life out of me, and everyone else at school too.

It was too small and I looked completely ridiculous.

“Are you done yet?”

“Well...”

Before I could explain, one of them had pulled the curtain open and I had four pairs of eyes staring at me in that hot pink mess.

None of them said anything but I knew they wanted to laugh so badly. They quickly turned around to get back to what they had been doing and I closed the curtain. At least they hadn’t laughed or made any rude remarks.

As I reached to pull down the zipper in the middle of my back, I found it was stuck. Great. Now she’d probably have to shred it up to take it off and would be forced to buy that pink piece of crap.

“Hey, guys. Can you help me out?” I asked them.

No one answered me, so I tentatively poked my head out of the curtain. There was no one else there, so I retreated from my haven and approached the cubicles were the other girls were at.

As I got closer, I heard giggling. I stood on the other side of the curtain which all four girls were behind.

“Did you see how she looked?”

“I know! It’s almost as bad as what she normally wears.”

“I kind of feel bad for her. I mean, if I looked like that I would be embarrassed to go out in public.”

With tears in my eyes, I stepped back behind my curtain. I had never heard people talking like that about me and it hurt.

And that was the moment when I started hating myself. I hated my body and how it had fat in every imaginable place. I hated my greasy, frizzy hair. I hated my frumpy, mom clothes. I hated my pimply skin. I hated how I towered over everyone in my class. I hated my glasses. And most of all, I hated how not one person I knew had ever told me I was beautiful. Even if it was just a lie.

So I grew up knowing I was some sort of beast and trying to hide myself in the crowd. For example, when you enter a room, who do you look at: the chubby girl with glasses and huge hair or the attractive blonde? Try that again and replace the second with anything you can imagine, because they would still be more interesting and easier to look at than me.

By the time I was halfway through high school, all the girls I knew had kissed a boy or at least been on a date with one. Everyone except me. I avoided school dances altogether just so I wouldn’t be the only one to show up alone. Or some guy would pity be and ask me. I hate when people pity me, although it’s quite inevitable when you look the way I did.

Luckily, when you’re applying for a college, your looks don’t matter in the least. And since grades were my forte, I got into an Ivy League. And most of those pretty faces stayed behind in community colleges or ones their parents could afford.

And that was when a miracle happened. Alright, it wasn’t exactly a miracle, but pretty close.

I began going to the gym and lost all my baby fat. Sure, I wasn’t stick thin but I was at a normal weight. I began using contacts and my fashion sense finally awoke. I learned how to style my hair correctly and my pimples got rid of themselves.

I was finally normal. I had even made a few real friends, something I hadn’t really ever experienced.

It was almost as if life was paying me back for coping so well with my high school hell. It was one of those moments when you realize sometimes life is a little fair.

So when I had to return home after the first year of college, I was thrilled. Not only because I would get to see my family and just be home, but because I would get to show them all. All those people who had ever made fun of me or felt sorry for me. I would show them all.