Ugly

I can honestly say that I don't remember anything about the girl I was before I convinced myself that I was ugly.

And if it's possible, I think that I may have always been this way. Right from the beginning of my existence I've been consumed by the idea that I'm not 'enough' of something.

It's the all too familiar shadow that follows close behind me. So familiar, that I've found comfort in its relentless companionship-albeit, toxic.

I wasn't loved well growing up.

In my opinion this likely became the breeding grounds from which most of my self destructive tendencies grew roots.

I wasn't praised as a baby, and certainly not as I grew begrudgingly into the wildly unprepared, teenage-adult that I am today.



I swapped hands quite a bit, during my first year. So much so that I was 'parented' by a handful of different family members. For that reason, I would be shocked to hear of a single opportunity I had to form a healthy bond during babyhood.

No security, no refuge.

It's hard for me to find the dissimilarity in that situation, from my youngest self and an old hand-me- down sweater. Sure, iI was tried on for size, but I never really 'fit.'

I've been told I cried a lot. "a difficult baby" they say.

My mother was an absent character during my adolescence. Proven bluntly by the memory of overhearing some adults at my Father's funeral. They hushly spoke in corners about how sad it was that my sister and I had just become orphans.

I had no idea what that meant, but I thought about it often.



Following dads death, the two of us finished out 5th and 7th grade in Ottawa. We lived in our cousins unfinished basement and I felt very dismissed and unattended to emotionally, that entire summer.

It wasn't until late summer/ early fall, when we were shipped off to Chatham with a garbage bag full of belongings, each. There was a promise of a life that made the most sense for us.

We moved in with Mom. Not because she had been a steady and present part of our lives, but because she was our Mother.

As an adult, I am able to see the practicality of the decision. But, in that moment, standing on my new doorstep, groggy as hell from the 8 hours of silent backseat driving; all I knew was that I had no say.

To this day, I've never felt so painfully alone as I did during that transition.

Not only had I been left to solitarily digest the greatest loss I had ever known, but my reflection in the mirror had become a constant reminder of the burden I had become to my own mother

The strain that my sister and I had put on moms romantic relationship since we moved in was palpable, and her resentment towards us only continued to grow because of it. To the day that she died, I'm not sure if she ever fully forgave us for that.

No matter how intensely desperate I was to be loved during that time in my life, it only became clearer to me with each passing day that love wasn't going to be handed out.

Not in that house, not those four walls.

This was a climatic point for me mentally. It became the prelude to many years ahead where I would find myself growing inward. Sequentially and against my will, I blindly attempted to raise myself into womanhood for the next 8 years.

During this time I managed to take on- and maintain- two roles; my own worst critic and my own worst enemy.

I was dipping my toes into the ravine of puberty; and I was a nervous wreck. I didn't know anything about anything but I could sense deep down that I was getting it all horribly wrong.

It wasn't long before I felt swallowed whole by shame, fear, guilt, and the most inexplicable sadness I'd ever felt. I quickly fell victim to my circumstances, and for whatever reason I felt comfortable there. Victim hood had become my home. I still catch myself sneaking back from time to time.

My sister and I had never been especially close leading up to this point in our lives, yet somehow, I had never felt so far removed from her. We were just two young girls traveling along the same road, completely separate, and alone. I would catch myself more often that not,

Hesitating outside of her bedroom door before closing my own behind me. What would I say, anyways?

All that place ever was to me was a house full of closed doors.

I hardly ever passed by anyone on my trips to the bathroom or to the kitchen. Mom would be in her room with Mike, getting high. My sister tucked away in her room, and me in mine. We all grew kind of comfortable with this dynamic and it carried on that way for years.

After retreating to my own space, I would lay on the floor with my feet up against the wall and wonder if anyone else thought this was fucked up.

Most of the kids in my class that year couldn't wait for the bell to ring. They would hop on their bikes and dart home to their family dinners, sports events, and all the vibrancy that came along with the lives they lived. But for me, I was rushing home each day just to be alone. I felt suffocated by school, and by people.

All I wanted to do was go to my room, lay on my bed, and memorize the cracks on the ceiling. Most days I would think myself to sleep until morning. And, at 11 years old, I began to wonder how I was going to die.

Something quick, I hoped. Nothing too painful. Maybe, I thought, I would go peacefully in my sleep, like Dad.

& when I would close my eyes, I'd welcome it.