Alright, confession time. I don't think I'm beautiful in real life.
-Let me begin by clarifying. What do I mean when I say "in real life"?
I mean, when I look in the mirror. In the mirror I don't see anything beautiful. I just see Catherine. Very plain, very average, sometimes sort of ugly Catherine.
-Second, why am I writing this in a public blog? No, I am not fishing for compliments. I am not trying to convince people that I am humble about my appearance. Insecurity should not be mistaken for humility. I am writing this, because I have been trying to figure out why on earth I spend so much time looking at pictures of myself. Why do I go through the thousands of photos of myself on facebook at least once a month? Why do I go through folder after folder of "good" pictures of myself on my computer, obsessing over each one? Why do I even have all of these pictures of myself? I just stare at myself, almost like it isn't me. But wait, it is me, and perhaps that is why I am so fascinated. Because to me, in these photos of myself I look different than myself.
So, I have figured out why I stare at my photographed self. I realize why I am obsessed with self-portraits. It is because in these photographs of myself, I think I am beautiful. I like the way I look. Sometimes I even love the way I look. I'm beautiful!
Ever since I was about 10 years old I have thought of myself as ugly. People usually told me otherwise. "Aw, you're so cute." Got that one for years and years. But I never believed it. Not really anyway. They only thought I was cute because I was small. You see, they were just confused by my small stature. For instance, everyone calls newborns (whether human or pup or kitten) cute. But they aren't actually cute. In reality, all newborns are pretty weird looking. Newborns are just really small, so people call them cute. Get it? Well, this is how I saw it. I have been insecure about my appearance for as long as I can remember because of my itchy, red, dry, and bleeding skin. To be honest, I sort of thought I had gotten over it. I mean, I'm 22 years old now. You'd think I would be used to having eczema, tons of scars, and almost constantly irritated skin. But I'm not. I'm still embarrassed. In my head, I still hear that boy saying, "Ew, what's wrong with your face?" I still remember my sibling calling me "gross". Funny how that stuff sticks with you, right?
Anyway. I'm getting carried away with my memories. Point is, for some reason I think I am only beautiful in photographs. In that still, captured moment, the flaws seem to disappear. I can't see them anymore. Crazy stuff. Consider this insecurity and photo obsession added to the list of things I need to work on.
I'm beautiful because He made me so. That's all there is to it. Doesn't matter if I have a body with torn skin and blisters. Humans may not call that beautiful, but since when do I need to believe or listen to what humans call truth or say is so? Since never. Pssh. Crazy humans. Crazy Catherine.