If I Was Pretty

I didn’t used to see the point of appearances. I never thought too hard about what I looked like. I just lived my life.

But after getting used to a life of near-isolation for several years, the concept feels different to me.

I kind of wish I was pretty. I mean, I always wish I was pretty but didn’t care that much. But now, it more feels almost like a need. A need, as in, “Who am I, if I’m ugly?” A need, as in, “What’s the point in my existence?” Well, it’s hard to say what exactly the thoughts are underneath it all, but it’s something like that. Really, it’s just that empty feeling and the sense that I need something beautiful to replace that.

My whole life is a blur. My existence is a blur. My identity is a blur if I even have an identity at all. (Brain fog, amnesia, and depersonalization might play a role in all that.) It’s painfully been like that for as long as I can remember. The emptiness is crushing.

And confusing.

Confusing because it’s hard to make plans or have goals or envision a future when there is no me and no life. There’s nothing there. So what’s the point?

It’s confusing.

My face is as formless as my life is, as my self is. My imploding, empty world. My face looks mucky, just like the world around me feels, just like my life.

Really, this isn’t about being pretty. It’s about living. I see pictures of women who are pretty, and it makes me, on some level, imagine they have this beautiful life. That they’ll fall in love. Maybe have children. Or maybe they’ll just hang out with girlfriends and do girly things.

Not that living life on a computer screen isn’t living.

But there’s something different about being out in the real world, around live, three-dimensional people.

I wish I was pretty because then I could imagine my life headed somewhere.

Right now, I have nothing, no career, no skills, and virtually no identity. I have no life to look forward to if I did become well enough to function and make money, go places and do things freely, etc.

There’s something more compelling about the fantasy of being pretty, having friends I can have fun with, being able to fall in love with someone who’ll fall in love with me.

Is this what life is about? I don’t know what this life is about, really. I can’t feel much.

Maybe if I could feel more, I’d see things different, I’d understand what life is about. I can’t feel much because I still feels horrible just to stand up. My brain gets scrambled really easily from almost any activity. The body pain and mental confusion overpowers enjoyment of activities. Maybe others with dysautonomia know what I’m talking about.

The fantasy of having a nice career seems to have disappeared from my mind. It seems too far out of reach, maybe. Or maybe the concept never really felt fulfilling. But being pretty seems closer to being possible. Maybe if I just change or add this or that, do a couple tweaks, I can be pretty. Even if I was, it’s doubtful that much good would come of my life or anything would change, but who knows? It would make me more positive or optimistic about a future that realistically probably doesn’t exist. Or at least it would make me feel that way for a little while, until I realize that things still aren’t going to change. I’ll still be alone, poor and housebound with no point to my existence and apathy towards life.

Published by illnessislife

Sick of being so sick I can't live life. But it's been so long like this that I accept it. Illness is life. I have no other life.

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