One

Let’s get this straight: I wasn’t a loner.

You’ll see a bunch of books like this; girls struggling with self-image issues, quiet, lonely, bullied. That’s not me.

I’m Molly Mayer, Queen Bee of GreenBough High School.

Nobody knows that, underneath all my layers of makeup, there’s insecurities inside me. I’m not as flawless as everyone thinks I am.

I’m imperfect.

The worst thing is is how I have to hide it. I’ll go into the bathroom with Jessica and Lena, my friends(but do friends make you feel sick inside?), and there will be a girl staring at the mirror, scruntinizing her petite body.

I know she’s thinking about how many fat rolls she has, or that granola bar she had for lunch that was 100 calories. I know she’s thinking that.

There’s nothing I want more than to go over and give that girl a hug, telling her how skinny she is. There’s nothing I want more than to duct tape Jessica and Lena’s mouths and stop their, ‘Oh, look at you, you fat baby!’ comments. Or, ‘Even if you stopped eating as much, you’d still be ugly.’

If I did give that girl a hug, or bring out my duct tape, my life would be over. The only thing I have to hold on to and cherish is my reputation here. When I’m at home, I don’t feel welcomed or safe. It’s not my parents; they’re fine. It’s all the mirrors strung about the house. It’s all the shiny metal and gold and aluminum that reminds me of my unfortunate face. It’s all the family photos that would’ve been perfect if I wasn’t in them.

Why can’t we all just have the guts to share our problems? Every time my parents ask me what’s wrong, I feel this guilt creep up my throat. Like I’m the worst daughter for not sharing my problems. Not that I’m the only one who does that, but my problems aren’t the usual ‘Drank Beer at a Party Problem,’ or the ‘Forged My Report Card Problem.’

Why can’t my problems be less problematic?