When I was younger, like 10, 11 years old, I was obsessed with my mom. I thought she was so gorgeous, she was like Superwoman. She was raising us by herself. We lived in a one-bedroom apartment until we moved into our home and she provided for my sister and me the best she could. She was an interesting person, though. I don't know if I understood the complexities of the weight she carried. Nor did I really have the capacity to at that age. When I say I was obsessed with her, I mean I idolized the persona that she portrayed. She wore makeup, designer bags, hair always done, never wore flats and dressed to the nine.
My mom was single during my childhood, so men would always approach her, not too frequently, but enough for me to notice. She was that woman. My friends, their parents, my teachers, and everyone with eyes would always gasp at how beautiful she was.
They would always say I looked just like her.
As life progressed, unapologetically, I wanted the same praise she got. I wanted the stares and gazes. But what people didn't see was the ugliness. The way she treated me and the way she responded in anger. The words that she would spew. Being one way at church and another way when we were home. I hated that people saw the beauty but didn't recognize the mask. Every day she would spend 30-45 minutes putting makeup on that would cover her imperfections. Her skin, her eyebrows, her eyelashes, and her lips. She would paint on full-face to the point that the person in the mirror was different from the person that woke up that morning. But she was beautiful, undeniably.
As I got older, I went into foster care. My life at "home" was so different. I began getting heavy into makeup. I always loved makeup to see that I was pretty... scratch that, I needed people to see I was pretty. I needed the validation. The praise, the acknowledgment. As if being beautiful was the height of my life. Like all my problems would end if someone called me beautiful.
Well, let me say, I've received all the compliments in the world. I've been approached by guys, I've put on makeup to hide my flaws, and even with all of that done, I still was dealing with unbearable pain. Being beautiful is on the lowest of the lowest list of things I want to be. I want to be seen as kind and loving. I want to be known for my big heart, not a smooth complexion. I just marvel at the things I glorified and desired. Those things only fill the surface, not the soul.
Every week when I go into church, I have several people come up to me and say to me, "How's your mom?!"And I lie saying, "She's good!" Then they look at me and say, "You look just like her, so beautiful." I smile and say, "Thank you so much, I'll tell her you say hello." And I don't know what's worse, being compared to her or them not knowing that's the worst compliment to receive.