Of a Facebook friend and a Monster

This is a true story that happened to me a few weeks ago.

If you don’t know, I was born in Venezuela: a country that praises sensuality and ornament. With a long tradition of international beauty pageant queens, it is in our culture, in our identity, to look good. Oddly enough, that custom has only boosted my desire for simplicity.  

When I was 18, I weighted 54 kilograms, I used to pull my hair back in a ponytail, everyday. I was slim, had large hips, long neck and a small waist. I didn’t wear make-up or followed trends. My favourite colors to wear were black, blue, and gray. I wasn’t fashionable. I was, you could say, simple. But I felt special, not all eyes were worthy of my beauty (teenage self-esteem).

Fourteen years have passed and I am a woman now. Do I even have to say that I don’t look the same? Should I even say it? To you? My dear friend reader who must sense me just a bit by now?

Well, I have changed.

I am 20 kilograms heavier now.  My hips look larger, some days I cannot find my waist, and my neck and arms are thick. I also wear make-up and let my hair down every now and then. I wear colors too, and pointy boots. I wear more “stylish” clothes; not because I have developed a new interest on fashion trends but because I don’t have the need to make a statement anymore. I am who I am and wear what I wear and I must not justify it. I learned in my teenage years that I am unique and I should not compare myself to other people.

But no matter the state of acceptance I could have gotten to of my current image; I cannot help reprimanding myself for gaining the weight, sometimes.

So it happened that the other day I “befriended” someone new in Facebook, not a friend of mine exactly,but a friend of my mom’s. I felt obliged to accept her invitation, out of courtesy. That silly online courtesy we have fearing possible real life consequences. Knowing my mother as I know her, I had to give the lady such a decent treatment. But if my mom were just honest enough, she would admit  that woman is not even her friend and save me some drama.

So, I accepted the friend request from that woman, hesitantly. ( I am not going to tell you her name nor bother to give her a fake one) Knowing beforehand that I would regret it later. You know, for people my age, Facebook is for sharing memes and fun stuff but for people HER age, Facebook is merely for gossiping…

Soon after, what I was expecting, actually happened.

While facetiming my sweet mother, she mentioned she met the Facebook lady by change one afternoon at church, and the good lady couldn’t help making the never requested -and yet for her indispensable- comment: “Gosh, your daughter got so fat!” to my poor mother who hasn't’ seen me in two years because I moved to a another country far, far away.  

I bursted.

“Damn lady! How dare she!? That’s it! I am eliminating her from my friend list! Out! Out! Go gossip somewhere eeelse!!!”

My mother, turning pale, so decently, was actually begging me not to eliminate the lady. “She didn’t mean wrong, honey”-she whispered. “She didn’t mean wrong”? I cried  “Wrong was the only thing she ever wanted to mean! Insensitive lady!” I am eliminating her. She can’t bother my mother for it; she doesn’t even have a Facebook profile! 

The “your daughter got so fat” comment resonated loud in my head for some time because it happened to touch two delicate strings in my life: my hard-earned self acceptance and my migration.

Her comment made me drown in a Monster I have been dreading since I moved, the only thing powerful enough to actually paralyze me: Remorse.  All I can think of now is “I was... I was…I was ...when things were…and things shouldn’t have been…and I shouldn’t have gone away …and all my struggle … and it’s still not enough...” .  

Remorse shuts my throat closed and pulls my teeny tiny will to live down to dangerous underground levels. Remorse is THAT thing keeping me awake at night, calling me to throw my life overboard. It is THAT thing.  I doubt my Facebook friend has ever had such a Thing.

For the most part, she might be right about my physique. But she doesn’t know my Monster. Nor does any other person making similar comments.

And if you, dear reader, ever feel tempted to making a similar comment to me, to anyone, about me, or about anyone, think again. You don’t know what kind of Monsters you are awakening.

And if you are lucky enough not to have such a Thing in your life, fear not. There’s still a chance for you. You are not exempt from having a monster of your own.

Who knows? It might take you by surprise just one day, off-guard, while doing your most ordinary chores. One morning, it might sneak upon you and jump on your face. “Boo!” It’d yell. And you would stare at It in wonder “What… where...wait, what exactly…?” And in that moment, you will know, you will never be alone. Living with you now, there’d be a new annoying little creature, restless and loud, feeding from your thoughts. But be careful, don’t feed It much. They grow large.   

A few weeks have past and I still haven’t told my mother I eliminated the lady from my Facebook friends; nor has she dared to ask me. I doubt she’ll bring it up, though. But if she ever does, there is nothing she can possibly do about it. The lady is out and that is a fact. Being as old as she is, she should know better: young people might have insecurities, but adults have breaking points, Celia.