I Chose To Be

I didn’t know how to term my feelings or categorize them with big, fancy words, let alone put them under the hat of a psychological or scientific term. I just wanted someone to acknowledge them — or maybe not someone, but myself — to name those feelings and crush them with a big, pointy rock to end it there and then. Not to sound gory or vicious, but to let go of those painful crutches around my soul.

To be or not to be?
I chose to be.

I chose to be, and to crush those tiny, gloomy, dirty name-calling, body-shaming, judge-y looks peeking into my soul and casting a deep, aching impact on my heart. Letting go of my existence — my beautiful existence. To be. To be kind, to be compassionate, to be loud and proud and shameless, feeling the air in my hair with no pressure of guilt or judgment for looking the way I do. Plus size? Dark? Shameful of something I haven’t done? Counting and over counting and repeating my moves in my head like a broken record to sound and act the best fool-proof version of myself ? To check all the boxes for being accepted and settled in the wild cult of yours?

I chose to be.
I chose to crush those feelings.
I chose to smile wide.
I chose to laugh and hit the ceiling with my weird laughter. To joke around and dance with no sync in a room full of judgmental, staring, creepy eyes ready to pierce into my tiny, scared soul. Like a lost child in the crowd?

I chose to be. I chose to be naked in front of those eyes. I am enough. I may not be the version deemed perfect by this world’s breath-muffling standards, where I must shine and glow and sit and talk and walk the way you want me to. No.
I chose to be.

I kept blaming myself and hiding from my reflection — avoiding my own eyes in the mirror because I might notice something far from perfect. I looked away. I went out of my way to make others feel comfortable, covering my guilt-ridden body to fit in. Not anymore.

I chose to live on my own terms.
I chose to be rogue.