Desire, I Want to Turn Into You

an essay on desire, body image and the impact of grief

I wonder when I’ll unlock the secret key code of desire. It’s a question that’s plagued me over the last two years. I’ve sat on the sidelines, wondering when that feeling of want will lay its warm touch on me. Tepidity appears to be all I have felt, and yet, I long for something more. 

It’s Friday night. Going out has become a masochistic pastime for me. I’m more than aware I’ll end the night feeling like shit, but I always say yes because of the slight chance it could be different this time around. I walk into it, hoping I’ll get into bed at 5 am the next day and feel the bubbling excitement of infatuation. Instead, I end up standing around the smoking area after an hour to give myself a breather and time to plan my early exit. I don’t smoke, and the second-hand fumes will probably lead to lung cancer, but for some reason, it draws me in. It’s as close to an anthropological study of dating as you can get outside of a classroom or the summer edition of Love Island. There’s something intoxicating in watching the women around me, friends, strangers and acquaintances alike, play their part in the antiquated mating game.

What I’m focused on the most isn’t their chat or how they’re laughing at a clearly unfunny joke told by a drunk guy—it’s what they’re wearing. Standing beside them, I mentally note what I’d need to change to fit into their thrifted jeans and DIY crochet tops. Their hair always seems tossed with the right amount of volume, slicked back with a firmness I could never achieve or coloured with no trace of their roots because, of course, they can afford a hairstylist. The necklaces worn atop their slender necks are always on my Pinterest boards. One of them is going for maximalist chic with layered chains mixed with pendants of their names, favourite flowers and a gold-plated cross. The other opts for the basic mid-90s Olivia Rodrigo crystal heart pendant on what looks like wax string. I’ve always wanted mine to look like theirs, but my collarbones don’t protrude enough to be deemed worthy of accessories.

Do they think I’m staring at them because I’m jealous? 

Well, I am. 

It feels so childish, and yet, I can’t help but envy the fact that it all comes across as easy for them. They smile, tap their over-lit cigarette and draw in their smoke along with all the attention in the room. Their eyes never break contact with the men who would only ever see me as someone to befriend. I’m the funny friend, the smart one, the driven one. I’m tolerable so long as I stand beside a woman who is worth their time and effort. Otherwise, I’m a walking, talking shadow—dead to all and destined to haunt. 

I don’t stop for a moment to think that maybe those women don’t want the attention I so desperately crave. They could very well resent that they can’t go out without drawing prying eyes, but for the invisible few, the unwantedness seems like an attractive bonus. 

My brain is short-circuiting, and I can’t figure out why I’ve regressed into feeling sixteen again. I want to be desired so badly that I’ve lost all sense of reason. Every other thought in my brain is spent on whether or not men find me attractive. It’s gotten to the point that when I go to restaurants with friends, I spend the entire time wondering if the cute guy sitting at the table next to me is judging my posture. Maybe he’s breaking down the parts of my body I could do without and if I’d be worth the effort to talk to. 

Frankly, it’s embarrassing, but all the remedies I’ve tried don’t seem to work. I try meditating, but my thoughts dance around the calmness I try to evoke. I go on walks, and all I think about is whether the cars that pass by me are taking their time to judge my body. My therapist thinks it’s anxiety manifesting from my grief and recent PCOS diagnosis. She might be correct, but why couldn’t it have manifested in a less mortifying way? I’ve been thrust into the worst parts of what we’ve societally deemed as “girlhood” at the ripe age of twenty-five without a maternal figure to grab onto for dear life. These thoughts are plastered across my brain from morning to night. Does the postman think I’m ugly? Maybe the shopkeeper thinks I shouldn’t have cut my hair. Why didn’t the barista smile back at me? 

My prettiness is often treated like wasted potential, that if I was just born with the right body—or parents who didn’t encourage my eating disorder—I’d be worth something. Instead, they tell me that I just have to wait it out to meet the right person, that my physicality will be overlooked, and my personality will shine through. When I was twenty-two and dating seriously enough to tell my parents, my father admitted that he always feared I’d never find love looking like I do. His words confirmed my long-held belief that nothing I did was good enough for him. It’s not just my beauty that’s wasted potential, it’s me. I’m not meek or demure as I should be. I argue and push people if I feel slighted. I stand up for myself. I’m honest about my hardships, rejecting cultural taboos of shame and silence. What he meant when he said that he feared his only daughter wouldn’t be loved is that I’m someone men would have to settle for. Because who on earth would choose that challenge wholeheartedly? 

I’m unsure if I’ve done this intentionally or if my gnawing insecurities have taken me hostage, but somehow, I’m now the passenger in my life story. Things are happening to me and not with me. I don’t feel destined for a love story because that would mean I’d have to be an active participant in my life instead of the girl men settle for. It’s not like I can even see myself in a serious relationship at the moment, but I still feel that I’ve been hoodwinked. The option of being able to say no is a powerful thing. It means you can make choices for yourself. But I no longer make choices. I live in memories of the ones I’ve made in the past. I spend my days remembering the potential partners I turned down and resenting the freedom I’ve granted myself by not clinging to men who would only see me as their subordinate. Maybe being someone’s second choice or choosing my own wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. I could grow to love him. Women in my family have gone through much worse—who am I to deny my own fate? 

I think about the men who have treated me like I was an embarrassment to be associated with. Filling my rotten brain with promises of love and adoration when nobody could see, only to starkly remind me that actually being with me meant having to tell their friends and family. As SZA states in Normal Girl, “wanna be the type of girl you’d wanna take home to your mama, the type of girl I know your fellas would be proud of”. I walk the fine line between knowing I shouldn’t care what families or friends think and simultaneously desperately craving their approval. The idea of being an embarrassment to someone feels so regressive and asinine. I know I’m being silly. I know I’m being childish.

Nonetheless, none of that matters because I also know that this is the reality of how the world treats women who can’t fit in the mould of desire. If my father believes it, then why wouldn’t strangers?  If the person meant to love me more than anybody or anything in the world can look at me with pity and suggest I should be settled for it, then clearly, that’s where my destiny lies. I feel suffocated by the weight of my history and all the baggage it brings. I want to be an easy-going, casual, and fun girl, but all you get in return for your time is an agitated and despondent woman. That’s why I sit in the corner on Friday nights. Why come out into the light knowing all I can provide is my misery? 

I wonder if the women would identify with my feelings if I asked. Have their fathers made them feel unworthy of basic care and decency? Do they have microscopic lenses to nitpick their bodies and appearance? Maybe, just maybe, they also wish to wear another woman's flesh as armour. Alternatively, they might look at me with sadness in their eyes, thinking something traumatic must have happened to make me feel this way. 

I guess that’s why it’s hard explaining this to my friends; telling people who love you just how little you think of yourself is heartbreaking. They’re wonderfully supportive people, but I wish their love were enough to sustain the hollowness in my heart. I want to tell them I feel all the crazy without dismissing it just because they support me. They tell me that because I’m blessed enough to be admired by strangers who follow me, I should feel good about myself. Can someone not feel the cold breeze of loneliness amongst a sea of admiration? If anything, the fact I feel worse must signal that something is broken inside of me. I’m an imposter hiding amongst the townspeople, waiting for them to discover the giant secret of how utterly awful I am. No amount of placating will change how I feel. I need my pain to bleed out to give me a chance of survival in my thirties, or I risk hoarding up all of this energy and letting it all go with an overdue breakdown. Career progression be damned. I must hole myself into a bunker and emerge in four years fixed and ready for my era of thirty, flirty and thriving. 

I want to skip over the hard parts—the grief, the incessant doctor appointments, the discomfort in no longer recognising myself in the mirror. Why do I have to unpack the damage done by lending my heart to unworthy contenders who have left it bruised beyond the point of no return? What gives them the right to go about their lives without considering the damage they've caused me? They tell me they see no serious future with me but continue to pop back into my life or bump into me with their new partners who appear preen and ready to meet the family I was too much for. 

I know I come off as insecure, which is allegedly the worst thing a woman can be in this life. I can't and won’t convince you otherwise—insecurity has become my only mode of existence. I speak in self-doubt, hatred and passivity. Yet, part of me fears that putting this out into the world signals that I am not open to love even if it dares knock on my marred door. What if someone reads this somewhere, at some time or another, and thinks I’m not worth the effort? Being forthright about my insecurities feels like the only way to learn to breathe again, but am I ready to face the consequences of complete honesty? 

The answer to that is unknown when writing this, but I hope I’m proven wrong.

God, let me be wrong.