“Unloved” is the feeling that never
left me. I hardly ever felt loved. Even though people sometimes show me affection, I always feel unloved. But it has a history. The history that
is timid enough to get away from me. The history that pinches me the most. The history that is with me in the
most chaotic form, I cannot be silent without it. The history that never
left me alone.
I was born premature. Even when I was
born, I was tiny enough to be considered a human being. That was a saying that my
mom repeats time and again in kitchen conversations. That was a statement. That
is a feeling of being something but not being human-like. It was with me when I was
literally tiny. But that tiny self has there with me for years.
When I was growing up, but still a tiny person,
people were there to evaluate my skin color, my size, and my weight. They also
considered me not likable enough. That unlikeable latter turned out to be
unlovable. I hardly got any male attention when I was a teenager. No one told me-
I like you. No one asked for my number in the most vulnerable way. That was common
for all my siblings. That was common for all my friends. That was common for
the people who were tentatively of my age. I left out being unlikeable. I left
out being unlovable. That tiny, unlikeable self remained to be unloved.
Time woke out. Time took its own
journey. I liked some people. But in
return, I was unlikable to them. Eventually, that cruel, unloved self ruined me.
Still, I find myself unlikeable and unlovable, though I know there are a
lot of things that make me more lovable than others. But the feeling is timid
enough to get away from me.
I live with that timid self. The self
that is ingrained with me in my most vulnerable way. Even though there is a
family that loves me, there are wonderful friends who cherish me, and there are people
who love me because I write. But the feeling of being not likable and lovable to
someone is still with me.
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