which standards again?

by Cayla Celis

“Am I pretty?”

In the midst of my insecurities, spiraling and flooding and then spiraling some more, the question escaped from my mouth and attempted to seek asylum—release—in someone called Bob, someone I called a friend—at least back then.

He took a minute to answer. “You’re not white standards pretty or east Asian standards pretty,” he began, with his squeaks and all, "but at least you’re southeast Asian standards pretty.”

When I reflected on his answer hours later, I felt like I should have been more grateful that he was honest with me and that I could even be considered pretty in some context. And back then, his time, his words meant everything to me. To me he was my closest friend - he was something for me to revolve around. He was the closest thing to a star I had; he wasn’t the brightest or the prettiest or the biggest, but he was the closest thing and that was enough.

But right after he answered, all I could do then was snark back, “Well, those aren’t the standards I’m trying to fulfill,” and stare emptily at the full moon as he talked incessantly about his short stature and his chubbiness.

But why weren’t they? Why did it matter to me that I wasn’t considered to have European or East Asian features, especially since I didn’t identify as European or East Asian?

It took me a while to get it, and then, I got it. 

Bob meant to say that I wasn’t pretty. There was no such thing as “southeast Asian standards pretty” because the beauty standards in southeast Asia, or at least in the Philippines, were based on Eurocentric ideals—on whiteness and bleached skin, on thinness and fat shaming. If I couldn’t fit Eurocentric beauty standards, then I couldn’t be considered pretty anywhere. 

But perhaps I could change and fit them, at least a little bit. I couldn’t really change my skin color, but I could be thin. I could try to, at least. 

So I did.

—

I started when Bob turned out to be something I could no longer revolve around. He burned and fried me and others and me,

me,

me.

He burned and fried and then he changed orbits and was off to his own galaxy.  

Yet he never faded. I still saw him, felt his presence, his sizzle - he was a constant reminder of what I could be if I didn't care: ugly, cruel, fat.

And then there came a new voice, a whole new person living in my head.

Because you needed me, you wanted me here, you sick, ugly, fat girl.

It was violent, bloodhungry, hoping to feast on the fat and bone I lost, fighting against rationale and my stupid weak cocooning body. My head became a warzone, all blood and carnage, but no Geneva Conventions here, none at all. 

There was only chemical warfare.

Pain is gain. Isn’t the pain worth it for a flat stomach, for your ribs to poke out of your skin until they pierce through? People like you like this, you like you like this. So gain. 

My body ached for food, but my heart ached for beauty, skin-shallow and rib-deep. I spent nights laying in bed desperate and desolate, begging for the Moon to have its rest sooner so I could eat be beautiful.

You want to eat now? Now? Fine, don’t wait. Don’t commit to not eating. Just don’t be mad when you’re rolling in your fat when you could have been perfect.

But all I could do was pay attention to the screaming inside my head, screaming, screaming. Please stop the screaming. 

Please. I'm trying. Nothing is working.

—

I hated them. I hated them all.

I hated my friends for watching me eat, for noticing when I didn’t, for making sure I ate and didn't leave, didn't run away.

You’re letting them get to you. Don’t.

I hated them all, my beautiful friends and their powerfully beautiful eyes that begged me to eat.

Don’t listen to them, don’t look at them.

I wish I could say that I never ate.

 I wish I could say that I didn’t succumb to my friends’ worries and that I didn’t care about their own wellbeing as they attempted to care for me, that I didn’t care about being a burden to them, and that I didn’t want them to leave me once they were fed up with my complete inability to feed myself.

I wish and I wish I could say that I didn't succumb to my own sick desire to eat and that I wished for any opportunity that would let me eat without guilt for once.

But I did.

Which makes you weak.

And at some point, I found myself not caring about being weak. Eating felt good, too good. I started eating again, and it felt good. Bit by bit, bite by bite, I took back some of my space, my mind. 

They’re always still here though. 

Always.

—

It’s been a year since everything. There’s someone else now, a person —my person— so completely different from Bob. He has space in his mind, but he walks with a purpose. His eyes shine like the Sun and scan the night sky for constellations, planets, moons that Bob (or I for that matter) would never have the headspace to remember. He takes every bright speck in the sky, every galaxy, everything of the night, and holds them all in that space in his mind. I swear sometimes when he laughs, I can see stars pour out of his mouth.

And yet, despite all this beauty he’s seen, he’s staring at me right now, looking at me like I’m the Moon, I’m the one he searches for in the night sky and then stares at, with its craters and American flags. He chuckles and kisses the top of my head, and I feel stars cascade down my hair.

“What?” I ask with a giggle and then stare back and look at him like he’s my own Moon because he is; he is the light of my life during my darkest times.

He shrugs in his own self-assured way. “Nothing, you’re just so beautiful.”

And I can’t get myself to say “thank you” because saying that would mean that I think it’s true, and it’s not true at all. Even after all this time I can’t get myself to automatically silence that second voice in my head, and I hate myself for it. But at least I can pull him closer to me and tell him to shut up and half mean it, and then maybe I can start to believe him.

 I’ll try to, at least.