#and i embarrassed myself in front of a hot coworker by saying something extremely tone deaf

[muffinrag]

ooooooh I am so tired and miserable. And I know exactly why but it doesn't help

[shedyou-blog]

Rush (Adonis Creed One-Shot)

Summary: A young intern has a rough start to her day, and running into a certain stranger is just the icing on the cake. 

Warning: Mild language.

Word count: 3,399

Notes: I might turn this into a series, but for now it’s just a quick one-shot that I wrote last night. This is my first ever piece of writing that I’ve shared, so I’m pretty nervous. Feel free to leave your feedback or any requests, as I’m keen on wanting to better myself as a writer. Also, thank you to my friend, Brittani, for being my proofreader/editor! I appreciate you! You guys can check out her material @killmongers-counselor ❤️

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“Thank you so much, Greg!” I cried out to the barista behind the Starbucks counter as I made my way past the crowded sea of people trying to get their morning beverages and breakfast. Holding a piping hot cup of coffee in one and my briefcase in the other, I used my shoulder to quickly push the door of the Starbucks open and made my way on to the ever so lively, busy streets of New York City.

This morning had been a doozy, considering the fact that I overslept, and was now running late for work. As an intern for one of the top public relations firms in the country, I made it my mission to appear as professional as possible in order to achieve the career that I’ve always wanted, which was to be the best damn publicist in the entertainment business that the world had ever seen.

Glancing down at the rose gold Apple watch on my wrist, I cracked one eye open, scared to look at the time displayed on the tiny screen. “Fuck!” I let out a tumultuous groan as I proceeded to power walk down the congested sidewalk amongst other wayfarers trying to get to their individuals destinations. There was never a time where NYC wasn’t busy, especially during the weekdays. The streets were always filled with employees making their way to their nine to fives. I fret that I wasn’t going to make it to my job on time, becoming annoyed and panicked as I damn near sprinted, finally approaching the area in which my workspace was located. The only issue was that I was on the wrong side of the street and making it across the hectic street would prove a challenge. However, at this moment in time, I didn’t care about anything other than making it to my job, so I took my chances. Holding up my hand that was preoccupied by my briefcase, I began to jog across, passing by a few cars. The owners of the cars were obviously irritated, making sure that they honked their horns at me to let me know how dumb I was, but I didn’t care.

I was halfway across the street when suddenly, my heel got caught in a subway grate, causing me to lose my footing, but I quickly recovered by stretching my arms to my sides, which helped me with my balance. Once I got my body to stop swaying back and forth, I crouched down to try and retrieve my heel which was still stuck in the subway grate. “Oh, my fucking god, you have to be kidding me right now.” I harshly whispered to myself, thinking my morning couldn’t get any worse than what it already was.

“Aye, watch out!” I heard someone bellow out, but I was way too focused on trying to save my heel to pay them any attention. “Hey!” They yelled again, and that’s when my entire body crashed into the sidewalk. It was as if something, or more so, someone, had collided right into me.

I let out a shriek, bewildered and thinking over what the hell had just happened. A few seconds later, the weight that had slammed into me removed itself while I still laid on the hard, gray concrete. “What the fu- “I turned my body around and sat up, so I was sitting on my butt, and that’s when I looked up to see a well-built African-American man standing over me with his somewhat swollen hand extended to me. Before I grabbed his hand, I analyzed him quickly. His torso was clad in a skin tight, long sleeved black shirt, which was layered with a warm black leather jacket with beige fur lining the outsides. His jeans were a dark wash blue and they slightly sagged a little, but not too much to where they were falling off his ass. He adorned a pair of classic tan Timberlands on his feet. He was good looking, handsome, actually. I’ll give him that. Hesitantly, I took his hand into mine and he pulled me up, helping me stand to my feet. My feet. Underneath my left foot, I could feel the hard, cold, gravely pavement. I glanced down, finding that my shoe was no longer attached to my foot and my eyes immediately darted toward the street to see that it had already been ran over, and was continuing to be ran over by other vehicles making their way through town. “SERIOUSLY?!” I huffed out, sulking and stomping my feet, to which the male currently standing before me found to be amusing. I quickly shot him the hardest glare I could muster which only made him laugh even harder. If I wasn’t so angry, I would have noted how perfect his teeth were, but I was way more focused on giving him a piece of my mind than complementing his features. “I don’t see what it is that you find so funny. Now what am I gonna do? I literally have to be at work in three minutes and I’m missing a fucking shoe!”

With a shake of his head, he beamed down at me. “It was either gonna be you or the shoe. I figured you were worth more than an object that could be easily replaced.”

“Well that’s where you’re wrong, because that shoe was VERY expensive, limited edition actually, therefore it can’t be replaced!” I spoke loudly with an eye roll and with as much venom that I could lace into my voice.

“Listen, if the shoes mean so much to you, I’ll buy you another pair to cover the damages.” He said with an exasperated sigh, sensing my anger through the tone of my voice.

“What part of these are limited editions did you not understand? Did you not listen to a word I just said?” I was pretty much yelling at the guy now.

He cocked an eyebrow at me as he looked at me in shock. “You know usually when someone gets their life saved, they show a bit of gratefulness by saying thank you. You’re crazy to wanna risk your life over a shoe of all things.”

“Yet you’d risk your life for a complete stranger, someone who you don’t know and will probably never see again?” I inquired, raising my eyebrow to imitate his earlier facial expression. I knew I was coming off as extremely rude and bitchy, but I was too far gone in rage to even care.

He gave a slight shrug of his broad shoulders. “Well, I’d rather die as a hero than die as a moron.”

“Excuse me? The hell is that supposed to mean?” I questioned, getting offended by his smart comment.

He rolled his eyes and shook his head while waving me off. “It doesn’t mean anything. Just leave, y’know…. so you won’t be late for work.”

“Oh, I’m going! You don’t have to worry about that!” I clapped back, making sure the tone in my voice was dripping with nothing but sarcasm. I quickly turned around and limped my way to my destination, before growing even more annoyed and taking the remaining heel off. Once inside the building where my job was located, I scurried through the front lobby with my head down, embarrassed to be seen by my fellow coworkers in my current state. I could hear murmurs and whispers as I felt people’s eyes burning a hole through my body. After what felt like forever, I reached the elevator and climbed in with a number of other employees, squeezing my way through so I could press the button that would take me to the tenth floor of the building. Once again, I could feel eyes on me, so I concentrated on getting to my meeting on time, and also tried to come up with an explanation as to why I was walking into a professional setting barefoot. This internship meant everything to me and was the key to achieving my dream job. I couldn’t let this mishap cost me everything that I’ve worked so hard to get.

When the elevator doors opened, I lightly jogged to the conference room, walking in to see my boss, Mr. Addington, and multiple other colleagues sitting at the long, freshly varnished conference table. I nodded my head swiftly as a greeting, and hurriedly made my way to my seat.  “You’re just in time Ms. Bridges. I was starting to think I was going to have to let you go. We are waiting on our new client to arrive and then we’ll proceed with the meeting.” I sighed, giving him a light “okay” as a response, honestly exhausted from how rough my morning had been. I was just grateful he hadn��t noticed my missing shoes.

Once seated, I took a deep breath, trying to relax my thoughts. I looked around the table nervously and spotted that everyone had their required paperwork stacked in front of them, just in case the client decided to pick who he or she wanted to represent them. Then it hit me. When I got knocked over on the sidewalk earlier, my coffee AND briefcase fell out of my hands and onto the jam pact streets of the Concrete Jungle. “Shit!” I said under my breathe so no one around me could hear. I scooted my chair back and stood up, straightening my outfit which had been wrinkled due to my fall a few minutes earlier. “Mr. Addington,” I squeaked out. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but I just realized that I left my paperwork out- um, on my desk! If you don’t mind, could I go and get it really quick?”

“Go ahead.” He finally spoke after a few seconds of sitting in silence, which seemed like an eternity. I nodded, trying to make a beeline for the conference room door, but then Mr. Addington stopped me.

“Ms. Bridges?” He called out from behind me, resulting in me stopping dead in my tracks, shutting my eyes tightly in order to brace myself for what I knew was about to come. “Why on earth are you walking around in a professional setting without shoes on?”

Turning around slowly, I gave him the most apologetic look that I could assemble, opening my mouth to say something, but someone standing behind me decided to speak for me. It was him.

“It’s because I spilled coffee on them. I might have gotten some on her briefcase too.” I turned my head in the direction of where the voice was coming from, only to see the man I had encountered earlier standing before me, holding a pair of the very same shoes that had been damaged along with my briefcase. He sported a dazzling smile, showing off his pearly whites while handing the items over to me. “Here you go, ma’am. Sorry about all the trouble.”

My mouth was wide open as my jaw hung low, in complete shock and disbelief that 1) I would run into him again and 2) he had found the same exact limited-edition shoes I was sporting earlier. I struggled to find the words to say, until I saw him stalking over to the other empty seat at the table, that’s when the realization hit me. “Wait, you’re our new client?!” I whispered to him before he got too far out of ear shot. He turned his head slightly, winking his eye at me with a cheeky grin plastered along his face.

“Well then Ms. Bridges, if you don’t mind, could you please take a seat, so we can get this meeting started?” Mr. Addington suggested. “Y-yes sir.” I stuttered while clearing my throat, ecstatic that I wasn’t going to lose my internship and headed towards the table to take my seat.

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When the meeting was over, everyone in the room stood up from their seats and began to fill out of the room, including the man whose name I had already forgot despite him being the topic of discussion at today’s meeting. I was still wanting to hold on to a little bit of anger, but it was hard to do so after his grand gesture of retrieving my briefcase and finding me my prized heels. Apparently, he was really popular in the boxing world, being the gifted seed of another popular boxer who had died before he was born. He recently became the new heavyweight champion of the world and was in need of a publicist to help mold his public image to the world. It seems as if he was known by the majority of the employees in the conference room, except me, considering I’m not into sports like that. The meeting ended with him not deciding who he wanted as a publicist, so Mr. Addington decided that we’d have another meeting soon unless he made up his mind later on today.

I quickly caught up to the man in the hallway, tapping him lightly on his shoulder with a manicured nail to get his attention. “Excuse me.” I croaked out, slightly nervous and embarrassed that I had made such a fool out of myself earlier.

He stopped walking and turned his head halfway, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. I could tell he was smirking, his eyes held a glint of amusement in them. “Yes?” He responded.

“Um, h-how did you get these? They’re-“I began to ask before he turned around fully and cut me off.

“Limited edition?” He chuckled, finishing my sentence for me. His shoulders bounced lightly, finding the turn of events humorous. “Girl, you ain’t the only woman in this building with these. You know that, right? They aren’t as limited as you thought.”

I nodded my head, beginning to stumble over my words. “I mean, yeah but- I know b-but- “He cut me off again.

“Look, I bought ‘em off some woman’s feet ‘ight? Don’t even trip. There yours now so you should be happy now, right?” He answered in the most sarcastic tone he could convene, imitating how I was acting earlier. He started to walk away again toward the elevator.

“Thank you!” I blurted out loudly and he stopped dead in his tracks, his back facing me while his finger hovered over the button that would take him to the first floor of the building.

“What are you thankful for? The shoes, saving your life, or saving your job?” He cocked his head to the side. I couldn’t see his face, but I just knew he was sporting an exasperated look on his features.

“Everything.” It came out more like a question and he kissed his teeth in response. “Look, I was dead wrong to not say thank you. I know I came off as a bitch and I truly apologize for being so nasty to you. I was just really stressed out and I know that isn’t an excuse to treat you the way that I did. I’m really sorry.”

He was still turned around the other way, nodding his head as a sign that he accepted my apology. “’Ight, I forgive you, but you owe me for doing me like that.”

“I’ll do anything! Just say the word.” I quickly rushed out, only to ponder that what I just said could be taken the wrong way. “Except sex. That’s out of the question. Anything but that.” He spun around at that statement, letting out a hearty laugh, his eyes squinting and his nose crinkling a bit. I hated to say it, but he looked absolutely adorable. He reminded me of a little kid at that moment. When he finally calmed down, he let out a small chuckle, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. “I promise no sex. Just dinner and movie… and for you to be my new publicist.”

“Wait, whoa, whoa, whoa. You mean like a DATE date? I asked, taken aback that he’d even mention that as an option. Not to put myself down or anything, but I considered myself to be pretty average compared to the women I’d assume were his type. He seemed to be out of my league. “And also, you want me to be your publicist? Nigga, did you see how we were butting heads earlier? Plus I’m just an intern. There are other people who were in that room that are way more qualified and have more experience than me. You really think that’s a good idea?” I said with hand on my hip.

He gave me a blank stare, kissing his teeth again. “Nah I mean a conference.” He responded sarcastically to my first question. “And how are you gonna get experience if you don’t go out in the field first hand? If you do a good job, you might get hired for a full-time position. I think it’s a great idea.” I nodded my head slowly, taking in what he just said. He was making a lot of sense.

“Well when you put it that way… okay, what the hell, I’ll do it.” I obliged, glancing down at the shoes that were now on my feet, clasping my hands together behind my back as I rocked back and forth on the heels of my feet to the tips of my toes. “And as for the date, I mean, that’s cool. I would love that…” I trailed off, trying to remember the name Mr. Addington referred to him by during the meeting.

As if he read my mind, he chuckled once again. “You can just call me Donnie.” He smiled, shaking his head lightly in delight.

“Donnie” I repeated under my breathe a few times, making sure his name was ingrained in my brain. I looked up at him, his gaze was slightly intimidating. “Well, I’m- “

“Amondi. How could I forget such a unique name?” He had a habit of finishing my sentences, I could see. It seemed like he always had a way of knowing exactly was I was going to say, and he just met me. “Wait, Mr. Addington never referred to me by my first name. How did you know?” I gave him a side eye, curious as to how he found out that piece of information.

“This morning must really got you frazzled.” He spoke, amusement lacing his voice. “It’s labeled on the front of your briefcase.”

“Oh… well yeah, that’s correct. So, uh, do you wanna take my number or should I take yours? My mom always told me that if a guy gives you his number, then that means he has nothing to hide and is serious about wanting to get to know you, but if he takes yours instead, then that means he probably has a boatload of other women and would rather have your number, so you won’t have such easy access to him. He can call you whenever he wants but you can’t do the same.” I gave him a knowing look, analyzing his face to see if I could gauge his reaction.

“Well then, you got a pen?” He raised a brow at me, a smirk slowly forming across his face. I nodded my head, reaching in to my briefcase to retrieve my favorite red ink pen. I was expecting him to hold his hand out, so I could scribble my number onto his palm, but was shocked we he briskly grabbed the pen from my hand, holding it in his to write his own number on my palm. I smiled at him for what was probably the first time today as he quickly wrote each digit one by one onto my somewhat shaky palm that he held still with his own.

I knew for a fact my mom would cuss me out and would continue to do so until the cows come home if she knew I had agreed to a date with a guy I barely knew, but he just seemed different. He actually seemed like he wanted to get to know me for me, plus he was encouraging me to step out of my comfort zone by being his publicist. Most of the guys I’ve been with could care less about my career.

And after all, he found a way to make the impossible, possible, and not just once, but three times.

Let’s just hope I’m right.

[rebekahsremarkable]

Molly

When I was in elementary school, there was a girl named Molly in which for several years, I had her in several of my classes. Molly was very different than the rest of the girls at school. She didn’t care much about anything except her happiness. I think, deep down, I admired that about her.

Even as a young adolescent, I had yearned to be accepted by my peers. When the popular girl in school, Kelly, started tying her shirts in the back- I quickly followed suit. When she started wearing army pants and flip-flops, I started wearing army pants and flip-flops. When the popular clique in school started playing volleyball- I begged by Dad to pay for lessons.

But Molly wasn’t like that. Molly was weird. She did weird things, like eat lunch by herself and talk about grown-up things like boys and what penises were. “What is a penis?” I remember thinking. “It sounds like a toy. And why do only boys have them? That doesn’t seem fair.”

One day, on the playground, I remember the girls and I watching Molly practicing for the school’s talent show. She twirled around for everyone to see. There was no music, and every mis-step she took, onlookers could witness.

The HBIC of Turner Elementary, Kelly, stood up and walked over to Molly’s designated dancing area. As the girls and I approached behind Kelly, Molly stopped dancing.

“Hi, guys!” She smiled, and opened her big blue eyes wide, as if we were there to accompany her in her dance routine.

“Hi, Molly.” Kelly said, with a blank tone. “Did you know that me and some of the girls were dancing in the talent show, too?” She asked, almost sarcastically.

“Yeah! I saw in rehearsal the other day! You guys are so good.” She smiled, waiting for a returned compliment of approval.

“Listen,” Kelly said, sternly. “I’m saying this, because I’m your friend. And no one else has the guts to tell you...” The girls nodded in sync. I looked at each of them- wondering what was happening. I was confused. Kelly said she was saying something as a friend, but somehow it still felt threatening. Is that a thing all girls can do- or is that some super power only Kelly could acquire?

“You look like an idiot. And I know that sounds mean. But how do you think you will look? Especially after the girls and I dance? People seeing... Whatever you call that. I just don’t want you to be embarrassed.”

“Yeah, she’s right.” The girls said, almost collectively. They all giggled.

I watched as I could almost visually see Molly’s pride disappear from her face. Her big, blue eyes lost their happily independent twinkle. Her grin dissipated. I could see her free-spirited heart break.

“I’m glad we had this talk.” Kelly said.

The girls and Kelly walked away in their herd, and I stayed back for a second. I saw Molly quietly cry for a moment, and then huff in the rest of her feelings. I went to walk away- but stopped myself for just a moment as we shared a glance.

“I...” I stumbled to say. I looked down at the ground, ashamed.

“Go ahead.” she quietly whispered.

And go I did... I followed the herd inside the school as the end-of-recess bell rung.

I sat back at my desk, and wondered what had just transpired. I didn’t participate in mocking Molly, but I still felt shitty. I didn’t laugh at Kelly’s remark like the other girls, but I still felt just as guilty.

But I did watch. Yes, that’s exactly what I did. I watched as the girls made a innocent, confident girl- into a jaded, self conscious child. But I didn’t participate. I didn’t say anything...and as Mrs. T handed out the spelling list for the week, I came to a fourth-grade revelation:

Maybe watching is just as bad.

*******************************************************************

Making new friends to me is extremely important. For some reason, when other girls like me or say I’m funny, I get a high much similar to shooting meth in my arm (is meth shot up, or is it ingested? Will google later).

Sure, boys think I’m funny. But boys also want to sleep with me; and while some women may feel the same way, I feel a sense of validity when another girl likes me. It’s like- Woah! You’re not in competition with me? You’re not trying to tare me down? You LIKE me? I must be one hot potato.

So imagine my surprise when meeting Leanne’s brand-new, super hip and pretty Denver friends. There was three: Yasmine, a gorgeous, round-eyed makeup connoisseur; Margie, a coworker of Leanne’s, stone-faced and extremely fashionable; and Tabitha, a shy, alcohol-friendly introvert.

We sat in the extremely expensive, young-people friendly lobby of Leanne’s apartment complex waiting for the handsome men they acquired at the mall earlier that day to finish their game of pool.

As a bottle of expensive vodka got passed around the room, I noticed the girls were on the other side, and I was sitting against the wall. I had made an observation as the girls whispered and giggled to each other:

This is the first time I had been in the same room as Leanne and we  weren’t sitting next to each other. Or touching. Or laughing. Or hugging. In her niche, I watched her and her new found lady wolf pack bond from across the way. I wouldn’t say I felt jealous- but I definitely just wanted to become a part of it.

Feeling frisky, I took the pool stick and shot a ball into the corner pocket.

“Nice,” one of the handsome suitors said.

I slyly dabbed and the boys laughed.

For the rest of the night, I decided to be myself. I drank wine instead of vodka, made funny “That’s What She Said” quips and danced when a song I liked came on. I was un-apologetically myself, as Leanne always inspired me to be. In this instance, looking back, I was un-apologetically myself, by myself.

I had work in the morning, so I retired to Leanne’s bedroom alone, laying in her bed with the comfort of knowing I made three new friends. I hope they liked me. I wanted us to be Sex and the City, essentially. I imagined us all sitting around a table, at a fancy Sunday 10 am brunch, drinking mimosas and talking about penises. Who would be the Samantha? Who is Charlotte? No one is Miranda. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

My imaginative brain almost drifted to sleep when I heard Yasmine say my name.

“She’s nice, I guess. Some of her remarks seemed a little passive aggressive.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Margie said. “She just seems like, insecure.”

“She likes attention.” Tabitha replied. “Which is fine, I mean... every girl likes attention. She just tries too hard to be funny. And she gets really um...”

“-Passionate.” Leanne finally chimed in.

“Right. Passionate.” the other girls chuckled.

I tried my hardest not to keep listening. I begged for sleep to take me away. But I kept hearing each girl back-handedly give me ‘compliments’.

I kept waiting to hear Leanne’s voice... But it never came.

When they finally found a new topic, I found myself feeling a gaping hole in my chest. What did I do? What was passive-aggressive? It was like being present for your own Comedy Central Roast, but no one else knows your there and the jokes are really just your biggest insecurities.

But though it felt like I had just looked into a Magic Mirror similar to the one in Snow White (except instead of telling you you’re the fairest off them all, it tells you your shittiest qualities), I found myself noticing the main reason why I was hurting wasn’t because of the things the girls said. It was what Leanne didn’t say.

She didn’t say anything, so how could I be mad? She just watched. Then I thought about fourth grade, and I thought about Molly... No, Leanne didn’t say anything...

But maybe watching is just as bad.

**********************************************

I packed up my belongings the next morning and left as everyone slept. I made myself a quick pre-workout cocktail, and scurried out the door before anyone could see I was upset.

Before leaving the parking garage, I typed up a Facebook message to the girls apologizing for being ‘passive-aggressive’, and how I looked forward to getting to know them better. My exit must have awakened them, as the message went to ‘read’ quickly after I hit send. I never received a response.

On the forty minute drive home, I recalled my fourth grade talent show:

Kelly, (who told me, after careful deliberation, I could not be a part of their talent show dance), was instructing me when exactly to pull the curtain closed as the girls made their final pose in their choreography. It was too late for me to be the ‘talent’ in the talent show, so I volunteered to be a part of the stage crew.  

When it was finally the girls’ turn to perform in the show, they danced to a Will Smith party anthem that seemed, in hindsight, a little too edgy for a couple of eight year olds. I pulled the curtain precisely as instructed. The girls all peeked out the curtain and bowed to their raving applause, and were clearly fan favorites.

Ms. Marshall called out for the final act. “Has anyone seen Molly?”

I wondered if she’d show.

“Here! I’m here!” Molly said. She was dressed in all white, with a bright pink scarf tied to hip of her capris.

She smiled big as she walked passed the girls and said, “Wow. You ladies did a great job!” And ran to the center of the stage.

Ms. Marshall walked in front of the curtain and started speaking into the microphone. “And now, for our final act, we have Molly performing a dance she choreographed herself.” She awkwardly clapped herself off stage, and I pulled the curtain open accordingly.

There stood a posed Molly, her feet confidently planted on the ground, her hand on her hip. There was a moment of silence, and, almost suddenly, a tune called “Accidentally in Love” played.

I watched Molly dance, completely in awe. It was as if what had happened days earlier didn’t even phase her. She moved to a song that everyone in the room could visibly see she loved, you would thing she wrote the damn song.  She jived, she used jazz-hands, she did the monkey, and most of all- she smiled. She shined.

I felt myself notice the difference between Molly and I in that moment. This whole time, I had vied for acceptance from my peers- and I never got it.

Molly had never asked for acceptance, she never conformed, and there she was, the star of her own show.

Where was I? I was pulling the curtain. Where was Molly?

She was dancing to the rhythm of her own song.

***********************************************

Thanks for reading! I’ve been getting some responses in which people get mad at me for posting certain things on here... I kept my writing secret for a long time. I even stopped entirely after I was told I wasn’t good at it, or that it was me vying for attention. For awhile I got really depressed and honestly, the only thing that pulled me out of it was writing. It gives me a sense of purpose. It lets me bend reality in a way that makes sense to me. With that in mind, readers need to understand that though there are certain things in life my writing may be inspired by, the occurrences in the blog are entirely fictional. Are there certain things that may remind you of someone in my life, or of an occurrence you may of been a part of? Sure, but my writing is far from the truth. My writing tells a story. A story that I want to be relatable the many(okay, like 5) women who read it, and that requires me to make something that has a message and a plot.

So if you’re my friend reading this, thank you for supporting me and understanding this. If you’re someone who feels they have been mis-represented on here, well, you’re wrong. Because my writing has nothing to do with you. This is the one space where all it has to do with, is ME. It’s my world to manipulate. If you don’t like it, don’t read it.

[ouraidengray4]

I Was So Desperate for Lighter Skin I Did Incredibly Dangerous Things

My mom and me... I'm just a few days old here.

I’m Filipino, and I’ve lived in the Philippines for most of my life. The skin-whitening industry in this country is unbelievable; celebrities are paid millions to endorse whitening soaps and lotions, and famous doctors advertise services like chemical peels and wraps that will supposedly whiten your skin. Some registered nurses even supplement their incomes by providing injections—heck, some people who aren’t professionals learn to do this under the table… and some scary stuff can happen. I made that mistake personally.

But why are we going through all this expense and pain? Light skin is the primary standard of beauty here, and it's acceptable to casually make comments about each other's skin tones. They don’t care if you look like Angelina freaking Jolie—if you have dark skin, you’re ugly. You’re unwanted. This perspective really stems from an outrageous degree of self-hatred, because Filipinos are naturally tan or dark—the fair-skinned folks here are typically those who also have some European or East Asian ancestry.

When I was a very little girl, I remember the older women in our family talking about how it’s fine for the males to be dark-skinned, but it’s unfortunate for females. They would fawn over my cousins, whose dad is part European, but never over my sister and me because, well, we're a bit darker-skinned. They would always say that we could be smart and good at other things, but the idea that we could be beautiful was completely off the table. Of course, I wanted to be both beautiful and smart. But I didn’t have a foreign father, so I thought my skin automatically eliminated me from being beautiful.

When I was a kid, I was considered too dark to be beautiful.

My mom used to bring my sister and me along with her to her dermatologist, who always prescribed her lots of expensive lotions, soaps, and treatments to rid her skin of melanin. Ironically, my mom's name is "Melanie," which literally means "dark beauty," and she is indeed beautiful. But she has never been able to embrace her dark skin.

My mom’s obsession with skin lightening rubbed off on me. As a kid, I rarely went out of the house, for fear that the sun might burn my skin. I stayed inside an air-conditioned room, because I'd heard that the cool air would make my skin lighter. However, every summer, I'd end up going back to square one thanks to our annual family reunions, where I’d spend the whole morning and afternoon swimming with my cousins. Whenever we were about to go home after all the fun in the sun, they’d tease me by calling me "negra," which is our equivalent of the n-word. It hurt.

By the time I reached high school, I was only more insecure about how I looked. I was fat growing up, so a lot of my body chafed... and when the skin healed, it turned darker. I never wore anything that exposed my skin. To hell with the hot weather, I didn’t want anyone to see how dark my inner thighs and armpits were. When I got my monthly allowance, I would make my way to the nearest drugstore and scour through the whitening lines from Pond’s, Garnier… whatever brands were available. I was supposed to make that money last all week, but by the time I get out of the store, I would only have money to buy lunch for the next couple of days or so. But being light-skinned was more important to me than eating.

Playing as a baby.

Of course, it was all useless—none of the products worked. I was frustrated at the thought that my skin would never become white. At best, it would turn a sallow yellow or tan, not the paper-white tone of the girls whose faces shone from the products' packaging.

I experimented with whitening creams until I was in my first semester in university, when my mom started gushing over this new treatment, which used an antioxidant called glutathione. Her coworkers were getting injected with it every couple of weeks or so, and they started to develop skin that could rival the true whiteness of a Caucasian. It was expensive. My mom was one of the first people I know who eagerly got injected with this medicine.

The injectables were supposed to be the most effective, but it also came in the form of soaps and oral medication, and Mom started to buy anything and everything that had glutathione in it. It worked; she really did turn into the fairest shade of white in no time. I was jealous, but I was too proud to ask her if she could pay to have me injected, because she was also paying for my tuition.

Just like when I was in high school, I decided to set aside a huge chunk of my allowance to pay for these injections myself. I got a raise in my allowance, but it certainly wasn't enough to pay for the glutathione and my meals, plus school expenses. A friend recommended a nursing student who was learning to administer the shot and whose fees were cheaper than at a clinic. I happily handed over my money, and she bought a box of glutathione. I was ready for my first session.

This is where I realize that I completely f*cked up.

Of course, this nurse who was willing to inject me under the table didn’t actually know what she was doing and literally forced the needle into my hand. The procedure was done in less than two minutes, but because of all the pain, it felt like two hours. For the rest of the day, my right hand was barely functional. By the next morning, it was so swollen that the slightest movements made me wince in pain. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone who asked that I was suffering because of my vanity.

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But I didn’t learn my lesson just yet. As soon as my hand healed, I went out and decided to just buy glutathione pills. They made me break out into hives, so I had to go to the clinic for an antihistamine injection. The doctor who administered the shot reprimanded me for taking oral glutathione and getting injected with it. She told me that some people's organs can be affected by unregulated medications and that this stuff was untested—it might even lead to death. She said that I just had to let go of my obsession with having light skin.

I had to tell myself that enough was enough. I couldn’t sacrifice my health just to be called pretty by the people around me. So what if it meant I wouldn’t turn heads when I entered a room? What’s the purpose of having my culture's ideal skin color if my skin became ultra-sensitive, my organs started to fail, or worse, I ended up inside a coffin?

My years of insecurity and obsession didn’t make it easy for me to abandon skin lightening. However, I'm happy to say that I've come to accept how I look, and the only skin-care products that I splurge on now are Dove soap and a moisturizing lotion for the colder months. Glutathione supplements, products, and injections are still selling like hotcakes, but they’re not for me.

Today I'm happy to love myself as I am.

If you weren’t born with the skin color that's considered "ideal" in your country or culture, you don’t have to go to extreme measures to become beautiful in other people's eyes. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter how dark or light your skin is.

What matters most is that you’re comfortable in it and you don’t let other people's cruel, insensitive words influence how you feel about yourself.

Spending hours in front of a computer inside my dark bedroom might’ve done some magic, because for whatever reason, I'm lighter now than I was as a kid. But these days, I'm not thinking about it as much. I still try my best stay away from direct sunlight when I go out of the house, of course… but not because I’m still scared of getting dark. Like everybody else, I’m just terrified of skin cancer.

Christine Celis is a twenty-something who runs on 36 hour days because she doesn't know how to handle her time. When she's not being lazy, she spends her time with her fat pugs, trying to convince herself that she's probably a mermaid.

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