The paradox of insecurity

Senior secondary school came with a lot of pressure in different dimensions—especially the last year of senior secondary school. Perhaps there wasn't any pressure, but for someone like me who didn't always feel great about herself, there seemed to be so much pressure.

I wanted to be many things. I wanted to look appealing and beautiful; I wanted people to talk about me. I wanted to be one of the coolest girls with the most fabulous friends.

I wasn't desperate. I didn't go all out to obtain these things, but deep down, I still desired it. I loved the friends I had, and I always enjoyed their company. I didn't mind that people liked to laugh at my squad of friends— mainly because they found our squad name ridiculous (I found it stupid too) and maybe because we were immature sometimes. Nevertheless, I loved my friends.

Still, whenever I walked into the preparatory hall in the evening, I was always bothered about how I looked. Every border had a uniform they would always wear once they were in the hostel. It was a buttoned wine t-shirt with stripes and plain wine trousers to match.

Almost everyone in my class looked okay in their uniforms. It was their size, and more importantly, they had the body that was suitable for their respective uniforms. Even if some didn't, they at least knew how to carry themselves smartly.

But my trousers were too baggy for me, and my shirt didn't feel right. There was no way I could slim-fit it like other persons. I was too short. Also, I didn't even like my manner of walking. It wasn't something I wanted anyone to notice, so even if my uniform fitted well, I had no confidence to carry myself smartly.

Hence, I was bothered about my outlook each time I walked into the preparatory hall. If I happened to walk in late, that was the worse thing because everyone was already settled on their tables, seated in groups of friends they loved to associate with.

The silence was always deafening, too, because we were expected to be reading our school books. So there was no way you would walk in late and wouldn't be noticed. During those times, I wished I could be consumed momentarily by the earth.

I felt intimidated by the boys in my class, especially— probably because I wanted to come off as attractive or sought some internal validation from them.

My insecurity was paradoxical.

There were some days when I had a vain sense of beauty—days when I felt beautiful and sexy—especially in my Sunday hostel uniform. It was a yellow gown with Ankara prints, and it seemed to have more fitting on my body than the wine shirt and trousers that I wore on weekdays. A few other times, It was just all in my head—regardless of the outfit I was putting on. How could I want to be so invisible and yet so noticed at the same time?

Why was my insecurity coated with an unreal standard of confidence? It all felt false. I was susceptible to this fantasy even in my most casual walks around the school or the hostel. I liked to consider how cool I must look, so I would replay ideal scenarios in my head — probably about how nice I sometimes felt about my body or a comment someone had given me in the past about my facial appearance, just something to fuel my vain bubble so I could walk with confidence, thinking people would notice me and bothering so much on external validation, but no one cared.

I liked to remain stuck in those scenarios that gave me serotonin—because it always felt good and much better than those feelings of normalcy, doubt, fear about my entire existence, whether people saw me and my lifestyle as uncool, and whether I was loved and seen in a good light by the people I wished to be friends with.

So, I stayed stuck in my head instead of simply participating in the world around me. I was a walking paradox—feeling so insecure but "confident" at the same time. My insecurity was a perverse expression of my pride. It was messing with me.

Why was I having that many thoughts about people and their perceptions of me? Why did I want to be seen in a good light? Why did I want to be noticed by many and be tagged or perceived as excellent?

Why did I even think that I was entitled to that? How could I even be cool when I didn't have the guts to associate with some of my classmates that I secretly admired? The ridiculous thing was, I was even afraid of some of them! So, what exact impression was I expecting from people I didn't even associate with?

It was crazy that I expected these people to say the sweetest things about me. I even wanted them to at least say that "oh, umm...Oju is okay, she's cool, " or "wow, I love Oju. She's beautiful. I like how she does her things..."

For crying out loud, these people weren't even my friends! I didn't build a relationship with them, yet somehow, I wanted them to observe me and focus on me. What else if not for my ego that was at work in me? Why was I that thirsty for validation?

But like I said, I couldn't decipher the roots of these thoughts and feelings at that time. I just felt them, and I felt incomplete throughout my years at Senior Secondary School because I wanted to be in the good books instead of just existing and focusing on the good things I had.

Another thing that drove me crazy was a secret self-comparison of myself with a certain girl in my class. She wasn't sassy or one of those unnecessarily mean but beautiful girls (I mean, she's gorgeous), but she was approachable and had a contagious smile each time she greeted people. She wore braces on her tooth. She was short like me, she wore glasses, and her skin tone was somewhere between dark-skinned and light-skinned.

She had a problem with her legs—it was more severe than mine. She always leaned on one side of her body while she walked, but one leg was skinnier than the second one, which was why she limped while walking.

She got more surgeries on her legs than I have had in my entire life, and she walked with casts bound over her legs for the majority of the time that she was in school. But she was perhaps the happiest person amongst my set of classmates.

She had many friends, and I considered some of them as the 'cool' people. A lot of people loved her and enjoyed being around her. She made witty comments all the time, even during class lessons. She made people laugh. She was crazy and laughed in a ridiculously unique way. Hearing it made me wonder why she laughed like that. At the same time, the sound of her laughter made me want to laugh as well.

I loved being involved in her life—even from a distance—in my corner where I sat. I liked listening to the witty, casual conversations she had with her friends in class. I admired her a lot. She was one hundred percent herself. She was also very talented and academically brilliant. Her writing was top-notch. She was intelligent and mature. She seemed to have such a balanced life. She didn't give a damn about anything.

Sometimes, I even did some thinking on her behalf. Especially when she walked into class. I would think thoughts like, "Isn't she thinking of how people will think about her legs?", "Isn't she bothered by it?", "Why does she look so bold and composed each time she walks?" "What is going through her mind as people are staring at her?"

Nevertheless, this girl lived her best life. She was all I could never be. She had the confidence that I always tried to visualize. There was no need for her to seek validation from anyone.

She owned her shit, talked her shit, and did her shit with no concern for any negative opinions whatsoever. I, on the other hand, did nothing but walk in my perverted bubble of ego and insecurity, and I cared way too much.

It was crazy how that peculiarity distinguished us from every other person in the entire school. We were the only students with a peculiar leg situation. It even seemed like a possible reason for us to be friends—maybe we could relate well to that similar feature that we had. It just seemed that way to me because I was dying to be her friend.

But the truth was, even in that commonness, there was a massive difference between us. Between the two of us, the only girls and students with a different leg condition, I felt like the one that people didn't care about. I wouldn't say I didn't feel loved since I didn't socialize much, but she was THAT girl for me. The one people enjoyed.

Sometimes too, I felt like I didn't have much problem with my legs compared to her since my manner of walking was somewhat better than hers, so I felt like she was the only peculiar girl, and people had a reason to love her beyond her physical appearance.

I just felt lost, to be honest. I felt uncool. I admit that I had my flaws and even offended people while I was in secondary school. It still makes me feel like that was why I didn't feel loved, or people didn't want to associate with me.

Even my mum compared me to that girl a few times. She used it as a way of admonishing me to be a friendlier person. My mum would always say in Yoruba, "look at that girl, a lot of people love her and love to be around her. Even with the state of her legs, she's confident and friendly. People have good things to say about her, but I'm not sure people would have something good to say about you. Try to be more friendly with people."

Of course, my mother had good intentions when she said those words. She wanted me to be of good cheer but comparing me to someone that sometimes made me feel intimidated? It worsened the situation and, dangerously, the self-esteem that I didn't have.
I felt even lesser than I already thought about myself.