There was a time when I didn’t recognize myself, when this face was foreign, and looking at it was like looking through shattered glass. I saw a nose, an eye on the left side of a round brown face and one on the right. I saw a dark top lip and a lighter bottom one. All of which I wanted to rip off. It was all wrong. Uneven. I hated myself. I was not the standard. Not petite, or pale, or thin. I was not right. I still am not. There will always be another half of this standard that I cannot fulfil. So I began to lie to myself. Small lies like, “you’re pretty.” Then bigger lies like, “I love you.” And then I started to believe them.