I lost my favourite lipliner the other day
except this isn't about lipliner. the fig tree explores perfectionism and the strive for everything to be the way it should be.
I lost my favourite lipliner the other day. It was an immensely sexy colour — not too brown, not too pink. It smudged effortlessly on my lips. It concealed my double lip line with ease. It made me feel like the very carelessly gorgeous and confident women I see on my for you page everyday. It made me feel like I was more than the cellulite, flabby skin and round hips. It made me feel like the overly idealised aleeha i have in my head.
I do this a lot, you see. My parents have criticised it. My teachers have chastised me. I crave perfection so badly, so desperately — I’d scrape my knees on the floor begging for it. It is almost embarrassing.
I lose stuff a lot lately. Numerous chargers. My jewelled dress pin. That one dupatta. I lose stuff and it drives me fucking crazy. I throw a tantrum. A neighbour peers over his intricately manicured hedge curiously. It’s that neighbour girl throwing a rage fit again.
I can’t stand it. I absolutely despise it. I like everything being the way it should. My lipliners and dupattas stored away where they’re supposed to be. There’s a churning feeling in my gut once I sense their absence. It feels like the one difficultly maintained structure I have going on in my life has also withered.
Looking back, I cannot recall a moment where something I’ve tirelessly waited for hasn’t gone to shit. Every time I’m excited, actually eager — it blows up in my face. The smithereens taunt me and I fall back into the sexy loop of depression.
Tests. Films. Family. Possible him. The prospect of what if .
It never goes as I want it to go. As one film quote I don’t care to find goes: “Expect disappointment and you’ll never be disappointed.”
It’s become a sacred ritual of sorts. Screw your eyes shut. Inhale. It’ll probably fuck up. Exhale. A pitiful smile, for I pity myself.
Then it sometimes goes okay. Not the surge of serotonin I expect, but okay. Alright. Average.
And I smile a bit — until the leering voice in my head observes: “It’s not perfect though.”
It’s not perfect. FUCK THIS. My brain contorts into a wild animal rattling away in its cage, my thoughts are in overdrive. I cannot breathe nor see clearly. My vision is hazy. I want to tear my hair out.
It’s not perfect. It’s not perfect. It’s not perfect.
There is no psychological diagnosis that perfectly encapsulates my desperation for perfectionism. My quivering limbs and evident self disgust.
Perhaps one day, when my bones are decaying and my skin is wrinkled, perhaps then I will learn to live with it. It is my greatest affliction and strongest solace. There are times when it comes useful — whether when identifying the extra comma in my writing or the smeared wing of my liner.
I lost my favourite lipliner the other day. It was a kiko product I gifted myself for eid. It may seem dramatic to you, but every time I look at the empty compartment in my purse, I feel physically and mentally sick. It should be there, inside my purse, positioned perfectly with my kohl pencil. But it’s not.
Instead, there is nothing. No lipliner. Not even kohl. I can only stick to my pessimism, and maybe it’ll materialise before my eyes. All good things come to an end, I suppose.
this is more than a post about my missing lip liner, this is a post about perfectionism, being overstimulated and multiple things i cannot quite describe that may align with you if you’re a fellow neurodivergent. they may even resonate if you’re not. either way, i hope you find some comfort in this and enjoy!!
im super busy with internships rn but i promise i have stuff in the works! <333
I love your writing smm 🫶🏽🫶🏽