Growing Up.

I think I'm recovering from being a makeup addict.

I first discovered makeup when I was about eleven. It was about the first time I found out about boys, and how, if you're lucky, they like you and kiss your cheek, and the first time I found out about periods and pimples. Eleven is a young age to find out about this sort of stuff. But when I was a child, that was the norm. We get thrown into adulthood so early, whilst adults are insisting we act like children when it's too late, we're already past that, and then we have to figure out things by ourselves.

Before eleven, I was a happy child. Optimistic. It was before a time when I didn't doubt myself. It was a time when trifle things like boys and friends didn't really matter to me. My whole world was filled with books - endlessly books. The joys in my life were simple joys, fulfilling joys. A soft bed after a long day, hot food after a day of choking down sandwiches, my mother's soft, warm hugs.

I wish my life went back to then.

Starting from eleven, I truly began to hate myself. Before then, it never really occured to me that I was, school-world speaking, so many social classes lower than some of my peers. I lived in a world where I came first in everything I wanted to come first in, like reading class and spelling bees, and last in everything I didn't care about, like math. But when I was eleven there it was a whole new experience - I was last, and I so desperately, desperately, wanted to be first.

It was then I became obsessed with how I looked. I played endlessly with my hair. I'd badger my mother for makeup and carefully, religiously, smear it on my face every day. I worried about how my stomach stuck out, the random marks on my newly-enormous hips, my crooked teeth, my small Asian eyes. I was one of the first in my class to discover the joy of acne, so I also became one of the first in my class to wear makeup. Ignorant to the fact in three years time every girl worth her salt would have a compact mirror and a black kohl pencil in their pockets wherever they went, I fast grew a reputation as a slut, and some kind of desperate crazy person - all because I had lipgloss and sanitary pads in my bag and no-one else did.

That's how my makeup obsession started.

Don't get me wrong, I still love makeup. I'm a lot better at it now then when I was eleven, and I'm much better equipped. But until quite recently, I wouldn't leave the house unless I had something on my face - even just going out to get groceries with ma I would dab powder on my nose and concealer on my zits and rim my eyes with kohl.

It wasn't healthy, the way I obsessed over my looks - but I was pressured. I was insanely jealous of those pretty girls who seemed to get away without wearing makeup, and they were the girls who often teased me about my gratitious cosmetic use. They were the kind of girls who thought that you must have done something dreadful to get zits on your nose, and you must commited an unspeakable sin to have my 'squinty eyes', as they called them. And the endless frustration of the lack of attention from boys - how it tormented me! I spent a good three years pining for some boy, any boy, to take any kind of attention to me.

It's taken me a little while, but I've weaned myself off makeup. I've accepted how I look without it - I've accepted my small eyes, my spotty brown face, my snub nose. But do you know what? I've been weaning myself off makeup, and boys, subconciously. I only realized that I had gotten over my makeup obsession when I was taking off my makeup just now, after a concert (everyone wears makeup for concerts), and as I was wiping off the makeup I was like 'Wow, I don't look like a demon. So what was all the fuss about?'. The same with boys - I've kind of resigned myself to the fact that all the single boys in my school are single for a reason.

Of course, there are some things I'll never grow out of. I'll never be able to put down and step away from my precious little pot of black gel eyeliner for good. I'll never not cry over a boy again, and I'll always gobble up rom-coms and romantic fiction and have a little blue moment, wishing I was Clare Abshire, wishing I was Bella Swan, wishing I was Elizabeth Bennet. But hey, one day I'll meet my Henry DeTamble. One day I'll meet my Edward Cullen, my Mr Darcy. And I'm gonna meet him and he's gonna love me without makeup on. Because as much as I want love now, I've learned the hard way not to accept second-best. I want someone to want me for me, not the mascara I wear.

So I'm gonna wait. And while I'm waiting, I'm gonna be happy. I'm gonna live life, and forget about boys until they can't forget about me. I've promised myself that. Do you know why? Because I deserve it.