I want to be angry but I can only blame myself for all that happened. I was 19 and single for the first time in nearly five years. Desperately missing my ex, I channeled my heartbreak into realizing my Patti Stanger fantasies, playing matchmaker with my two close friends.

Kyle, and I had been close since the beginning of our first year at NYU. As my best friends cousin, the three of us spent the entire school year embarking on adventures around our new city, a practice through which we grew nearly inseparable.

After my best friend graduated and moved out of the city at the beginning of our sophomore year, Kyle and I continued this tradition without him, spending hours each day smoking and commiserating over the atrocious state of our respective love lives. Id recant the heartbreak of my failed relationship and hed whisper of his crush, a mutual friend of ours named Lena. He had been sleeping with her for months, but in true millennial fashion, found himself too anxious to confess his feelings.

We have a good thing going and I dont want to mess it up, Kyle disclosed one evening, smoke spilling from his lips. I cant tell her I like her.

Come on, you would be so cute together, I whined. What if I casually asked her if she has feelings for you?

He hesitated, glancing up at the ceiling fan spinning overhead. Fine, but dont tell her I put you up to this. Giddy with vicarious excitement, I struggled to sleep that night, tossing and turning as I contemplated the best way to broach the question.

Lena and I had met a few months earlier through the NYU Class of 2018 Facebook group. Our friendship consisted of the absurd, dancing at Lavo with a D-List magician, sneaking onto the roof of Alumni Hall for an impromptu photoshoot, and on one particularly fancy evening, helping our rich friend drink the New York Palace hotel out of Met. Although she claimed to love single life, even the mention of Kyle made her blush, her lips curling into a smile. For this reason, it was no surprise when she confessed she liked him back. Over the course of the next few weeks, they began spending more and more time together, until they were all but dating.

Yet late one night, Kyle visited my room with the guise of smoking out my window. Sensing my sadness over my ex, he pulled a perfectly rolled joint from behind his ear and sat down on my bed.

You know, Id be down to hook up if youre interested, he said, his words smelling of whiskey. I let out a frustrated groan, shaking my head.

Jesus Christ, I muttered. "Kyle, I cant, Im not over my ex, and you have your girl. Shes my friend and I wont betray her. Im sorry. Immediately, I informed Lena of the incident, as a best friend would. She laughed it off and we never spoke of it again.

A week later, they began officially dating, changing their statuses on Facebook and plastering cute couple-y photos all over Instagram. I hardly saw them for almost a year.

One weekend the following autumn, I decided to throw a last minute dinner party, inviting Lena, Kyle, and one other couple. As the red wine flowed, I began noticing angry glances from Lena. I thought nothing of it, too engrossed with playing hostess and taking photos on my Polaroid camera to care. The next morning, I woke up to a strange message.

I dont appreciate you wearing that low cut top in front of my boyfriend, she wrote. How could you do this to me? I froze; equally horrified at her audacity to tell me what clothing to wear in my own home and her evident distrust in her partner. If Kyle looked at me, be mad at him for looking, not at me for how I dress, I typed back, my face flushing with anger. Not cool. I took a deep breath and deleted my response. I decided it wasnt worth it.

A few weeks later through a mutual friend, Id learn I was often the object of her irrational jealousy and that my conviction came in the form of a small sock she found in the corner of their bedroom the previous summer. Upon confronting Kyle, he protested his innocence, insisting he had no knowledge of its origin. Already jealous of my fictional relationship with her boyfriend, my image appeared in her mind as the culprit - that one evening in her imaginary world, after a rough, passionate romp with her lover, I escaped as the clock struck twelve, that dirty sock my glass slipper. In reality, I had never been to their house, nor had even spoken to Kyle without her presence in months. I was disappointed, but understood her pain. She never hated me, only my incarnation of the evil seductress in her fantasies.

Objectively, she was more stunning than I would ever be. Lithe and tall with blonde hair reaching the middle of her back, her cat-shaped brown eyes and full, pink lips exuded an air of impossible sexiness, even when barefaced. She often dated rich, older men and was constantly mistaken for a model, a testament to her striking beauty. We kissed on the mouth at a party before she began dating Kyle. I had butterflies in my stomach until I fell asleep that evening. Considering her beauty, I never understood how I intimidated her at all, let alone to the extent of blocking my number and insisting Kyle do the same. I would call her out on her irrational jealousy, but Im just as guilty.

Im 21 and everyone is beautiful - except for me. A product of both my interfaith upbringing and my generations collective anxiety, wholeheartedly seeing the best in others is a blessing, allowing me the rare privilege of providing second chances and unconditional love, but in the process, its ravaged my self-image.

Last summer, my best friend sexually assaulted me while we were both drunk at his apartment. I found myself in denial of any wrongdoing on his part, blaming myself for drinking and falling asleep.

When my ex boyfriend hit me my freshman year of college, I believed him when he told me my attitude had warranted his hand. I brought him hot chocolate and falafel the next morning in an attempt to win his forgiveness.

And just like Lena, when my crush introduced me to his best friend, I found myself overcome with irrational jealousy. Thinner than me with big blue eyes, long blonde hair and a love for sports and video games, she embodied the chill girl in ways I never could. A straight-A student studying media, where I was frantic, she was calm, prepared with sarcastic, a witty retort at the tip of her tongue when I would stutter, scrambling for words. Id never shame her for her clothing nor forbid him from maintaining their friendship, but I still silently envied her perfection, even fully aware of their platonic friendship. To this day, I still believe shes superior to me in every conceivable way, a feeling I often struggle to combat.

Acknowledging how this dysmorphia manifests in irrational jealousy was the first step. Attempting to solve it has proved near impossible. External validation is meaningless as I constantly struggle to accept praise. I cant receive compliments about my character without weighing my sins how could I possibly be kind when I let the elevator door close before that woman could enter a month ago? Truthful? Ive told white lies more times than I can count. The same applies to the superficial. Where others see Anastasia Romanov, I see Anastasia, Cinderellas stepsister, with a large nose, beady eyes, and prominent nasal labial folds. No matter how perfectly I contour my cheekbones or paint on my lipstick, I rarely feel beautiful.

Yet slowly, Ive been healing. For the first time in my life, Ive had moments of lucidity. If I squint just hard enough, I can see the way my red hair contrasts with my gray eyes and my bravery for enduring hardship alone at a young age. Sometimes, I can even see the muscle definition peeking through my stomach after months of intense workouts and acknowledge the courage it requires to display my deepest anxieties to the world through my writing. Despite these little victories, I still have a ways to go. At times, I wonder if Ill never grow out of what was supposed to be a phase of teenage insecurity, that my brain chemistry is malfunctioning and Im doomed to a life of self-loathing. For this I want so badly to be angry. But I refuse I deserve a chance to love myself.