No seriously. Why do I? Why do I hate my body?
I don’t understand. I just don’t get why I look at myself in the mirror and hate what I see looking back. I don’t understand how I can be so smart and intellectual and how I can be so many things, so many amazing things but sometimes it feels like the only thing that matters about me is how I look in a fucking crop top and jeans. I don’t understand. I just don’t get it.
I guess I do understand it. When it comes to the media. And beauty standards. And magazines, advertising, Photoshop, Instagram. It suddenly all makes sense to me. I can see it. And I get it. I understand how all the shit we see in the media can sneak its way in to our thoughts and set up camp their in our brains. So when I see myself in a crop top it tells me I don’t look good because suddenly all my behaviour and thoughts are being dictated by the media. And how I should be skinnier. I can see it. I get it.
So yes. I understand how I can get to the place where I am viewing my body in a negative place. And the way my stomach isn’t completely flat anymore like it used to be. I’m sorry I just like chocolate muffins. And considering the kind of nonsense I am digesting on a daily basis from the media, it’s not really a surprise I am viewing myself negatively. That being said I try to be consciously aware to not let myself be exposed to things that could make me feel negative. Like magazines. Or scrolling through certain Instagram accounts. So I try not to bombard myself with unrealistic images of women.
Even with my conscious effort to not be exposed to full on shit which will sneak in to my brain, I still hate my body. I still go to bed seeing exercise plans in my head whilst I close my eyes. That make me feel like I should be running not sleeping. I sit and eat pasta and feel bad about it. I still avoid looking in the mirror. I still want to hide parts of me away that I don’t deem acceptable. I still scroll past pictures of beautiful women on Instagram and automatically assume their lives are better, that they are better. I still (even though I try not to) look at myself through a critical and harsh lens. I still have these lingering thoughts in my mind that my life would be so much better if I was able to fit in to a size 4.
I’m successful in many ways. I’m intelligent. I’m ambitious. I’m sassy. I’m cute. I’m a kind and thoughtful and passionate and compassionate individual. I’m genuine. I’m honest and blunt and accomplished and I think people would have a pretty high opinion of me.
But I am not a size 4. I’m not “hot”. Or super skinny.
And how the fact that I’m not those things can completely overshadow my other achievements and characteristics? I will never know. I will never quite understand why being a woman and being beautiful and being thin deserves more recognition than anything else that I could possibly be or do in life. I will never understand why the smallness of my waist could be the most admirable thing about me. I will understand how my talent, intellect, compassion and kindness could be seen as less virtuous than being hot and skinny.
I’m pretty sure that some people think to be hot is to be everything. To be hot is to be afforded the luxury of having not be anything else. Because female hotness is actually seen as the ultimate aspiration for some. And I despise that with my entire being. I hate it. And maybe I would hate it less if I were more hot. But you know I think I could be hot. I could devote my life to being hot. There are ways. There are shops and there are makeup counters.
Maybe this is a stupid way to feel. But fuck off. I don’t want to always wear the shortest skirts and the most makeup and always have my hair done. And why is it that I’ll only be seen as hot if I am like that? Why can’t I look hot with no makeup on, hair in a messy bun, glasses on with a hoodie, leggings and converse? I don’t want to spend my whole life trying to be good enough. I’d like to just be good enough as I am. Good enough is the prison women are kept in I think. Because we all seem to think that if we are “good enough”, if we are passable, if we are enough then we will be fine. We will be okay. And that’s literally ridiculous. Why should my appearance have anything to do with how good I am.
It’s as if we should only aspire to be beautiful. Not brilliant or great or talented or accomplished. Because if I can just look how I’m “supposed” to then I will be fine. I mean if I colour in all the lines and follow all the rules and the regulations then I must be fine!!!!!!
Good enough is bullshit. It’s a trap. And I’m sorry (not sorry) but being good enough is not good enough for me. It’s barely passing a grade, it’s a participation trophy, it’s a consolation prize. And I don’t want those things. I want to go straight past good enough and right in to being accomplished, brilliant, talented, passionate. Straight in to change, growth, potential and being beautiful for who I am. Good enough is feeling “meh”. And I’m not a fan of that feeling.
I don’t want to be persuaded to think that a woman’s ability to be hot is more valuable than her ability to be anything fucking else. What kind of world do we live in? And why do we stand for it?
Why do I hate my body? Because I think I should. Because it’s what I’m exposed to. Because I’m punishing myself for not being good enough, for not being hot, for not being every girl I’ve ever looked at and thought “shit why do I not look like her”. I hate my body because it’s not what I want it to look like. Because it’s not what I think it should look like. I hate my body because it seems like a thing I should do. To hate myself. To never feel like I am enough. To always feel like their is something I should be improving. I hate my body because I chose to hate it. I chose everyday to get up and look in the mirror and think of all the things that aren’t “right” and aren’t “good enough”. And because I think hating my body will inspire me to try and change it which will give me what I want. Which is acceptance, the good enoughness that I think I want. That I think I need. I hate my body because I haven’t decided to feel otherwise. Because I haven’t decided that I’m worth loving. That my body is worth loving no matter how many chocolate muffins I’ve eaten. I haven’t realised that I don’t need to earn it’s favour. That it can be anything it wants to be. And that no matter what my body decides to be, I can still love it. I just haven’t chosen to yet.