For a long time I’d look around and wonder why I couldn’t just be one of those perfectly put together girls… the ones who could wear just about anything and it looks like it was made for them. The girls who aren’t showing too much skin, even in their bikini, for I have much more skin to show in mine. The girls who don’t have to wash their face to have perfect skin and laugh with an innocence I haven’t known since I was a child. Those girls… ⁣
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So I search for remedy fervently, I wonder if some new shoes would fix it, maybe if I got my eyebrows done and my nails painted and ate less because I already eat healthy and that’s not working and maybe if I learned to curl my hair the way the videos tell me too and maybe… maybe after my infinite list of self mutilation fueled by impossible perfection is complete… maybe then I could be just like those other girls. ⁣
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Until one night as the moonlight pierced through my window, I pictured millions staring at it with me. Only then realizing that we, are all, the “other girl” to someone.
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In that moment of deep and full body heartbreak, comparison was allowed to die for a moment. ⁣
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What a pointless, soul-less, horrific experience. To be inexplicably alive and use even a moment to dull the throws of individuality. To cast away what makes me, me, as if to be me is some curse I can’t seem to wash away. As if it isn’t the most wild, beautiful and imperfect gift. ⁣
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But it is. The most precious gift. ⁣
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The comparisons are lies. Simply the ego… telling, at least me, you are not worthy of seeing yourself the way you ARE. Now. With no change. ⁣
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And I got fucking sick of it. I hope everyone does. I like you the way you are. Thank you for reading Xx ⁣