I am not what I see.

I don’t have problems looking in the mirror, I have problems when I am not looking.

I’m not obsessive about how I look or my weight. However, it is always there. It lingers in my mind, in the periphery. Look at how amazing they look, or they seem so comfortable in their own skin. I rarely feel comfortable in mine. I don’t know when it started but I have slowly realized that it has been a part of my life for a long time. This slow process of me choking on the knowledge that I will never be anybody else.

I can walk out of my house in ratty jeans and crappy t-shirt or a newly bought dress and NEVER feel comfortable. Nothing ever fits right or feels effortless or makes me feel like myself. There is no space which my body or the clothes that occupy it ever let me feel FREE.

I started comparing myself to everyone in high school. Cliche, I know. I didn’t wear clothes that represented me for fear of being mocked and I am pretty sure that I didn’t understand the importance of self-expression without recrimination. That went for music, films and anything that could be used to determine that I was weird, different or an outsider. I let the outside world define me on a daily basis and it started with the simplest of things and the easiest thing that I could control. Clothes and how I looked!

There was no world in which the way I felt and who I was would ever collide. I didn’t know that loving yourself is courageous. I couldn’t say NO the world. Even If, all I wanted to say was FUCK OFF!

Funnily enough, like most things a lot of these things became popular right after high school and I realised that trends creep in and out on the wind.

Being brave and fearless were the colours that I really wanted to wear, that i still want to wear. I fail constantly. I hate my hair but know that changing it would be cowardly. I hate wearing make-up but want to hide my many flaws. I want to feel flawless in what I wear but never will until I learn to look at myself with compassion.

I don’t know when that day will come but I am constantly trying, failing and reworking.

I look at my mother who seems to love herself so fully and who can’t seem to fathom this massive strangle hold that these thoughts hold on me. The want for a new identity and a new me.

A complete do-over.

It’s beautiful to see someone who is so comfortable in their skin that they truly don’t understand the struggle. It reinforces that if I can feel like that. Yet there are days when I can’t imagine feeling that free or that wild.

I wish and I pray for it.

I hope that there is a day when it will all be trivial to me, a day when all my demons have been banished into a hole so deep that they can never escape.

A day when I can breathe.

I wish that for everyone who has ever felt this way.


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