I’m fragile, insecure; told to love myself by a society that has taught me not one part of me is truly loveable. Throw in the men who came and reiterated the narrative perpetuated by fashion magazines and filtered Instagram models, and most days I just feel hate when I look in the mirror.
So I avoid looking in the mirror when I can, wear the baggiest clothes I own to hide the body I despise so very much underneath this security blanket of an oversized Tee.
Go ahead and tell me I’m beautiful, like it’ll change my mind– that all bodies are “beautiful in their own ways,” and I should appreciate the one God “gave” me.
But I’ve got over ten years of being with men who taught me to hate the body I’m in as much as they did, and a serious disconnect with God; I don’t buy what you’re trying to sell me.
Want to prove me wrong and make me believe that I, in this current state of existence, am beautiful?
Unfollow the photoshopped models with tiny waists and ass for days. Quit buying the hypocritical magazines that preach body positivity on page ten and show an unrealistic body type on page twelve.
Maybe, and this is just a thought, quit being the consumer of a culture that destroys women’s confidence while sharing your stupid “All Women Are Beautiful” posts on Facebook. The hypocrisy is catastrophic.
Until then I’ll be here, sitting in self hatred and an oversized shirt, wishing I could skip meals like the models do and sipping on spring water when I really should be eating dinner.
Oh, the price a woman pays to be deemed fucking worthy.