Self Conscious by 9

My parents were my biggest fans. My mom tried to get me into modeling after several friends said I was the perfect fit for it. I was told I was pretty so often though that had grown to hate the conversation as a child, and as an adult I hate it even more.

As a nine year old, we walked into the modeling agency for our appointment. I sat there looking at the other girls dressed up, with makeup on, no older than I was. Hair pretty and flowing or curled just perfectly. Mom's making the final touches. But there I was in blue jeans and a blouse, "plain", I thought. I got up and told my mom I wanted to leave. They are not going to want me, I'm too plain. She assured me I was everything they were looking for, but I insisted so we left.

How does a child become self conscious exactly? As an almost 44 year old, I am still unforgivingly critical of myself. I hate the wrinkles I'm developing, the weight I can't seem to lose and the fact that my lips are no longer full and luscious like they were twenty years ago. The age spots on my face should tell a story of all the struggle my life has brought, but they simply remind me that my skin will never be flawless. My brown hair and brown eyes and olive toned skin are, well ... plain. However, I can see someone else with brown hair, brown eyes and olive toned skin and know they are beautiful.

But at nine years old, how did I know to hate parts of my body? I was thin and tall and had long brown hair, dark, stunning brown eyes, everything any girl dreams of, right? What happened that made me eternally so self conscious? My parents were loving and kind and encouraging. I am an only child, so there was no teasing from an older sibling. Where did this stem from at such a young age?

As a teenager, still very thin, and tall with long hair I wondered when I would get boobs, not be so lanky but also not have all these rolls on my stomach when I sat down or bent over. 5'6 as a senior in high school, I didn't even weigh enough to donate blood when the Red Cross came to my school. In my mind, I was too fat one day or too thin the next, but my boobs were never big enough and my butt wasn't quite round enough. Always wishing there was a way to move fat from some part of my body to another, relentlessly judging my reflection. Now as an adult my boobs too big my butt fills out my jeans too much, and this muffin top and expanding stomach... it is painful to look in the mirror!

Why am I so self conscious, and how did I know to be self conscious as a child? I likely will never know the answer to this nagging question. I ask it all the time. People that love me, as well as strangers tell me I am pretty, not fat, beautiful even. I quietly say thank you, but in my mind I've already run through the pinned list of all my flaws before they finish their sentence. The gnawing hatred of what I've just seen in reflections is all I picture. The reflection that has made me hide from compliments and run from attention. No eyes on me, means no thoughts of my insecurities. How did this start, where did it begin? I only know that my earliest memory of body image, was when I was sitting in that modeling agency comparing myself to all the other children the same age as me.