A mini-exposition on how I see myself.

My Twitter feed is filled with beautiful women (and men, and non-binary people) of all shapes and sizes who love their bodies; who know and love their flaws and imperfections as part of themselves. I'm so in love with the way they smile and tilt their heads in mirror selfies and glow in sunlight; the way they touch their hands to their skin and dress in whatever clothes they like. It always suits them perfectly.

I feel like I'm looking at a captured daydream and all I can do is aspire. Oh, to be in love with myself.

The more insecure and anxious I feel, the more I flinch at these posts. I tell myself how unfair life is for giving others the opportunity to love the way they are. I see these images and I can feel self-hatred bubble up, and I get even angrier with myself for feeling that way. I know I'm in the wrong. I don't know how they really feel about themselves; who am I to say? Self-love is a war and in posting this picture, they've won a battle, and they deserve all the recognition and hype that comes with that victory.

Yet every beach photo reminds me of the childhood scars and bruises on my legs. I glance down at the acne scars that cover my chest and back; there's no skin left, just ugly, uneven scar tissue. I'll never be able to wear a bikini.

I think about the awkward wrinkles and dark spots at the corners of my eyes and my sparse eyebrows, the hyperpigmentation on my cheeks, and the rounded shape of my nose. I can't go out without makeup.

There's extra fat at my stomach; more than any Instagram model I've seen. I have visible, darkened pockets by my underarms. I wish I could wear strapless tops. Or sleeveless tops. Or crop tops. Or anything that wasn't a T-shirt.

I hate the way I see my body. I hate it more than the things I actually hate about my body. I wonder sometimes if I can just avoid mirrors or avoid my eyes forever, just so I don't have to think about it anymore. I wonder if I can just suffocate the body dysmorphia until it's not there anymore, then live freely. Obviously, that's not a real solution. So, I'm left to only wonder.

If I were just more confident, I could wear the clothes I wanted and be the person I am without hiding behind concealer and clever outfit choices.

Somehow, without realizing it, I let insecurity consume my life. I started writing this in a fit of panic; a sudden feeling that I hate how I look and that I hate my reflection because it's full of problems to nitpick and glare at. I let fear guide my decisions, but I want a different future.

By writing this, I want to write a world into existence where I'm comfortable with who I am. I'll do my makeup because it makes me happy and I'll wear/buy clothes that bring me joy. I'll take steps outside of my comfort zone and find new trends that I'll become obsessed with. I won't need to love my scars, bruises, hyperpigmentation, or weight (that might be an impossibly high bar to set, right now), but I won't let my abiding contempt for my "flaws" continue to limit and overwhelm the potential I know I have. I deserve that much.

God, this story was a rollercoaster. It was short, too.

I guess, TLDR, I don't love myself now, and I probably won't later, but later, I don't want to let that stop me from growing and being myself.

[ Hey, if you're reading this and you're fighting the same battle, good luck; I hope to see you on the other side! :) ]